BLOODCAPE
Chapter 135: Echo Pulse

Chapter 135: Chapter 135: Echo Pulse

The rain came down like it was embarrassed to exist — thin, wind-dragged needles that didn’t soak so much as smear. It slicked the rooftop with a dull gloss, catching the glow of distant neon signs that blinked across the skyline in broken rhythm. Somewhere far below, District 10 throbbed with market chatter and counterfeit life. But up here, above the old Zodiac post, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Hernan crouched behind a rusted HVAC unit, one hand pressed to the roof’s surface as if feeling for a pulse. A tight grid of micro-sensors was embedded beneath his palm — freshly planted by Iro fifteen minutes ago. His eyes tracked a signal flare pulsing on his visor. The zone was primed.

Iro stood several meters off, adjusting the camo field generator they’d buried beneath a rust-stained antenna bank. The unit hissed to life, warping the rain around it in faint distortions.

"He still hits the northern tower every cycle," Iro said. "Always alone. Always fifteen minutes late. You sure he’s just a courier?"

"His vest tag’s routed to three ghost comms," Hernan replied. "Zodiac doesn’t waste triple redundancy on runners unless they’re carrying something they don’t want tracked."

Iro nodded, then added, "And this isn’t about impressing her?"

Hernan didn’t look up. "This is about leverage."

"Leverage is cheap," Iro said. "This smells more like legacy."

That made Hernan glance over — just briefly. Not enough to start a fight. Just enough to say: Careful.

Iro didn’t push further. He’d said what he needed to.

Across the roof, Aya adjusted the legs on a half-rebuilt drone cradle, her fingers twitching slightly. Not from power — just tension. Her eyes hadn’t left Hernan in the last five minutes, though she hadn’t said a word.

Then she stood, crossed the rooftop, and stopped a few paces from him.

"I want to ask something," she said.

Hernan didn’t move. "Then ask."

She paused. "Do you want to prove something to her... or to yourself?"

That landed — not like a punch, more like a fingerprint on glass.

Hernan didn’t answer.

Aya nodded once — maybe to herself — and stepped back.

The drone’s red light blinked twice, then locked onto its target grid. The kill zone was live.

Twelve minutes to intercept.

Hernan stood and scanned the rain-blurred distance. Down the line of rooftops, an access bridge connected three old comm towers — two abandoned, one still scraping data packets from higher feeds. A perfect funnel. Too narrow to escape. Too open to miss.

The courier would pass there. He always did.

Clean hit. No collateral. Just math.

A shadow shifted across the next rooftop — a figure stepping into the rain without hesitation, boots landing with deliberate softness.

Dekra.

She wore a high-collared thermal mesh cloak now, silver piping glowing faint at the edges. No umbrella. No protection. Just those predatory eyes scanning the kill zone like she was inspecting a wine cellar.

She said nothing.

Didn’t wave. Didn’t nod.

Just watched.

Her eyes caught the beam first — a thin red laser stretching from Hernan’s embedded rifle sight to a blinking beacon on the bridge’s east railing.

She followed it with her gaze.

And when it landed on the figure just emerging from the far side of the bridge — lean, hooded, walking slow but precise — her lips parted slightly.

Hernan exhaled once.

Clicked the trigger guard off.

The rain didn’t stop.

The city didn’t breathe.

But the old chain ghost, coiled in his spine, began to stir.

The bridge was narrow — just a thirty-foot stretch of ferrosteel lattice slung between two rotting rooftops. It hovered above a hollow shaft that once carried data skyward, now abandoned and echoing with wind. Cables swung below it like roots torn from earth.

The courier stepped onto it at exactly 03:12.

Hooded. Compact. Moving with the cautious arrogance of someone used to shadows, but never expecting ghosts.

Hernan waited on the west ledge, one knee down behind a thermal vent. The red dot had already landed — neck base, where the armor thinned around the data spine. No wasted motion.

He could end it now.

Quick. Efficient.

But Dead Echo was more than a bullet.

It needed texture.

He drew the blade instead.

The courier paused near the midpoint, glanced left — mist and antenna glare. Took one more step.

Then Hernan moved.

He crossed the distance like a rumor — low, silent, vapor trailing his heels. No warning. No threat. One step, two, three — he was behind the courier before breath could react.

The blade entered smooth, sideways, between ribs. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to speak.

The courier gasped, twisted, reached for a shock rod.

Too late.

Hernan caught the man’s wrist, twisted, broke it clean. The rod clattered.

The courier dropped to his knees.

And then it began.

Hernan inhaled.

Dead Echo triggered.

Pupils constricted. Spine straightened unnaturally. Shoulders rolled back into someone else’s memory. The breath he took wasn’t his. It belonged to another.

From her rooftop perch, Aya stopped cold.

The change was subtle, but unmistakable. Hernan’s stance shifted into something colder, looser, trained. He didn’t just hold the blade differently. He stood like he belonged in another man’s skin.

Below, Iro’s visor clicked softly. "Echo signature confirmed," he said. "Behavioral sync at 93%. Pattern source: Zodiac Handler ’Crane Theta’. Courier’s last known trainer."

Aya lowered her hands from the drone.

She just watched.

On the bridge, Hernan pivoted. No flair. Just the math of motion. His hand swept the courier’s throat in a single backdraw — precise, efficient.

The body dropped.

Blood pooled fast.

Steam rose.

Hernan stepped back.

Feet placed exactly where the handler would’ve stood. Neck tilted down. Neutral. Disinterested.

Dead Echo wasn’t mimicry.

It was resurrection.

Dekra stood motionless on the opposite rooftop.

Watching.

Smiling.

Aya appeared beside her now, stiff with silence. She looked down at the corpse, then back at Hernan.

He hadn’t spoken.

Now, blade still warm, he stepped across the bridge. Past blood. Past memory.

Toward Dekra.

She tilted her head as he passed. "You’re not him anymore," she whispered.

But she smiled.

Hernan didn’t break stride.

Didn’t look back.

He walked into the mist and vanished toward the next rooftop.

Aya didn’t follow.

Not immediately.

She stayed behind.

Staring.

And that silence, for the first time, wasn’t distance.

It was fear.

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