The industrial zone smelled like rust and rain.
Old warehouses lined the cracked streets, their windows dark or boarded. A few trucks passed every few minutes—nothing urgent. Just heavy tires, diesel smoke, and the hum of machines long past their prime.
Rafael stood in the shadows between two shipping containers. Across the street: the auto shop.
The sign above the building was half-lit—REX CUSTOMS. The metal garage door was open just enough for a person to slip under. A red light glowed from inside. Someone was home.
He watched.
One man stood outside, pretending to smoke. Not a real cigarette—just nerves. His eyes kept flicking to the corner like he expected something. His hands didn't match his calm face.
A lookout.
Rafael shifted slightly, just enough to check the side alley. Two more men near the back. Both armed. Relaxed—but not drunk. Professionals, not kids. One scratched at his beard and pointed toward a side door. The other nodded, stepped inside.
Rafael's eyes returned to the garage.
Through a slit in the window, he saw him.
Moss.
Thick arms, shaved head, gold chain around his neck. He was leaning over a table, counting bills. Beside him: a small briefcase and a laptop. Someone else handed him a tablet. They talked, pointed at a screen.
A deal was happening.
Not drugs. Not weapons.
Paperwork.
Moss never dealt in products.
He dealt in people.
Rafael waited.
He didn't blink. Didn't shift.
He just stood there watching.
The lookout flicked his fake cigarette once. Then again. Then turned slightly toward the street.
That was his mistake.
Rafael was already behind him.
A hand around the mouth. An arm around the neck. One smooth pull. The man's legs kicked once—then folded. Rafael lowered him gently to the ground, no sound but the soft brush of denim on concrete.
He dragged the body into the alley, behind a dumpster, out of view.
Then he crossed the street.
The garage door was still cracked open. Music played faintly inside—old hip-hop, low bass, lazy beat.
Rafael ducked and slipped under the gap.
Inside, warm light flickered off tool racks, broken cars, and grease-covered floors. Moss stood at the far end, still counting. Two guards paced near the center—both armed, but talking to each other, not watching.
He moved fast.
The first guard didn't see him. Rafael hit his throat with the side of his hand—silence—then cracked his knee with a kick. The man crumpled.
The second turned too late. Raised his gun.
Rafael grabbed his wrist mid-motion, twisted, slammed his head against the hood of a car. Once. Twice. Gone.
Then—
Bang.
A shot rang out. Missed.
Sparks flew from the wall near Rafael's shoulder.
The fourth man had come back from the side door.
Rafael rolled, drew the black folding knife from his sleeve, and threw it. The blade sank into the shooter's thigh.
He screamed. Dropped the gun.
Rafael crossed the space in three steps, slammed him into a cabinet, and elbowed him in the ribs until he stopped moving.
When he looked up—
Moss was running.
Moss didn't get far.
He'd barely made it past the hallway when Rafael caught him by the back of the neck and slammed him into the wall. The man wheezed—more shock than pain—then threw a wild elbow.
Rafael ducked it easily, swept his legs, and pinned him face-first against the floor.
"Okay! Okay, man!" Moss yelled, voice cracking. "Just take the money—take whatever!"
Rafael didn't answer.
He grabbed Moss by the collar and dragged him down the hall to a heavy steel door.
The back office.
No windows. Soundproofed walls. Old paint peeling above the light switch. A desk with handprints in dust.
A room built for secrets.
Rafael kicked the door shut behind them and locked it.
Moss stumbled back into a metal chair.
Rafael didn't tie him at first. He didn't have to. The man's body was already frozen, breathing shallow. He watched Rafael like someone watching a wolf circle a campfire.
"You want money?" Moss said quickly. "I've got accounts. Cash. Crypto. Just name it."
Rafael walked over to the desk. Pulled open a drawer. Found a zip tie.
He turned back and tied Moss's wrists to the arms of the chair—tight, fast, without a word.
Moss didn't struggle.
"I—I didn't even know who she was, man," he said. "I didn't touch her. I just handled the route. That's all I do now. Routes."
Rafael finally spoke.
"One girl."
Moss nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. A kid. Real quiet. Looked tired. She had a backpack with—uh, uh—purple something. Monster. I dunno."
Rafael leaned forward, just enough.
"Name."
Moss blinked. "I don't—I don't know her name, man. I swear to God."
Rafael stared.
Then he reached for Moss's left hand.
And broke his pinky finger.
The sound was soft.
Moss screamed, jerking forward. The chair scraped against the floor.
Rafael waited. Didn't blink. Didn't raise his voice.
"Name," he said again.
Moss was shaking.
His mouth hung open. Tears ran down his face, but he didn't scream again. That told Rafael something—Moss had felt pain before. Just not like this.
"I swear," he gasped. "I didn't pick the girl. I just moved her. That's all."
Rafael didn't move. He stood like a statue, eyes flat and quiet.
"Where."
"I—I don't know where she is now. I only handled the first leg, alright? We get the list, we take the cargo to the relay, someone else takes over."
"What relay?"
Moss breathed fast. "Dockside. Not the main port—warehouse district, east of Pier 12. We drop them there, no questions. Then some private crew handles the next jump. No names, no plates. Always clean."
Rafael reached for his wrist again.
"Wait—wait!" Moss twisted in the chair. "There was a name, okay?! One name. I didn't ask, but I heard it. The man who paid—he wanted her moved quiet. Special. Like… medical-special."
Rafael paused.
Moss licked his lips. "Welt. Cassian Welt. Rich as hell. Private clinics, labs, the whole deal. Real hush-hush. He pays extra for clean jobs. The girl—she wasn't just some street kid, alright? She was flagged. Important."
Rafael said nothing.
He just tilted his head, slowly.
"Welt doesn't buy. He—he studies. Or hires people who do. Sometimes it's blood. Sometimes brain stuff. I don't know. But you don't sell girls like that, man."
He looked up, eyes wide and wet.
"You keep them."
Rafael stared at him.
Still.
Then turned toward the door.
Moss was still talking, but Rafael wasn't listening anymore.
He had what he came for.
Not a location. Not a timeline. But a name.
Cassian Welt.
And a method.
He walked to the desk. Picked up a screwdriver from the drawer. Examined the handle. Then placed it back down.
He didn't want noise.
Moss sniffled. "You gonna let me go?"
Rafael didn't answer.
He stepped behind the chair.
"No one knows I talked," Moss said quickly. "You can just walk out. I won't say a word."
Rafael placed two fingers on Moss's shoulder.
Not a threat. Not a grip.
Just presence.
Moss opened his mouth to say something else.
Rafael snapped his neck with one clean twist.
The sound was soft.
The room went still.
Ten minutes later, Rafael wiped the chair down, then the drawer handle. He cleaned everything he'd touched. He picked up the knife he'd thrown earlier, wiped the blade, folded it, and slid it back into his coat.
Before he left, he pulled a small metal pick from his pocket.
Walked to the drywall beside the door.
Scratched in a slow, careful motion.
A black half-circle.
Split at the top.
The Obsidian Mark.
If someone found the body, they'd know what it meant.
He was back.
Outside, the night was quiet.
The wind had picked up. The moon peeked through clouds. A dog barked far off.
Rafael walked to the end of the street and disappeared into the dark.
The Devil's first step had been taken.
The blood trail had begun.