2025-11-20 23:17:30Smoke swirled through the shattered remains of the compound, thick enough to sting Adrian’s eyes. His heartbeat was still hammering from the blast—too loud, too fast—but the moment he heard the crunch of boots approaching, everything inside him went still.
Survival over panic. Instinct over memory.
Three men in black tactical gear moved between the flaming debris. Their rifles swept in slow, precise arcs.
“Clear sector three,” one hissed into his comm. “Target might still be alive.”
Target.
Adrian pressed his back against a broken concrete pillar, breathing through his teeth. He didn’t know who they were, but every bone in his body screamed they weren’t here to rescue anyone.
He heard a second voice—sharper, impatient.
“Orders are confirmed. Kill on sight. The boss says he caused the explosion.”
Adrian’s stomach twisted. Caused it? Me?
Another explosion of memory-less void hit him—he didn’t even know what happened ten minutes ago. But blaming him? That meant someone wanted him erased.
The closest hitman stepped over a burning plank, scanning the rubble. His shadow crawled across Adrian’s hiding place.
Too close.
Way too close.
Adrian felt something—an instinctive ripple through his nerves. Not fear. Something violent, something cold, something calculated.
The hitman leaned forward.
Now.
Adrian snapped out from behind the pillar and rammed his elbow into the man’s throat. The hitman gagged, dropped his rifle, and stumbled back. Adrian didn’t hesitate—he grabbed the man’s head and slammed it into the jagged edge of a broken wall.
The man went limp, blood streaking down the concrete.
Adrian froze, staring at the body.
His first thought wasn’t shock.
Or regret.
It was: How did I know exactly what to do?
The other two hitmen whipped around.
“Contact! Contact! He’s still here!”
Bullets tore into the rubble, shards flying. Adrian ducked behind a fallen steel girder, panting, adrenaline roaring through him.
“Spread out,” one growled. “He doesn’t leave this place alive.”
Adrian grabbed the dead man’s pistol. His hands weren’t shaking—they were steady. Too steady, like they’d done this a thousand times.
What kind of man am I?
He peeked out.
The hitmen were closing in from two sides.
He had three bullets in the pistol.
Three breathes.
Two enemies.
One way out.
Adrian exhaled slowly and stepped into view, firing twice in quick succession. One bullet clipped a man’s shoulder; the other slammed into his leg, dropping him with a cry.
The last assassin dove behind an overturned SUV and opened fire, bullets whistling past Adrian’s head so close he felt the heat.
He ducked and rolled behind a chunk of collapsed ceiling.
“Bastard!” the hitman shouted. “Why’d you kill them? Trying to cover your tracks?!”
Adrian’s jaw clenched.
I don’t even know who I am right now.
He crawled forward, gun ready, senses stretching around him like invisible wires.
Then—
A faint sound.
A breath of gravel shifting.
Adrian spun and fired—
The last assassin dropped.
Silence.
Just crackling flames and Adrian’s ragged breathing.
He wiped sweat and dust from his face. Blood—some his, most not—streaked his arms. He forced himself to focus.
Someone had sent them.
Someone had framed him.
Someone wanted him dead.
But why?
He took one step forward—
—and f
roze.
A tiny red dot glowed on his chest.
Perfectly centered.
Steady.
Unmistakable.
A sniper’s laser.
