The rain fell hard over Ravenport.
From the thirty-sixth floor of Blackwood Tower, Damien watched as the storm devoured the skyline—lightning splitting the sky like fractured glass, thunder rumbling like distant artillery. His reflection stared back from the window: sharp jaw, cold eyes, perfectly still.
The mask held.
But inside, something cracked.
He lit a cigarette he never intended to smoke. The ritual steadied his nerves. The scent of burnt tobacco, the soft glow at the tip—it was control. Illusion. A tether.
His burner phone buzzed once on the table.
Unknown Number:
Elias Ward wasn't the only one.
No name. No trace. Just a warning, coiled in silence. But Damien recognized the cadence. Clean. Precise. A message from someone like him—another ghost in the machine.
He crushed the cigarette between his fingers, the embers dying with a hiss.
Someone had been watching.
And they knew.
---
Elsewhere – 10:42 p.m.
Elara Vance sat cross-legged on her apartment floor, tapping the flash drive against her thigh like a ticking clock. Rain drummed against the windows, the room lit only by the blue glow of her laptop screen.
She'd spent the last four hours parsing through hell.
Political bribes. Laundered money. Contract killings dressed up as suicides.
And one name tangled in too many threads—
Blackwood Corporation.
Her throat tightened. Her instincts screamed at her to run. But curiosity was a fire she couldn't put out—and now it burned her from the inside.
She stared out at the rain-blurred skyline.
"I'm getting close," she whispered.
"And he knows it."
---
Blackwood Penthouse – Same Time
Damien moved like a soldier—efficient, silent—as he donned black tactical gear. The kind of uniform he only wore when the system failed.
Three names.
A politician. A priest. A CEO.
All wolves in saint's clothing.
He checked the rounds in his silenced pistol, then paused.
Something was wrong.
A faint scent in the air. Perfume. Faint—floral and sharp.
His eyes narrowed.
Someone had been here.
He moved to his laptop. The screen was still warm. A single window left open.
Subject: Elara Vance
Status: Undetermined.
Damien's jaw clenched.
She'd been digging. Too deep.
---
Back Alley – 12:03 a.m.
The rain turned the streets into black rivers. Steam rose from gutters. The kind of night where sins bled freely.
Damien stepped into the alley, boots silent against the wet concrete. A flickering streetlamp illuminated a solitary figure in a dark coat.
Elara.
Her eyes found him instantly—green, fierce, burning with questions.
"I want answers," she said. "About Elias Ward. About your company."
Damien didn't flinch.
"You're not ready for the truth."
"You owe me."
He stepped closer, voice cold. "No. I owe you a warning. Walk away, Elara. Before this city eats you alive."
The silence between them was sharp enough to draw blood.
Then movement—behind her.
Damien grabbed her arm and yanked her behind him in one swift motion.
A gun clicked in the dark.
"I've been waiting a long time for this," said a voice, low and venomous.
Damien raised his hands slowly, body tense.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
A pause.
Then another voice cut through the rain.
"I did."
A second figure stepped from the shadows.
Damien's breath caught.
His blood ran cold.
The voice. The face.
Someone he thought was dead.
---
To be continued...
---