The midnight air hung heavy with fog as Mina slipped through the abandoned warehouse district. His footsteps, usually silent, splashed occasionally through puddles left by the evening rain. Tonight was different. Tonight was the end of something—he could feel it in his bones.
Intelligence had led him here, to this forgotten corner of the city where the three men he sought had taken refuge. They weren't ordinary thugs; they were the enforcers of the syndicate that had been pulling strings all along. The same syndicate responsible for Matthew's death and countless others.
The warehouse loomed before him, a hulking shadow against the moonless sky. Rusted metal and broken windows spoke of years of abandonment, but the faint yellow glow from within betrayed the presence of occupants. Mina circled the building once, noting exits, entry points, and possible ambush locations. Three men waited inside—Kaizer, the knife expert; Lutz, the former boxer; and Verran, their leader, a former military man with a sadistic streak well-known in the underworld.
Mina checked his own knife, secured in its sheath at his lower back. He carried no gun tonight—too noisy for the work that needed to be done. With practiced ease, he scaled the side of the building, finding handholds where others would see none. The skylight above offered a perfect view of the warehouse floor below.
Through the grimy glass, he could see them—three men gathered around a makeshift table, playing cards, drinking. Waiting. They knew he was coming. This wasn't an ambush; it was an invitation.
Mina descended through a broken window on the second floor, landing on a metal catwalk without a sound. Below, the men continued their game, unaware of his presence. Or so it seemed.
"He's here," Verran said without looking up from his cards, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "I can smell him."
The other two men immediately tensed, reaching for weapons. Kaizer's hand found his signature curved blade, while Lutz pulled on brass knuckles that glinted dully in the lantern light.
"Come down and join us, ghost boy," Verran called out, finally looking up toward the shadows where Mina stood. "We've been expecting you."
Mina stepped out onto the catwalk, fully visible now. "You knew I would come."
"Of course," Verran smiled, revealing gold-capped teeth. "We left enough breadcrumbs. The boss wanted to meet the infamous shadow that's been disrupting his operations."
"Where is he?" Mina asked, his voice cold.
"Oh, he'll be along. But first—" Verran nodded to his companions, "—we need to make sure you're properly... prepared for the meeting."
Kaizer moved first, throwing a knife with deadly precision toward Mina's heart. In the split second between the blade's release and impact, Mina twisted aside, but not quite fast enough. The knife sliced through his upper arm, drawing first blood. Mina didn't flinch.
He vaulted over the catwalk railing, dropping fifteen feet to the concrete floor below. He landed in a crouch, immediately rolling to avoid Lutz's charge. The big man's fist connected with the floor where Mina had been a moment before, concrete cracking under the impact of brass-reinforced knuckles.
"Fast little bastard," Lutz growled, recovering more quickly than his size would suggest.
Mina drew his own knife, circling the men as they spread out to surround him. Verran hung back, watching with clinical interest, a small revolver now visible in his hand.
"Three against one," Kaizer taunted, drawing a second blade from his boot. "Not very good odds, even for a ghost."
"I've had worse," Mina replied, his eyes constantly moving, tracking all three opponents.
Kaizer lunged forward, blades flashing in complex patterns designed to confuse and disorient. Mina parried the first strike, ducked under the second, but failed to anticipate Lutz approaching from behind. A massive fist connected with Mina's kidney, sending waves of agony through his body. He staggered but didn't fall.
Using the momentum from the blow, Mina spun into Kaizer, driving his own knife deep into the man's thigh. Kaizer screamed, stumbling backward as blood poured from the wound. Before Mina could press his advantage, Lutz was on him again, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground.
Mina's vision began to darken as the pressure on his windpipe increased. With his remaining strength, he drove his thumbs into Lutz's eyes. The big man howled, dropping Mina and clutching at his face. Gasping for air, Mina rolled away, coming up with Kaizer's dropped knife in his hand.
