The wooden floor of the boardroom didn't creak—not even the air dared to breathe.
The scent of fear hung thick, like an expensive perfume applied far too heavily.
Damien Blackwood stood at the far end of the obsidian conference table. His charcoal suit molded perfectly to his frame, illuminated only by the sterile glow of the crystal chandelier above. Twelve executives sat in silence—men of high rank and influence, yet today, they looked like schoolboys about to be punished.
He didn't need to raise his voice.
"I gave you one task," he said, his voice cold, nearly a whisper. "Just one."
No one answered.
On the massive screen behind him, footage of a burning warehouse played in a silent loop. Beneath it, a financial report in red. Billions lost in a single night. Sabotage. An inside job.
Damien's gaze landed on Phillip Crane—Chief Operating Officer—seated at the far end. Pale. Sweating. Trembling.
"You were in charge of that facility, Phillip."
"I—I swear, Damien, I didn't know—"
Thunk!
A pen whistled through the air and lodged into the wall, just inches from Phillip's head. No one moved. Damien hadn't even seemed to lift a finger.
"I don't tolerate incompetence." His voice was razor-sharp. "You're done."
Two black-suited security guards entered without a word. Phillip panicked, begged. But Damien never looked at him again. His eyes drifted instead to the cityscape outside—the glittering beast of Ravenport, carved from greed and betrayal.
"Meeting adjourned."
He walked out, emotionless.
---
Eight hours later — 2:03 a.m.
The same hands that had just fired a multi-millionaire were now sliding bullets into a silenced pistol.
On the rooftop of a crumbling apartment in the outskirts of Ravenport, a shadow in black stood unmoving.
Damien Blackwood. CEO by day. Executioner by night.
A black tactical mask covered half his face. Only his steel-blue eyes remained—sharp, unblinking, and lethal. His gaze locked onto a dusty window below, where a man sat at a desk, typing away like his hands were clean.
Target: Elias Ward.
Crime: Human trafficking, shielded by power and privilege.
Damien drew in a slow breath. The wind carried the stench of rust, oil, and dust. But his mind remained still. Focused.
"You play God in the daylight, Damien... but in the dark, you become the devil."
A voice echoed in his mind. Maybe his late father's. Maybe what was left of his conscience.
Bang.
One clean shot. Glass shattered. A body collapsed. The world stayed silent.
He turned, ready to disappear into the dark.
But then—
Click.
A camera.
He whipped around, gun raised. Eyes sharp.
But the rooftop… was empty.
Only the wind remained—cold, biting—whistli
ng past the blood drying on his gloves.
---
To be continued...
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