Chapter Text
The warehouse was silent except for the hum of a single, flickering bulb that barely lit one corner of the cavernous space. Dust hung in the air like a fog, disturbed only by the drag marks streaked across the concrete and the scuffed footprints leading toward the light.
A man sat tied to a chair, rope biting into his wrists, his body slumped but not broken—yet. His right eye was swollen shut, a deep bruise spreading across his cheekbone, the blood on his lip fresh from the last strike.
The man pacing in front of him gripped a gun in one hand, his steps sharp, impatient. He stopped, sneered, then drove a kick into the prisoner’s shin. The man in the chair jerked upright, teeth gritting against the pain.
“What was he thinking, sending a rookie like you, huh?” the captor growled, leaning closer, breath hot, gun hanging just inches away.
The prisoner lifted his one good eye, rage burning in it despite the blood trickling down his face. “Well,” he rasped, then coughed, “I got in pretty deep, didn’t I?”
The gunman’s answer was a vicious punch to the jaw that nearly toppled both man and chair. “What did he want you to find?”
At that, a chuckle bubbled up from the broken man’s throat, dark and raw, until it turned into a laugh. “If you don’t know…” he spat a thick glob of blood onto the concrete between them, “…why should I tell you?”
The gun came down hard across his skull, the cold steel leaving another mark. The metallic click of the safety echoed in the stillness. The barrel pressed into his scalp, forcing his head down, the threat clear.
Then—
“Enough.”
The voice cut through the tension like a blade. Calm. Controlled. Yet impossible not to obey.
The gunman hesitated, jaw tight, before letting out a sharp breath. With clear reluctance, he lowered the weapon and shoved it into the waistband at his back.
The prisoner tilted his head, straining to follow the sound of the voice. His good eye widened as measured footsteps entered the thin ring of light. Shined shoes. The hem of a dark suit. He dragged his gaze upward, past tailored lines and a stillness that radiated danger, until he reached a pair of eyes. Dark. Cold. unreadable.
“So it is you,” he whispered hoarsely, disbelief fighting with the terror rising in his chest. His head tilted back, a broken smile twitching onto his lips. “Didn’t believe the stories. Thought he was full of shit. But you’re real. You’re back.”
His words earned him nothing but silence. Footsteps closed in.
A gun rose, smooth, inevitable.
The shot cracked like thunder, the sound tearing through the warehouse, reverberating off steel beams and empty walls. His body jerked once before falling still, his head slumping back, blood running down the front of his shirt and pooling beneath the chair. His one open eye stared blankly at the ceiling, frozen in horror.
“Clean this up.”
The voice was steady, almost indifferent, before receding with calm steps into the shadows. A car door slammed outside, the engine roared to life, and moments later, the sound faded into the night—leaving only silence, the smell of gunpowder, and the dead man’s final witness: the dust settling slowly back to the ground. The vehicle rolled forward, headlights carving pale tunnels into the dark.
Inside, shadows swallowed everything but the faint glow of the dashboard. A gloved hand adjusted the cuff of a sleeve, then stilled against a thigh. Fingers tapped once, twice—an old habit, the kind that slipped through discipline when thoughts ran too deep.
The city slid past outside, lights smearing across the glass. A reflection stared back, unreadable, the features carved in sharp angles by fleeting neon. A breath released slow, steady, as though forcing something down.
The silence held, heavy and deliberate, broken only by the low hum of the tires eating up asphalt. No instructions offered. No destination given. Only forward, further into the night.
The car rolled to a stop in front of a modest apartment building, its exterior blending into the faceless row of city blocks. No one watching would guess who stepped out—no insignia, no detail to betray the kind of night just lived. Just another shadow slipping inside.
The apartment door shut with a muffled click, sealing out the hum of the city. Silence pressed in, heavy and thick, broken only by the rustle of fabric. A jacket was shrugged off and hung neatly on the back of a chair. Beneath it, a holster came into view, the weight of the gun heavy at the side. Fingers brushed over it once, almost absentmindedly, before unfastening the strap.
The weapon was laid on the counter, deliberate, reverent. Not tossed, not discarded—placed. A tool, not a burden. The metallic gleam caught the light, reflecting the faint curve of a face for a moment before turning away.
Boots thudded softly as they were pulled off, set against the wall with precision. Layer by layer, the night was peeled away, but not forgotten. Stiff shoulders and sharp eyes cataloged the apartment, corners, exits, shadows.
Crossing to the sink, hands ran under cold water. This time no crimson diluted into pink, spiraling down the drain, but the hands still rubbed together until the hands gleamed clean from what they did. A pause at the small mirror above, gaze locked on a reflection dark and unflinching, carrying ghosts that refused to leave.
The living room bore marks of a life here without settling. Sparse furniture. No clutter. Nothing fragile. A blanket tossed across the couch was the only softness, a human detail in an otherwise calculated space.
Lowering into the chair by the window, the gun resting on the counter behind, city lights stretched like veins beyond the glass. Hands rested loosely on thighs, but back never touched the chair, posture rigid, shoulders squared. Even in the quiet, tension coiled beneath the skin.