Now armed with two blades, he faced Verran, who watched the proceedings with mild amusement.
"Impressive," Verran said, raising his revolver. "But ultimately futile."
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Mina had already moved, but the bullet found his shoulder, spinning him around with its impact. Hot pain blossomed across his chest as the bullet tore through muscle and shattered his collarbone.
Despite the injury, Mina hurled one knife with deadly accuracy. It buried itself in Verran's gun hand, causing him to drop the revolver with a cry of pain and surprise.
Behind him, Mina heard Lutz recovering, the heavy footsteps approaching rapidly. He pivoted, slashing with his remaining knife, opening a deep gash across the big man's chest. But the movement cost him—his wounded shoulder screamed in protest, momentarily paralyzing his left side.
Lutz, seemingly unfazed by the wound, landed a crushing blow to Mina's chest. Ribs cracked audibly as Mina was thrown backward, crashing into a stack of wooden pallets that collapsed around him.
Pain clouded his senses as he struggled to rise from the wreckage. Blood soaked the left side of his shirt, his shoulder wound pumping crimson with each heartbeat. Across the room, he saw Kaizer limping toward him, a fresh blade in hand. Verran was wrapping his bleeding hand, fury etched on his face.
"Enough games," Verran snarled. "Finish him."
Mina forced himself to stand, swaying slightly. His left arm hung useless at his side, his breath coming in short, painful gasps due to his broken ribs. But his eyes remained clear, focused.
Kaizer approached cautiously, blade extended. "Not so ghostlike now, are you?"
With a sudden burst of speed that belied his injuries, Mina surged forward. Kaizer slashed wildly, the blade slicing deep across Mina's chest. Ignoring the fresh wave of agony, Mina drove his own knife up under Kaizer's jaw, through the soft palate, and into his brain. The knife expert dropped instantly, dead before he hit the floor.
Lutz roared in anger, charging like a bull. Instead of dodging, Mina met the charge head-on, dropping to one knee at the last second and using Lutz's momentum to flip the larger man over his good shoulder. There was a sickening crack as Lutz's neck broke upon impact with the concrete floor.
Two down.
Verran had retrieved his gun with his uninjured hand. He fired twice in rapid succession. The first bullet missed, whining off the concrete. The second caught Mina in the abdomen, the impact doubling him over.
Mina tasted blood in his mouth as he straightened up. The bullet had torn through his stomach and lodged somewhere in his back, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his body. His vision swam, darkness encroaching at the edges.
"Still standing?" Verran asked, genuine surprise in his voice. "What are you made of?"
Mina didn't answer. He simply advanced, one agonizing step at a time. Verran fired again, the bullet grazing Mina's temple, leaving a burning furrow across his scalp. Blood poured down the side of his face, into his eye.
Another step.
Verran's gun clicked empty. Real fear crossed his face for the first time as he backed away, fumbling for a reload.
"Stay back!" he shouted, his composure cracking. "What do you want?"
"Justice," Mina whispered, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.
With a final surge of will, Mina closed the distance between them. Verran swung the empty gun like a club, connecting with Mina's wounded shoulder. Mina didn't even flinch. His hand closed around Verran's throat, squeezing with inhuman strength.
Verran's eyes bulged as he clawed desperately at Mina's grip. "Who—what are you?" he gasped.
"I am vengeance," Mina replied, tightening his grip until he felt the cartilage collapse beneath his fingers.
When it was done, Mina stood alone among the bodies, his own blood forming a growing pool at his feet. The warehouse swam in and out of focus as he staggered toward the exit. He made it three steps before his legs gave out, sending him crashing to his knees.
His body was failing rapidly. The bullet in his abdomen had likely punctured vital organs. The shoulder wound continued to pump blood with each weakening heartbeat. His broken ribs made each breath a fresh torture.
Yet, as darkness closed in around him, Mina felt a strange sense of peace. The mission was complete. Matthew could rest easy now. The syndicate had lost its enforcers. The rest would crumble without them.
