The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
No cartoons from the living room. No clatter of shoes on tile. No small voice singing made-up songs off-key.
Rafael moved through the space slowly, his steps nearly soundless.
He looked at everything. Not like a man checking his home—but like a man leaving a crime scene. Or a life.
Each item was exactly where it should be. Books arranged by size. Utensils straight. Keys hung in a perfect row. Even the blanket on the couch was folded square. Nothing messy. Nothing real.
He stopped at the hall closet.
Opened it.
Pushed the coats aside.
At the back, there was a thin wooden panel. Lighter than the others. Barely noticeable unless you knew where to look.
He pressed his thumb to a shallow dent in the upper corner. A click. The panel slid loose.
Behind it: a shallow space carved into the wall. Lined in black felt.
Inside, there was a sealed steel case.
It was long. Narrow. Heavy.
Rafael pulled it out with both hands. No dust on it. No scratches.
He carried it to the kitchen table. Placed it down gently. The metal glinted under the soft light.
He stared at it for a long time.
He hadn't opened it in five years.
He didn't need to.
Until now.
The case opened with a soft hiss.
Two sliding latches, one fingerprint scanner. No key. No number code. Just a dead machine waiting for one master.
Inside was everything he had promised never to touch again.
A pistol, taken apart into five clean pieces. Dark gray frame. Silencer packed in foam. Lightweight. European design.
Beside it: a black folding knife, narrow as a pen. The kind that slid between ribs without noise.
Next to the weapons lay a folded strip of old cloth. Inside it, wrapped carefully like a sleeping animal, was a small glass vial. The liquid inside was clear. Still.
He held it up to the light. It didn't shimmer. It didn't move.
A contact poison. Fast. Nerve-based. Applied to gloves or knives. Almost untraceable. One drop had ended a prime minister in 2014. No one ever proved it.
Beneath the vial were three passports.
One said Marco Falchi—an Italian businessman with a quiet face.
Another said Adrian Mercer, born in Edinburgh, listed as a translator.
The last said Noah Vale.
That one had no real origin. The name was fake, the history blank. No past, no attachments. Just a ghost.
Rafael ignored all of them.
He reached for the final item.
A ring.
Black as coal, but heavier than stone. Not quite circular—its edge was split, shaped like two sharp points that nearly met. The symbol of the Obsidian Circle. The one he never wore in public.
He held it between his fingers for a long moment. Then slid it onto his right hand, where it had once lived.
It fit like it had never left.
The bathroom mirror showed a tired man.
Rafael stared into it for a long time, face still, jaw tight. The light above buzzed softly. One bulb was dimmer than the others—he made a note to replace it, then let the thought fade. It didn't matter anymore.
He opened the cabinet.
Inside: a straight razor. A small black comb. Scissors. An old bottle of aftershave he hadn't touched in years.
He pulled his shirt off. Looked at the scars across his ribs. Faint. Pale. One like a sideways "L," the other a perfect dot beneath his collarbone. Each one had a story. He didn't think about them.
He trimmed his beard first. Careful. Clean. Then shaved it smooth. The razor moved in steady lines. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Dark stubble slid down the drain.
Then he cut his hair. Short, efficient, controlled. When he finished, he looked five years younger—and ten years older.
He turned off the water. Dried his hands.
He didn't look at himself again.
Back in the bedroom, he opened the second drawer.
Inside were the clothes he hadn't touched since Aria was three.
Black shirt. Black pants. No logo. Breathable. Flexible. Designed to disappear in shadow.
He changed quickly. Left his old clothes folded on the bed.
In the living room, he unplugged his laptop. Took out the hard drive. Snapped it in half with his bare hands. The sound was quiet. Final.
Then he cleaned everything.
Doorknobs. Light switches. Countertops.
He took Aria's drawing off the fridge—the purple monster with the crown—and folded it carefully into his coat pocket.
The feather stayed on the table.
He stared at it one last time.
Then he turned out the lights.
The hallway was dim and smelled like floor polish.
Rafael walked in silence, his boots making no sound on the tile. The coat he wore now was heavier, tighter at the shoulders. He moved differently in it—straighter, more alert.
He reached the elevator, but didn't press the button.
Instead, he took the stairs. Down five flights. Past windows covered in dust. Past graffiti and cracked tiles.
As he reached the ground floor, the door to Apartment 1B creaked open.
"Rafael?"
It was Mrs. Lin. She wore a floral robe and slippers shaped like pandas. Peanut, the tiny dog, poked his head out beside her leg and gave a soft yap.
He stopped. Looked at her.
"Everything alright?" she asked. Her voice was kind, but her eyes were sharp. She had always been more aware than she let on.
"Yes," Rafael said. "Just stepping out for a bit."
"This late?"
"Work," he said.
She squinted. "You don't usually work nights."
He gave a small nod. "Tonight's different."
She opened her mouth like she wanted to ask more—but didn't.
"Alright," she said instead. "Be careful out there. It's cold."
"I will."
He gave her a small, polite smile.
Then he turned and walked out the front door.
The parking garage near the harbor hadn't changed.
It still smelled like sea salt, oil, and cold metal. The lights buzzed overhead in a broken rhythm—on, off, flicker. Water dripped somewhere deep in the structure, echoing against concrete.
Rafael moved without sound through the lower levels, down a narrow ramp, into the forgotten rows where no one parked anymore. The air grew colder with each step.
At the far end, behind two old pillars, was a locked unit.
No markings. No numbers. Just a heavy black roll-up gate and a steel padlock.
He took a small key from inside his glove.
Turned it.
The lock clicked, and he pulled the gate upward. It rattled like bones shaking loose.
Inside, wrapped in a gray cloth, sat the motorcycle.
He pulled the cover off slowly.
The machine underneath was matte black, sleek, silent. The license plate had been stripped. No VIN. No markings. Everything customized, rebuilt from the inside out.
He ran his hand over the seat.
Dust came off on his palm.
He opened a metal box mounted beside the handlebars. Inside: gloves, a tactical pouch, an old phone with no SIM card, and a folded map. Paper, not digital.
He geared up in silence.
Slid the backpack on. Tightened the straps. Pulled the gloves on, fingers slow and exact.
Then he swung his leg over the bike.
Turned the ignition with a key that hadn't left his pocket in five years.
The engine didn't roar.
It whispered.
Smooth. Quiet. Deadly.
He backed out of the unit, lowered the gate behind him, and drove toward the exit.
When he hit the street, the wind hit his face hard.
The city lights were ahead of him. Cold and blinking.
The Devil was back.
And no one was ready.