Adrian's hands still smelled like blood.
No matter how many showers he took, no matter how much soap he used, it clung to him—the stink of death. His first kill hadn't been a dramatic moment. It had been ugly. Fast. Animalistic.
Now, everything had changed.
He wasn't pretending anymore.
He was in.
---
When he arrived at Warehouse 31 the next day, Rocco didn't greet him with a nod or a smirk this time.
He just tossed Adrian a burner phone and said, "You're being summoned."
"By who?" Adrian asked.
"By the fucking devil himself."
Rocco didn't elaborate.
He didn't have to.
Because fifteen minutes later, Adrian found himself being driven in the back of a black SUV, windows tinted so dark he couldn't tell if it was morning or midnight. The man beside him didn't speak. Just chewed gum like he was bored and occasionally checked a pistol hidden under his jacket.
No one said a word.
Until they pulled up to The Marrow.
---
The Marrow wasn't just a nightclub.
It was the nerve center of the Belladonna Syndicate.
Built beneath an abandoned cathedral, its iron gates and crimson velvet gave it a veneer of elegance, but everyone who walked through its doors knew the truth: this was where power bled.
The music pounded like a heartbeat from underground.
Adrian followed the man through dim-lit halls, past armed guards in suits with dead eyes. Paintings of saints lined the walls—weeping, burning, bleeding. A cruel joke. A reminder that God wasn't welcome here.
Then he saw him.
Vincent Moretti.
Sitting alone at a round table in the center of the room, whiskey in hand, watching Adrian like he already knew everything about him.
"So," Vincent said, voice smooth and dangerous, "you're the fuck-up who stabbed a junkie in my supply house."
Adrian didn't flinch. "He came at me first."
Vincent stared. Then laughed—sharp and cold.
"You got balls, I'll give you that."
He gestured to the seat across from him.
Adrian sat.
"You know what I hate, kid?" Vincent said, swirling his drink. "People who come in here thinking they can outsmart the system. Act like they're hard until the real shit hits them in the face. You one of them?"
"No," Adrian said simply.
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you?"
Adrian leaned forward. "I'm the guy who's got nothing left to lose."
Silence stretched.
Then Vincent smiled.
"You're either gonna be my best asset… or a corpse in the fucking river by next week."
He slid a black envelope across the table.
"Inside's your first real assignment. Don't open it here. Memorize it. Burn it."
Adrian nodded, taking the envelope.
Vincent stood.
"You've got one chance to prove you're not just another lost little shit playing gangster. Blow it, and I'll put a bullet between your eyes myself. Understand?"
"Loud and clear," Adrian said.
Vincent's smile sharpened. "Good. Welcome to hell."
---
Adrian walked out of The Marrow feeling like his bones were vibrating.
The envelope was sealed with a wax insignia—Belladonna's mark: a skull blooming with roses.
He didn't wait until he was home. He ducked into an alley, tore it open, and read the slip inside under a flickering light:
TARGET:
Ethan "Fixer" Dolan – Blackmail Artist, Ex-Accountant, Snitch
Location: Laneside Motel, Room 306
Instructions: Silence him. Permanently. Make it clean. No witnesses. No excuses.
Adrian stared at the page.
This wasn't some street thug.
This was a hit.
His first.
---
He spent hours pacing his shitty apartment. Knuckles bruised. Mouth dry. Every time he thought about backing out, he pictured Lucas lying on the pavement, blood pooling from his chest, eyes wide in horror.
No fucking way.
This was for Lucas.
This was justice.
This was war.
---
The motel smelled like piss and bad decisions.
Adrian arrived just after midnight. Room 306 was at the far end, above a flickering vacancy sign.
He wore gloves. Dark hoodie. Clean blade.
He knocked once. No answer.
Then twice, louder.
The door opened slightly. A tired, pale face peeked out. "Yeah—?"
Adrian didn't wait.
He shoved the door open, drove the man inside, and slammed it shut behind him.
"Who the fuck—?"
Adrian didn't give him time.
He grabbed the Fixer by the collar, pushed him to the ground, knife to throat.
"I know who you are," Adrian said coldly. "I know what you've done."
"Wait—wait, look, I don't even work for them anymore, I was just—"
"I don't care."
Adrian hesitated.
The man's eyes widened.
"Please," he whispered. "Please don't kill me. I have a kid, man. I swear. I just wanted out—"
A pause.
A heartbeat.
Adrian's hand shook.
But then… he remembered.
Lucas. Gasping. Dying.
No justice. No fucking answers.
Adrian's blade drove in fast and deep.
The man gargled a scream.
And then he was still.
---
Adrian sat in the motel bathroom afterward, blood on his hands, staring into the mirror.
"You're in now," he whispered to himself.
"No turning back."
The face staring back at him didn't look like a kid anymore.
It looked like a soldier.
Or a monster.
Maybe both.