With trembling fingers, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the small silver locket—the one containing a faded photograph of a smiling boy. Matthew. His brother. The reason for everything.
"It's done," he whispered to the image as consciousness began to slip away.
The warehouse door crashed open, flooding the space with harsh light. Silhouettes moved toward him, voices calling out urgently. One voice he recognized—Grisham.
"Mina! Hold on, damn you! Don't you dare die on me now!"
Strong hands lifted him, causing fresh waves of agony to crash through his broken body. He tried to speak but could only cough, tasting more blood.
"Get him to the car! Now!" Grisham's voice seemed to come from very far away.
As they carried him out into the night, Mina's vision faded entirely, darkness claiming him at last. His final thought was not of pain or fear, but of Matthew's face—smiling, peaceful, avenged.
Consciousness returned like a drowning man breaking the surface—violent, desperate, and accompanied by excruciating pain. An hour had passed since the warehouse confrontation, leaving Mina sprawled in some forgotten corner where he had dragged himself. Moonlight spilled through a broken window overhead, casting his battered form in ethereal silver. His wound still bled, but the flow had mercifully slowed to a steady seep rather than the alarming gush from before.
He gathered what remained of his strength and attempted to rise. His muscles screamed in protest, torn tissue grinding against shattered bone. The sudden movement triggered a violent wave of nausea. Mina vomited, the acrid bile burning a path up his already raw throat. The splatter on the concrete before him contained alarming dark flecks—internal bleeding, then. Not promising.
Thirst clawed at him like a living thing, his tongue swollen and dry in his mouth. His stomach convulsed again, this time empty, leaving him retching painfully. The wound was non-lethal—at least for now—but blood loss and shock were becoming dangerous companions. He tried again to stand upright and failed, his legs buckling beneath his weight.
Survival dictated movement. Staying meant death. With grim determination, Mina began to crawl toward the wall, each inch forward a fresh agony. His vision swam, reality fracturing at the edges into prismatic shards of light and darkness. When his palm finally pressed against the cold brick, he used it for leverage, slowly pulling himself upright.
The world tilted dangerously, but he remained standing—barely. A small victory in a night of devastating defeats.
The dark alley offered minimal protection as Mina attempted to dress his wound. His fingers, slick with his own blood, fumbled with the makeshift bandage torn from his shirt. The crude field dressing would have to suffice until he reached safer ground. Each heartbeat sent fresh pulses of pain radiating outward from the wound, but the alternative to movement was far worse.
When he finally staggered onto the main street, Mina forced his spine straight despite the molten agony it caused. The street pulsed with nightlife—couples arm in arm, groups of revelers spilling from bars, lone figures hurrying to unknown destinations. Music and laughter poured from open doorways, creating a cacophony of humanity that seemed to exist in another dimension entirely from Mina's silent suffering.
As always, no one noticed him. People flowed around his wounded form like water around a stone, eyes sliding past without recognition. This perpetual invisibility—once a professional asset—now felt like a curse. He could collapse, bleed out on this crowded street, and these laughing strangers would likely step over his body without breaking conversation.
A young couple passed near enough that Mina could smell the woman's perfume—something floral and expensive. They were beautiful in their oblivion, faces flushed with wine and affection. The woman rose on tiptoes to press her lips against her companion's, drawing a bark of laughter from the man.
Mina's own laughter bubbled up unexpectedly—a harsh, sardonic sound that scraped against his dry throat. The couple didn't react; they hadn't heard him. No one ever did.
The clog he always carried—a talisman of sorts—pressed against his skin beneath his clothing, its familiar weight both comfort and burden. Three hours had passed since the warehouse. His breathing had steadied somewhat, though each inhalation still sent shards of pain through his chest. The apartment wasn't far now. Just a few more streets to navigate, a few more stairs to climb.
But something waited for him there. Something too familiar. The silence. The emptiness. The void that had been his only constant companion.