The air inside the abandoned warehouse stank of damp wood and rotting grain. Mold clung to the cracks between the stones, and the faint drip of water echoed through the rafters. The heavy scent of vinegar and oil-soaked cloth thickened the air, turning each breath acrid and stifling.

  Garen stood near the table, methodically pulling on his gloves, the thick leather creaking under his grip. Sweat already dampened the linen beneath his waxed overcoat, clinging to his back and chest. The burlap hood scratched at his scalp as he adjusted his mask, pressing the glass eyeholes against his face, sealing himself inside the suffocating heat. His breath clouded the glass, each inhale hotter than the last.

  His men followed suit, pulling on their layers with stiff, deliberate movements. Each piece of clothing, each strap, had been checked and double-checked. Their masks were lined with aromatic herbs—cloves, myrrh, rosemary, and lavender—meant to cleanse the air they breathed. Their gloves had been coated in quicksilver paste, an old alchemist’s trick that was supposed to ward off infection. Despite their precautions, tension still lingered. A few of the men cast wary glances toward the warehouse door, shifting in their seats. The Plague Doctor was an unknown force, a myth turned terror, and even the most prepared man couldn’t erase his own fear.

  So they had prepared for everything.

  Outside the warehouse, hidden in the darkened alleys and rooftops, their men stood watch, ready to signal at the first sign of movement. No one could approach without them knowing. Inside, they were fully armed—blades, crossbows, and flintlocks strapped to their bodies. They weren’t just a gang; they were an army, outfitted with enough firepower to crush a platoon of trained soldiers. The Plague Doctor was only one person. Numbers were on their side. Steel was on their side. Even the best ghosts could be hunted.

  Every theft, every ransom, every drop of blood spilled had led to this moment. Years of careful maneuvering, of carving their names into the underworld, all for this—the greatest gamble of their lives. The greatest city in the world, ripe for the taking. They had risked everything, but how could they fail? They had left no stone unturned, no theory or possibility to chance. This was more than a plan; it was inevitability.

  A few of the men chuckled as they adjusted their gear, their confidence thick in the air. “By this time tomorrow, we’ll be kings,” one of them muttered. Another laughed, knocking his fist against the wooden table. “The Plague Doctor’s just a ghost story. They won’t even show.” Garen smirked beneath his mask, letting the moment settle. He let them believe in their certainty. After all, how could they lose?

  “They’re late,” one of his men muttered, shifting in his seat. His voice was muffled behind the thick fabric of his mask, and he adjusted it with a gloved hand. The leather creaked against the waxed surface.

  “They’ll come,” Garen said, voice firm. “They always do, when there’s power to be seized.”

  He had seen it before in other cities—powerful figures who ruled from the shadows, untouchable through secrecy and fear. But this time, they had a plan. The Plague Doctor couldn't harm them, not with their meticulous preparations. Instead, they would capture them, force them to use their abilities to maintain control over the city. With the Plague Doctor under their control, there would be no resistance left. The city would be theirs.

  He let the thought settle, savoring the imagined triumph. The Plague Doctor, shackled and brought before him, stripped of their mystery and power. What would they look like beneath that mask? Would they beg, or would they stay silent? He smirked at the thought. Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Soon, they would own this city, and its greatest nightmare would belong to them.

  A wave of dizziness washed over him. At first, he dismissed it as the heat—the suffocating layers of waxed leather trapping sweat against his skin, making each breath thick and sluggish. Maybe it was the weight of the mask, pressing against his face, limiting the flow of air. Or perhaps it was something he ate earlier—some spoiled meat, some tainted wine. That had to be it. He forced himself to believe it.

  It was subtle at first, creeping at the edges of his vision like a trick of the light. Garen clenched his jaw and forced himself to sit up straighter. The sweat pooling at the small of his back made his clothes stick to him, the waxed leather sealing in the heat. He could barely breathe. His chest felt tight.

  The candle in the center of the table flickered.

  A faint unease settled over the room.

  Someone coughed—a wet, thick sound that made the hairs on Garen’s arms rise beneath his sleeves. Another man groaned, shifting, his leather coat creaking as he rubbed a hand over his stomach.

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  The nausea came fast. At first, it was just an unease, a turning in his gut, a tremor in his fingers. Then, his stomach clenched violently, bile rising thick and fast. His body was betraying him, folding in on itself, the strongest among them reduced to nothing in moments. Sickness did not care how many men you had, how many weapons you carried. It did not bow to brute strength or arcane might. The mightiest warriors, the most gifted mages, all crumbled to the same humiliating end—brought low by their own treacherous flesh. His thoughts turned sharp with dread. What if it wasn’t the heat? What if it wasn’t the food? His gut twisted, not just from sickness, but from the gnawing paranoia creeping into his mind. The warehouse suddenly felt too large, the shadows too deep. Had the Plague Doctor been here the whole time, watching them in silence, waiting for their false sense of security to collapse? A sour taste rose in the back of Garen’s throat. His stomach churned, twisting like something was writhing inside it. His limbs began to ache, a deep, bone-deep soreness spreading through his joints. His fingers throbbed, his knuckles stiffening as though gripped by fever. His nose started to run, thick mucus dripping inside his mask, making it harder to breathe. His skin burned, a searing heat blooming beneath his flesh, but his fingers were ice cold.

