BLOOD OWNS THIS CITY

First Blood

The Iron District smelled like grease and rain and desperation.

Marcus found Mrs. Chen's restaurant tucked between a pawn shop and a shuttered laundromat. A flickering neon sign read "Chen's Kitchen" in faded red letters. Through the window, he saw two men in cheap suits hassling an old woman behind the counter.

He recognized the suits. Viktor's colors. Dark gray jackets with a gold pin on the lapel—a serpent eating its own tail. Viktor's security force wore them like a badge of intimidation.

Marcus pushed through the door.

"—pay or we break your hands, old woman." The taller thug leaned over the counter. He was young, cocky, muscles straining against his jacket. "Viktor doesn't like late payments."

Mrs. Chen stood her ground. She was seventy if she was a day. Her hands were gnarled from decades of working a wok. Her eyes were hard as stone.

"I paid last week," she said. "You raised the price again."

The shorter thug laughed. "Welcome to business. Pay or—"

"Or what?"

Both thugs turned. Marcus stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, face blank.

The tall one sneered. "Mind your own business, janitor. This doesn't concern—"

Marcus moved.

He crossed the distance in three steps. His left leg screamed. He ignored it. His right hand came up and grabbed the tall thug's wrist, twisting it at an angle that made the man's eyes go wide. A snap. A scream.

The shorter thug reached for his gun. Marcus was faster. He drove his palm into the man's nose—a sharp, upward strike that sent cartilage into brain tissue. The thug dropped like a sack of cement.

One second. Two men down.

Marcus stood over them, breathing steady. His leg trembled. He put weight on his good foot and forced his face to stay calm.

Mrs. Chen stared at him. Her face was unreadable.

"You're the one sleeping in the building across the street," she said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"You've been watching me."

"Yes."

"Because I hire veterans."

Marcus nodded. "Because you're the only person in this neighborhood who feeds them for free."

Mrs. Chen's eyes softened. Just a fraction. "These two will come back with more men."

"I'm counting on it."

She studied him. Her gaze was sharp—she'd survived in this city for fifty years. She knew a predator when she saw one.

"Sit down," she said. "I'll make you something to eat."

Marcus sat. His body was on fire. The fight had cost him—his spine was screaming, his leg was practically useless. But he'd made a point. Viktor's men had been hurt. Viktor would hear about it.

That was the first step.

He ate in silence. Mrs. Chen didn't ask questions. She brought him rice and pork and a cup of tea that tasted like home. He hadn't had a hot meal in weeks.

When he finished, he pulled the manifest from his pocket. The document was useless on its own—just a shipping record. But it proved Viktor was connected to the biological weapons deal. If Marcus could find the rest of the evidence, the names on the list would fall.

"I need a place to stay," he said. "Somewhere they won't find me."

Mrs. Chen nodded. "There's a room above the kitchen. Small. No windows. But safe."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just don't get me killed."

Marcus almost smiled. It came out as a grimace. "I'll try."

He climbed the stairs to the room. It was barely bigger than his storage closet, but it had a lock and a window that looked out over the alley. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The fight replayed in his mind. He'd been too slow. Too sloppy. Five years of hiding had eroded his reflexes. He'd won, but barely. The next time, he might not be so lucky.

He needed training. He needed allies. He needed to move faster, hit harder, disappear better.

But first, he needed to send a message to Viktor Volkov.

Marcus opened his eyes. He pulled out the paper and wrote a single sentence in block letters.

*The Ghost is hungry.*

He folded it and left it on the counter downstairs for Mrs. Chen to deliver.

In the morning, Viktor would know. The game would begin.

Marcus lay down on the thin mattress. His body ached. His leg throbbed. But for the first time in five years, he felt something other than cold rage.

He felt hope.

Outside, a car engine idled in the alley. Two men in dark gray jackets got out and started checking doors.

They were already hunting him.

Marcus smiled in the darkness.

Let them come.

*Should Marcus kill the men hunting him or use them to send a message back to Viktor?*