Johnny drove straight across town, the streetlights flashing over the hood of his car like impatient blinks. The address Vivienne gave him led to The Rusty Anchor Bar—a joint with a reputation for cheap liquor, bad lighting, and no questions asked. From the outside, it didn’t look like much: a cracked neon sign buzzed against the brick wall, the word Anchor missing its “n,” making it Archor. A group of guys smoked weed out front, their laughter hoarse and mean. The place reeked of spilt beer and sweat, even from the sidewalk. This wasn’t the kind of bar where you brought a date; this was where you came to disappear. Inside was worse. The ceiling fan spun unevenly, screeching on every turn. The booths were patched with duct tape, the tabletops sticky with years of dried liquor. A jukebox in the corner played a muffled rock song no one was listening to. The air was heavy, like someone had trapped cigarette smoke in a jar and kept shaking it. Johnny slid into a booth in the corner,

Johnny paced across the room, boots tapping against the blood-slick floor. Three dead men lay sprawled at odd angles, their limbs bent in ways that didn’t look human anymore. He’d been staring at them for hours, running scenarios through his head, but each one ended the same—he was out of leads. [12: 05:36]Out of time.He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Think, Johnny. Think.”Then it hit him.Why waste energy hunting for a needle in a haystack… when he could wait for the needle to walk right into his hands?A grin spread across his face. Simple. Risky, but simple.He pocketed a wads of bills from the scattered stacks of cash, slipped them into his car parked a discreet distance away, and reset himself inside the apartment. Now all he had to do was wait.The hours crawled. Then—headlights cut through the thin curtains. A sleek, black luxury car rolled up the street, its engine purring low like a predator.Johnny’s body stiffened. Showtime.Two men stepped out of the front seats, s

Johnny gathered what he needed from the apartment: the boss’s gun, a flash drive from a desk drawer that could prove useful in future, and a crumpled receipt that smelled faintly of cheap perfume—a breadcrumb to the Red Room. He stuffed them into his pocket. checked his watch, and felt the system’s timer throb at the edge of his awareness like a heartbeat.“Vixen, what’s the time left?” Johnny asked as he dashed into his car.[14:01:01]“Good enough.”He didn’t linger. He drove straight to the address stamped on the receipt.The Red RoomJohnny had never been inside a brothel before, but the Red Room erased any romanticized image he might’ve had. The building stood tall, wrapped in red neon that glowed like blood under the night. The entrance was velvet-lined with dark curtains, and the air smelled faintly of roses, smoke, and something sweeter—perfume masking sweat.Inside, the lobby pulsed with a strange life. Music throbbed from speakers hidden in the walls, low beats that seemed

“Alright then.” Johnny lowered the gun like he was putting down a coffee cup. “Now that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” He smirked. The matron’s hands fisted at her sides. “I don’t know who you are or how you found out the mayor’s daughter is kept here.” “Let’s just say I drew it out of the man's dying breath.” Johnny’s tone was flat, like stating the weather. “You have no idea the forces you are messing with. You and everyone you love will never breathe free air if you go through with this,” the matron warned, voice brittle. “It’s good thing I don’t have a long list.” He tapped the barrel against his palm. “Now shall we?” She led. The corridor beyond the lobby was narrow, the air cooler and damp. She moved without ceremony, hips tight, eyes on the ground. She pushed open an unmarked door and they stepped into a stairwell that smelled faintly of bleach and old cigarettes. The matron pressed a hidden latch under a loose tile; a section of the wall gave with a soft groan and a dar

Johnny woke up to the sound of chatter.His head was pounding. His mouth tasted like rust. The world came back to him in blurry fragments—concrete floor, shadows moving, muffled laughter, the faint buzz of a generator somewhere nearby. A dull ringing filled his ears, like the aftermath of an explosion.When he tried to move, he realized his hands were tied behind a metal chair. His legs, too. The ropes cut into his wrists every time he struggled.Then he saw her.Across from him, Isabella was tied to another chair, her wrists bound, her mouth gagged with a strip of dirty cloth. Her eyes were wide with fear—but when she saw Johnny’s gaze land on her, she managed the smallest nod, her way of saying ‘I’m okay’.Johnny exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.“Johnny Steele! The man! The myth! The legend!” a voice called out, playful and venomous at once.Johnny lifted his head, squinting at the figure walking out from behind the crowd of men. He didn’t recognize the voice—it wasn’t