  Panic set in. One of the men gasped, his voice strangled in the thick air. “What’s happening?” he choked. Garen tried to answer, but his tongue felt too thick in his mouth. He gritted his teeth against the wave of nausea, his muscles tightening as the sickness took hold.

  The candle flickered again.

  Why hadn't there been a signal? The men outside should have seen something—should have warned them. His mind scrambled for an explanation, but none came. Had they been taken out? No, impossible. No one could slip past that many guards. Unless... unless the Plague Doctor had never needed to enter at all. Unless they'd been here all along.

  A presence loomed beyond the edge of the light.

  Garen’s heart pounded against his ribs. His men outside—what had happened to them? His hands shook as he struggled to make sense of it. If the Plague Doctor was standing before him, untouched, unchallenged, that meant... the sentries had been useless. Or worse, they were already dead. His mouth went dry.

  The slow, deliberate tap, tap, tap of footsteps echoed through the warehouse. Measured. Unhurried.

  A shape emerged from the darkness.

  Long coat, black as an oil spill. The glint of brass buttons. A beaked mask, its glass eyes reflecting the weak candlelight like twin moons. The silhouette was still, unnatural, standing just beyond reach, waiting.

  The Plague Doctor.

  Garen’s breath came shallow, his limbs trembling as a cold sweat broke over his skin. His muscles twitched involuntarily, a fevered heat creeping up his spine. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead, every breath a struggle.

  A gloved hand rested against the side of his mask. Gentle. Testing.

  “If you wanted to protect yourselves,” the voice was smooth, clinical, almost amused, “you should have done so before stepping foot in my city.”

  Their city.

  Garen’s pulse pounded in his ears. This was a trick. It had to be.

  “You’re bluffing,” he rasped. “You can’t—”

  His stomach clenched. He barely had time to rip his mask off before bile surged up his throat, burning as he vomited onto the stone floor. He gagged, his throat raw, but it didn’t stop. His body was no longer his own. His legs spasmed, his muscles clenched painfully, the fever forcing everything inside him to rebel. His vision blurred, but he could hear it—his men groaning, whimpering. Someone collapsed to the ground with a wet slap. Another let out a weak, wretched sob. A trained soldier, a killer, reduced to a shivering, sweating husk. His nose ran freely now, and he gasped as his lungs tightened. Around him, his men writhed, gasping, heaving, their waxed suits doing nothing to stop the sickness.

  **His vision blurred, twisting, shifting. The Plague Doctor's shape seemed to flicker, unreal, like something that had never belonged to this world.

  The Plague Doctor tilted their head slightly. "Now that I have your attention. Welcome to my city." Their voice was steady, deliberate. "Since you clearly did a lot of preparations for this little meet, you probably already know, but just to be sure, let's cover the rules." They let the silence stretch, letting the suffering men absorb every word. "Slavery won't be tolerated. You can kidnap and kill all the criminals and corrupt nobles you like. Take advantage of each other as much as your black hearts desire, but touch the regular citizens, and the next time we see each other, this will seem like heaven in comparison."

  They straightened, giving one last glance at the writhing men. "That will be all, gentlemen. Good day."**

  Garen remained where he fell, his body refusing to obey him. Time lost all meaning as he lay there, the fever wracking his bones, every breath an agony, every minute a lifetime. His stomach twisted violently, but he had nothing left to purge. His muscles ached, cramping so hard he thought they might snap. His vision swam in and out of focus, sweat drenching him as he shivered in his own filth. He lay there powerless, a prisoner in his own body, his tormentor.

  Each hour stretched into eternity. The fever ebbed and flared, burning him alive, only to leave him shivering and weak moments later. His body ached in ways he never knew possible. His men groaned in the distance, their suffering a dim backdrop to his own private hell.

  He prayed for it to end. He begged, whispered pleas to no one in particular. But the agony persisted, dragging him deeper, trapping him in the depths of his own body’s betrayal.

  And the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the humiliation. He could have died in battle, in fire and blood, his name feared and honored. Instead, he was left crawling in his own filth, writhing on the ground like a worm, his body consumed from within. He had thought himself untouchable. A god among men. But in the end, he was nothing. Just another body claimed by sickness.

  It wasn’t until exhaustion became unbearable, until every nerve was too burned out to register pain, that his body finally surrendered.

  Darkness claimed him.