The city never sleeps — not where Blizzard walks. But when the moon is full and the sirens scream in the distance, only a few creatures move in the shadows.
One of them is Selene.
At exactly 2:33 a.m., a black motorcycle weaves through the burnt-out alleys of the East District. No license plate. No rear lights. Only the low hum of the engine and the scent of perfume laced with gunpowder.
She parks outside Blizzard's warehouse, where a rusted metal gate peels open with a mechanical groan. Cameras follow her like prey. She waves at one. The cameras blink once. Welcome granted.
Inside, Blizzard sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by surveillance screens, a keyboard with half the keys missing, and a pile of empty syringes he sells to junkies by the dozen.
"Two minutes late," he says without looking up.
"I was busy dodging a street war you probably started," Selene replies, pulling off her helmet. Silver hair spills down like a blade. Her eyes — sharp, grey, always scanning — lock onto him. "But I brought you a gift."
She tosses a flash drive onto the table.
Blizzard plugs it into one of the side screens. Maps load. Dock schedules. Guard rotations. Shipment manifests. One word glows in bold red font:
White Magic.
"You're sure?" he asks, sitting upright now.
"Shipment comes in tomorrow. Pier 9. Hidden under crates of fruit. Same Brazilian route. Same handler. They're calling it 'The Alchemist's Batch' this time. Purity's insane — 98.9%. One gram sells for a thousand, no cut."
Blizzard's eyes gleam. "That's practically spellcraft."
"Don't get poetic. I'm not your sidekick," she says, lighting a cigarette. "You're the devil in this story. I'm just the witch that points you to the witches' fire."
Selene wasn't just a friend. She was the ghost in the city's bloodstream. A former narcotics analyst who faked her death three years ago after realizing the police were more corrupt than the gangs. Since then, she's been feeding Blizzard information — delivery routes, corrupt officials, vault passwords, even GPS markers of rival hideouts.
"What's the risk level?" he asks.
"High," she says. "Cartel doubled security. One ex-military team. Probably ex-mercs. But the port chief's kid? Addicted to MVL novels. Slipped him a VIP pass under a fake author name. He'll open the gate if you promise him spoilers."
Blizzard laughs — low and short. "Your methods get more twisted every week."
"Comes with working for you."
She turns, starts to leave, but pauses at the gate. "One more thing. There's a new player. Anonymous. Been sniffing around the MVL backend. Not law enforcement — smarter. Maybe a vigilante. Or worse — someone like you."
Blizzard's smile fades.
"Then we find them," he says coldly. "Before they find us."
The gate slams shut behind her. Blizzard returns to his monitors, now staring at the coordinates of Pier 9 glowing red on the map.
White Magic was coming.
And so was war.