Rain slicks the cobblestones of the old district—the part of the city tourists don't visit, the part where streetlights flicker and die.

You're standing beneath the awning of a closed bookstore, watching the downpour sheet across the pavement.

That's when you notice the shadow.

It doesn't move like a person caught in the rain. It moves like smoke—gliding between puddles, silent, unhurried.

You turn.