The clock struck 12.

The alley was a shadowy cemetery, the air heavy with rot, moisture, and something metal—blood. A dim street lamp flickered overhead, its dying light barely penetrating the murky depths of the small passage.

A rat scuttled through the garbage, but even the vermin knew better than to stay here tonight.

A low, ragged groan shattered the silence.

Danny Vega's eyelids fluttered, his body spasming as he struggled to maintain consciousness. His pulse was sluggish, and his lungs were barely drawing in air.

Then pain struck.

It ripped through his nerves in waves of white heat, crashing into him like a freight train. His stomach clenched, his spine arched involuntarily, and his wounds screamed in his ears.

No mercy came.

He attempted to determine what was causing his pain. He cast a glance at his torso. Big mistake.

His torso lay in ruins, three gleaming katana blades buried deep in a V-shape across his chest and stomach, their steel glistening with dark, oozing blood. His clothes were shredded, saturated with sweat and the stench of iron.

Every heartbeat sent a new jolt of raw, burning pain through him. He could feel his flesh splitting wider around the impaling steel, with each tiny movement causing his wounds to tear deeper.

He was a living corpse, bleeding away inch by inch.

Then—a shadow moved.A figure appeared from the shadows, boots clicking calmly against the pavement. A long black coat with dried blood stiffening the edges fluttered slightly in the night breeze.

A slow, silky voice floated through the chilly temperature.

"Look at you. A rat caught in its own trap, right in the gutter. How poetic."

Danny's chest heaved, each breath a struggle. His eyes swam, but he forced himself to look upward.

That voice.

It was him.

The memories crashed back—the explosion. The betrayal. The man who ought to have died.

“You…” Danny rasped, blood oozing from his lips. His throat felt like it was full of glass shards. His mind clawed through the mist, looking for the name. Something starting with a V...

Hold on, that's the shape of the Katanas!

The man let out a breath and cocked his head in mild amusement. "I assumed you would have figured it out by now, Vega."

Danny's eyes burned from trying to keep them open. . His tongue felt like lead.

“You died in that blast… I saw it…”

A chuckle. Low, aware. "And yet, here I am."

Danny attempted to move—a mistake.

The blades within him shifted.

He let out a choked scream as one of the katana tips scraped against his ribcage, sending new shockwaves through his failing body.

The man approached slowly, his boots splashing through a puddle of Danny's blood.

"Danny... I was your friend, your saviour, but now, I'm your devil.“

“Now why did I do this? You were merely a hazard. The gang could not pay for you."

Danny's body was trembling from blood loss, his vision slowly becoming blurry. His fingers twitched fruitlessly.

“I tho..thought we could.. be partners again." He spat out blood. Saying all those words sapped all of his strength.

The man let out a sigh and shook his head, like a disappointed teacher. He took out a gun. “Danny... someone has to be the logical one."

A gun discharged.

Danny froze.

He knew that sound. A Smith & Wesson revolver, cylinder turning, a single bullet slotting into place.

His breath caught in his throat.

The mysterious man raised the gun casually, the barrel pressing just above Danny’s left eyebrow.

"Why don't you understand what's at stake here?" He appeared dissatisfied as if Danny was a puppy who has done something unamusing.

The moment stretched.

Danny had a half-second to register the cold steel against his sweat-slicked skin—

Vincent leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And since you're dying anyway… let me enlighten you. You didn’t just betray the gang, Vega. You betrayed me."

Danny’s breath shuddered. His lips parted, but no words came.

Vincent’s eyes darkened. "Because I wasn't just the leader of a normal gang. No, I was something else. I am."

Danny’s pupils dilated in shock.

 He gave him a small, knowing smirk. "Normally, its my boys that carry out the dirty jobs. But with a guy like you, mere servants wouldn't do the job right. So I decided to take out my own trash."

BANG.

The shot ripped through his skull, a sickening explosion of blood spraying the alley wall behind him. 

Danny’s body twitched violently, his mouth still slightly open, as if he had one last unspoken word lingering on his lips.

Then—his head snapped to the side, the bullet’s force sending him slumping forward.

