The alley smelled of wet rust and rotten food—one of those narrow, forgotten spaces where screams echoed but never reached the police. The kind of place where crimes weren’t just committed… they were expected.Adrian stood at the center of it, breath controlled, posture steady, muscles loose and ready. The voice behind him—the one that said “Found you.”—had disappeared into the shadows like smoke.But five figures stepped out instead.Five men.Gloves taped. Knives glinting. One carrying a steel pipe.Professional.Too professional.They didn’t shout.Didn’t threaten.Didn’t posture like street thugs.They simply moved.All at once.Like wolves.---The first attacker lunged low, trying to cut Adrian’s Achilles tendon. Another swung the steel pipe at his skull from the right. A third aimed for his ribs.It should’ve been too much for one man to react to.Should’ve been—But Adrian felt the attacks before they happened.That strange whisper in his nerves flared again—like a glimpse of

Rain fell like broken glass over the Old District—sharp, cold, relentless.Adrian walked through it with his hood up, head low, hands in his pockets. But no matter how much he tried to blend in, the city refused to ignore him.Whispers followed him like shadows.“That’s him.”“The Ghost.”“He sees you before you see him.”“Keep your eyes down, idiot.”Every corner.Every alley.Every crowded bar entrance.His name—his myth—had already outrun him.Adrian hated it.He didn’t want attention.He didn’t want power.He didn’t want people bowing their heads when he passed.He wanted answers.He wanted silence.He wanted to know why he felt like a loaded weapon someone forgot to put away.But the streets had made up their mind.He was already a problem—and growing into a threat.---It started at Marco’s Rusty Bar, a dim, rust-flaked place where criminals drank cheap whiskey and tried to forget their sins.Adrian pushed the door open.The noise stopped.Not lowered.Stopped.Every set of eyes