Rain carved silver paths down grimy windows. Neon signs bled red and blue across wet asphalt. The air tasted of cigarettes and motor oil.
Marko Saar moved through the shadows like he owned them. His boots struck concrete with the steady rhythm of a man who never hurried, never hesitated. Water dripped from his leather jacket onto scarred knuckles. The alley stretched ahead, narrow as a coffin.
Tallinn's underworld bent around men like Marko. Shopkeepers counted out protection money with shaking fingers. Gang lieutenants lowered their eyes when he passed. His name carried weight in every dark corner from Kadriorg to the Old Town.
The memories hit him in flashes.
Fifteen years old, backed against a brick wall. Three older boys with brass knuckles and hungry grins. His first real fight on the streets. Blood on his split lip. The moment he decided he'd never be prey again.
Building his crew from nothing. Recruiting hungry kids who reminded him of himself. Teaching them that respect came from strength, loyalty from fear.
The night he broke Dimitri Kozlov's arm in a warehouse. The crack echoing off concrete walls. Kozlov begging. The word spreading through every bar and betting hall—Marko Saar doesn't make empty threats.
But tonight felt different. The rain carried whispers of betrayal.
His phone had buzzed three hours ago. Viktor's voice, tight with worry: "Boss, we got a problem. It's about Aleksei."
Aleksei. The kid Marko pulled off the streets five years back. Fed him, clothed him, taught him the business. Trusted him with territory worth more than most men saw in a lifetime.
The betrayal cut deeper than any knife.
Marko stepped over a broken bottle. His reflection caught in a puddle—forty-three years old, gray threading his dark hair, lines carved by violence and sleepless nights. The boy who once dreamed of boxing championships was buried somewhere beneath the scars.
"You sure about this intel?" he'd asked Viktor.
"Positive. Aleksei's been feeding information to Kozlov for weeks. Bank account records, shipment schedules, your safe house locations."
The rain grew heavier. Marko's breath misted in the cold air as he approached the meeting point. An alley behind Babylon nightclub, where bass music thumped through brick walls and drunks stumbled past without looking twice.
His men were already there. Five shadows against the far wall, cigarette tips glowing orange in the dark. Viktor stepped forward, water streaming off his bald head.
"They're coming," Viktor said. "Ten minutes out."
Marko nodded. His hand found the brass knuckles in his coat pocket—the same ones from that first street fight. Some habits died hard.
Footsteps echoed from the alley mouth. Aleksei appeared first, his young face pale under the streetlight. Behind him walked Dimitri Kozlov, flanked by six men with dead eyes and hungry smiles.
"Marko." Kozlov's voice carried the smooth confidence of a man who thought he'd already won. "Been a long time."
"Not long enough."
Aleksei wouldn't meet his eyes. The kid's hands shook as he lit a cigarette. Twenty-two years old and already learning what betrayal cost.
"You know why I'm here," Kozlov continued. "Your empire's built on sand. Time for new management."
"My empire's built on respect. Something you never understood."
The rain drummed harder. Kozlov's men shifted, hands moving toward their weapons. Viktor and the others tensed.
"Respect?" Kozlov laughed. "You're a relic, Marko. This city's changing. Your methods are outdated."
"My methods keep order."
"Your methods are about to get you killed."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Marko stepped forward, water sluicing off his shoulders. The old boxing instincts stirred—footwork, balance, reading an opponent's tells.
"You want my territory, Dimitri? Come take it."
Kozlov's grin spread wide. "I already have."
The signal came with a whistle. Aleksei dove behind a dumpster as Kozlov's men rushed forward. Steel flashed. Bottles shattered. Viktor roared a curse as he tackled the nearest attacker.
Marko moved like he was still eighteen, still hungry, still dreaming. His fist caught the first man in the throat. The second swung a pipe—Marko ducked, drove an uppercut into ribs. Bone cracked.
The alley exploded into violence.
Brass knuckles met jawbones. Boots struck concrete. Someone screamed. Blood mixed with rainwater, flowing toward the storm drains in dark rivulets.
Marko and Kozlov circled each other in the center of the chaos. Old grudges burned in the space between them. The younger man feinted left, came right with a haymaker. Marko slipped the punch, drove his knee into Kozlov's ribs.
"Still got it, old man," Kozlov gasped.
"More than you know."
They traded blows in the rain. Kozlov was younger, faster, desperate. But Marko carried decades of violence in his bones. Every punch was a lesson learned in blood.
Kozlov stumbled. Marko pressed the advantage, landing a hook that sent his rival crashing into the brick wall. For a moment, victory tasted sweet as copper.
Then silver flashed in the corner of his vision.
The knife slid between his ribs like ice. Pain exploded through his chest, white-hot and immediate. Kozlov's face swam back into focus, twisted with triumph and rage.
"Should have stayed down," Kozlov whispered.
Marko's legs gave out. The alley tilted sideways. His back hit the wall and he slid down, leaving a red smear on the bricks. The fight continued around him, but the sounds grew distant.
Viktor was screaming his name. Kozlov's men were scattering. Aleksei emerged from behind the dumpster, his young face a mask of terror and guilt.
Marko pressed his hand to the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, warm against the cold rain. His vision blurred at the edges.
Forty-three years old. King of Tallinn's shadows. And it was ending in an alley behind a nightclub, just another body for the morning news.
His eyes found Aleksei one last time. The kid was crying.
The world tilted further. Rain filled his mouth. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.
Marko Saar closed his eyes and felt his empire crumble with his pulse.