Danny’s corpse slid down the wall, leaving behind a thick smear of blood, his lifeless fingers twitching one final time before going completely still.

The alley was silent.

Only the mysterious man remained standing.

He took a slow breath, exhaling through his nose, before crouching beside the body. He reached forward, grabbed Danny’s blood-drenched collar, and yanked him upright just enough to whisper into his ear—

"See you in heaven, Danny. Or maybe not. Because you won't be there."

Then he let go.

Danny’s corpse collapsed limply, his head lolling to the side.

He sighed. "Pathetic."

He stood, brushing flecks of gore off his coat sleeve and walked away without another glance, disappearing into the night.

Two men appeared behind him and walked up to Danny, removing and sheathing the katanas. Two figures emerged from the alley’s mouth, faces wrapped in balaclavas, gloves slick with old blood.

One knelt by Danny’s corpse, yanked the bullet from his skull with pliers, and flicked them into a plastic bag.

The other poured gasoline over the body, soaking the blood, his clothes, even his wallet and .

A match struck—hissed—then dropped.

Flames consumed him in silence, skin blistering, fat bubbling like meat on a spit.

They waited, watching the smoke rise, until the body collapsed inward, face gone, teeth curling like burnt paper.

No prints, no steel, no name—just ash.

They soon left too.

A Few Blocks Away

Leo, a bartender closing up for the night, wiped his hands on his apron, the scent of whiskey and stale beer clinging to his fingers as he locked up the bar for the night. The street was quiet, the kind of eerie silence that made his skin prickle.

A gunshot.

Sharp. Unmistakable. It cut through the stillness like a blade, lodging itself deep in Leo’s chest—not as pain, but as dread.

His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the cold brass of his keys. Not my problem. That was the first thought. That was always the first thought. In this city, curiosity got you killed.

And yet… his feet moved anyway.

With every step toward the alley, a heaviness settled in his gut. A sick, twisting certainty that whatever he was about to see, he wouldn’t be able to forget.

The stench hit him first—iron, thick and raw. His throat clenched as he reached the mouth of the alley. Shadows stretched long and jagged under the flickering street lamp, revealing the wrecking of a man.

Leo’s stomach lurched.

Danny Vega slumped against the wall, head tilted too far to the side, the ragged hole in his forehead still dripping. Blood slicked his face, pooling beneath him in a grotesque halo of crimson. His chest and abdomen was a ruin—containing three sickening holes and blood flowing out of them. Three gaping wounds, deep, deliberate. A butcher’s work.

Leo’s knees wobbled. His vision blurred. His breath hitched, caught between his ribs, shallow and quick. The bile rose before he could stop it. He doubled over, hands gripping his knees, dry heaving onto the cracked pavement.

He’d seen dead men before. Fights gone wrong, debts collected in blood. But this? This was entirely something else.

Something personal.

His hands trembled as he fumbled for his phone. The screen was slick with sweat, his fingers slipping as he tried to press 9-1-1.

"Get it together," he said to himself.

He forced himself to straighten, though his legs barely held him. His pulse hammered against his skull, drowning out the distant wail of approaching sirens. 

Leo sat down near the body, well aware of the police swarming in front of him after a few minutes. His stomach turned to mush.

He couldn't shake off the feeling that something terrible happened and it might involve him.

The alley behind him erupted in police chatter, but Leo stayed crouched beside the corpse, chest tight, mouth dry. The stink of blood and gunpowder clogged his nose. Somewhere in the noise, a detective barked something, maybe at him, maybe not.

Boots thudded around him. Flashlights bobbed. Cameras clicked.

But Leo’s eyes were fixed on the wall—on that dark, sticky trail Danny’s head left as it slid down. He couldn’t stop staring at it. Something about the angle. The carelessness. Like the body had been dropped, not killed. Disposed of.

Leo's hands twitched. He realized he was gripping his keys so tight they were cutting into his palm.

He finally stood, legs numb, his breath shallow.

Behind the sirens and shouts, his heart drummed out one thought.

Who would be next?