Armor stripped away, yet never fully gone. The world outside the window kept moving, pulsing with life. And there was sitting, watching, waiting. Always waiting.
Thinking about the man who had to die today. He had known too much. Would have risked too much. Every action, every calculated move, every strike—everything had been necessary.
Coming back into this life, slipping into this persona, it was all for him. Only for him. At least, that’s what the thoughts insisted, what the mind repeated like a mantra to justify what had been done.
A drink found its way into the hand. Dark. Whiskey. Burned on the throat, sharp and steady. A shield against the other thoughts—the memories of another life, another night, another version of what could have been. Sometimes the drink helped. Sometimes it made it worse.
Memories returned in shards, fragments that slipped through the cracks: a flash of laughter, a glimmer of light on skin, a voice that shouldn’t be remembered. Dreams twisted them further, making the past feel like it was happening all over again.
The glass pressed lightly against the fingers, grounding, but the mind wandered, circling around what had been, what had to be done, and what could never be undone.
The glass was set on the nightstand with a soft clink, the dark liquid leaving a faint scent in the air. The apartment was quiet, but the silence pressed against the skull like a weight. Every creak of the building, every distant hum of the city, reminded the mind of the day’s work, of the man who had to die.
Clothes were folded and set aside. Feet padded across the floor, then slid under the sheets. The mattress was firm, unyielding, yet somehow welcoming. Eyes stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the plaster, counting shadows, searching for a way to calm the storm inside.
The whiskey lingered on the tongue, a slow burn fading into the chest. Breaths came steady, shallow at first, then deeper, each one a quiet effort to push the thoughts away. Memories threatened, slipping through in fragments: flashes of another night, another body, another kind of fire.
Hands pressed lightly against the sheets, clutching at fabric as if it could hold the mind still. The dark thoughts circled, waiting, testing resolve. The body remained still, tense under the covers, forcing sleep to come despite the unease.
Eyes closed. Jaw tightened. The mantra repeated silently: Just sleep. Let it fade. Just sleep.
And slowly, inch by inch, the mind began to dim. The city outside continued to pulse, unaware. The body surrendered to the mattress, to the darkness of the room, to the tentative quiet of the night.
For a moment, peace seemed possible—thin, fragile, but there.
The next morning started like every other. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, and a curse slipped past lips at the reminder that blackout curtains still hadn’t been installed. Bare feet touched the cold floor, carrying across the apartment to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a softer version of the face, the one that existed only in these early hours—a version that didn’t really exist anymore.
Dressing was methodical. A sharp suit, jacket fitted just so, gun hidden beneath it, dark sunglasses perched on a sculpted nose. Every movement precise, every layer a shield.
Stepping outside, the block hummed with life. The bakery smelled of fresh bread and sugar, a warm, human contrast to the cold discipline of the morning. Inside, people greeted with smiles that felt unearned yet comforting. A coffee appeared on the counter before words were spoken, questions murmured quietly about business, trouble, things that needed handling. Small warmths in a world usually cold.
The car waited out front, engine idling softly. The leather seat groaned as it welcomed its occupant. Tires rolled smoothly over asphalt, the city quiet, sleepy in the morning sun. The destination appeared in view, a house dark against the brightness, uninviting in daylight—but it was not meant for anyone during the daylight.
The neon sign outside remained unlit, the word Raven dim against the facade, the name of the nightclub within.
Inside, the space opened into a wide room: a bar along one wall, a small stage in the center, a pole catching the dim light from the corners. Steps carried across the polished floor, deliberate and unhurried, heading toward the back, toward the office.
The office at the back of the club was dim, the blinds drawn even with sunlight spilling in from outside. The air smelled faintly of coffee, cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of money and favors exchanged in quiet corners. Files, envelopes, and ledgers were neatly arranged across the desk: evidence of deals made, debts collected, and plans laid.
Steps echoed softly across the polished floor. Only a handful of staff moved through the space—bartenders preparing the bar, a few dancers tidying the dressing rooms—and a few of the more trusted patrons lingered quietly, waiting for instructions, their presence both familiar and intimidating. Every movement was precise, eyes alert, hands never idle.
Fingers traced names and numbers on the desk, checking lists of shipments, payments, and warnings. Every detail mattered. Every misstep could cost more than money. The dark eyes gave nothing away, shielding thoughts that flickered across the mind: reminders of loyalty, of leverage, of consequences.
A monitor in the corner displayed parts of the club floor and back rooms. A quick glance was enough—everything watched, everything noted. Those present moved with purpose, aware that the office was not a space for idle chatter. The silence hummed with tension, punctuated only by the faint rustle of papers or the scratch of a pen.
A trusted associate stepped forward, nodding respectfully while sliding a report across the desk: a shipment delayed, a debt unpaid, whispers that needed following. Instructions were given sharply, with no room for misinterpretation. The associate left quietly, footsteps swallowed by the stillness of the morning.
For a moment, the figure leaned back, the leather chair creaking softly. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, but the office remained a world apart from the bright city streets outside. This was a place of preparation, of power quietly exerted, of control maintained before the neon lights flicked on and the city became something else entirely.
Even alone—or almost alone—the tension stayed, coiled beneath the surface, every small gesture a rehearsal for the night to come.