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Ch. 22 — The Broken Rules
The crowd was already trembling with electric hunger by the time Adrian stepped back into the neon-lit pit. Blue lights pulsed against the steel railings; cigarette smoke curled under the purple lamps; cameras hidden behind tinted glass lenses recorded every angle of the underground spectacle.Tonight, the air felt heavier.Charged.Expectant.As Adrian walked under the flickering lights, the announcer’s voice boomed like thunder:“BACK FROM THE DEAD—THE GHOST RETURNS!”The crowd erupted. A wave of sound crashed over him, wild and carnivorous.Adrian didn’t raise his hands.Didn’t smile.Didn’t acknowledge them.His ribs ached from the previous night’s fights, blood still crusted beneath the bandages hidden under his shirt. But his mind… it was sharper than ever. Focused. Cold.And somewhere behind all of that, the whisper—his instinct—felt louder tonight. Almost alive.---THE FIRST FIGHT — THE MAN WITH THE SILVER FISTSThree metal gates clanged shut, sealing the circular pit.Across
Ch. 21 — The Arena Beneath the City
---THE UNDERGROUND CITY BREATHES FIRENight in the lower districts had a pulse; a heartbeat made of rattling pipes, distant sirens, and the muffled bass of illegal clubs buried under the concrete. Adrian moved through it like a ghost—hood low, steps silent, body bruised from battles he couldn’t remember clearly.The explosion.The ruined compound.The black throne tattoo.The assassins.The mysterious messages.None of it made sense.But he needed money.He needed anonymity.He needed a place where danger didn’t chase him—it welcomed him.And there was only one place like that:The Arena Beneath the City.A labyrinth of tunnels converted into a neon-lit colosseum where broken men fought for bills, drugs, reputation, and survival. Here, death was entertainment and life was a bet.The entrance was hidden behind a shuttered noodle shop. Adrian slipped through a metal grate, down rusted stairs, and into a dripping corridor painted with ultraviolet graffiti.The deeper he walked, the loud
CHAPTER 20 — THE LAST SURVIVOR SPEAKS
Adrian dragged the last surviving assassin into the shade of an overhang, away from the open square. The man was young—maybe twenty-two—his armor cracked, leg mangled, eyes glazed with terror not of dying but of what Adrian represented.Adrian pinned him to the wall with a forearm. “Talk.”The young man trembled. “I—I can’t.”“You can,” Adrian growled, pressing harder. “Because you’re the only one left who can.”“I swore—”“Your oath won’t matter when you bleed out in five minutes.”The man winced. Adrian could feel his pulse weakening.“You don’t understand,” the assassin whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to face you. Not like this.”“Too late.” Adrian leaned closer. “Tell me why you were here. What were you testing?”The young man flinched at the word.Testing.Adrian caught it—like a shard of memory stabbing through fog.“I saw the way you fought,” Adrian said. “You weren’t attacking. You were watching. Measuring. Observing my reactions.”The young man shut his eyes tightly.“Who sent
CHAPTER 19 — BLOOD ON THE COBBLESTONE
The storm had slowed, but the streets of the Old District still glistened like wet obsidian. Rainwater crept between the ancient cobblestones—tiny winding rivers under the dim glow of failing streetlamps. Adrian stood in the middle of the square, chest heaving, soaked in blood that wasn’t entirely his.The bodies of the assassins lay scattered around him, their black-throne rings glinting like curses abandoned in the mud.But something was wrong.Terribly wrong.He replayed the fight in his mind. They’d moved well. Their formations were tight. Their aim was deadly. Their techniques refined.But they weren't fighting to win.They were fighting to lose.Their blades hesitated by inches. Their bullets missed by fractions that felt too deliberate. Their strikes were strong—but not lethal.Like they expected him to survive.Like they needed him to.Adrian knelt beside one fallen assassin. A woman—cold, pale, eyes still open to the storm. Her hand was curled not toward a weapon, but toward
CH. 18 — THE LAST STAND IN OLD DISTRICT
---Adrian ran until the city changed.The sleek towers vanished behind him, swallowed by the fog of memory. The streets narrowed, cracked, and twisted in familiar ways he didn’t want to remember. Broken lantern poles leaned like tired bones. Crumbling row houses sagged under the weight of decades. Rain puddled in potholes that had existed since he was a boy running barefoot after stray dogs and stolen kites.He slowed.Not because he wanted to—But because his body remembered the place before his mind did.He turned down a narrow alley where an old mural still clung to the bricks—his mother’s favorite painting of golden birds taking flight. Faded. Peeling. Forgotten.Like he was.Adrian Vale… a name that still didn’t feel like skin he could wear.His lungs burned. His shoulders throbbed. His wrist still pulsed where the black-throne mark hid beneath the blood and rain.He reached the old district square—the center of his childhood world. Rusted playground swings creaked in the storm.
CH. 17 — THE FORGOTTEN MARK
The night air slaps Adrian’s face as he stumbles out of the ruined warehouse, lungs heaving, ribs screaming. The metallic tang of blood clings to his tongue. His shirt is torn, sticky, and barely holding onto his shoulder. Behind him, the warehouse burns slowly—embers crackling, shadows licking the shattered windows like hungry beasts.He doesn’t know how he’s still alive.Twenty trained killers. Twenty rings with the black-throne insignia. Twenty men and women who moved with identical precision, identical focus, identical intent.And somehow he walked out while they stayed behind, broken on steel floors, bleeding from fractured throats, twisted limbs, or gunshots deflected by sheer instinct and luck that never felt like luck at all.It felt like memory.Or something deeper.Adrian staggers across the empty yard, boots crunching broken glass and gravel. Every muscle in his body trembles. He reaches the shadowed corner of a collapsed fence and leans against it, sliding down until he’s
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