Debt of Souls

The rain slicked cobblestones of Frankfurt’s Alt-Sachsenhausen glimmered under the orange haze of streetlights, a deceptive beauty hiding the stench of stale beer and cheap cigarette smoke. 

Somewhere behind the half-shuttered pubs, a man groaned, barely a whisper against the storm’s hiss. “Pick him up.”

Boots splashed through puddles. Rough hands wrenched Charlie Charlie upright, his ribs screaming in protest. The sour breath of his captor washed over him as a knuckle dug beneath his jaw.

“You know what happens to servants who don’t pay,” the voice growled. “Your master’s debt is your debt.”

Charlie coughed blood, spitting crimson into the rain. “He’s not my master anymore.”

The second thug, taller, with a face like broken concrete, snorted. “Doesn’t matter. Kessler wants his money.”

Kessler. The name stabbed deeper than the pain in his side. Markus Kessler, the untouchable CEO, the man Charlie had trusted with everything. His so-called mentor had walked away clean, leaving Charlie holding the bag for a hundred–million–euro fraud.

The taller thug’s fist crashed into Charlie’s gut. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision.

“Don’t kill him yet,” the first said. “The boss likes his debts collected with a lesson.”

They dragged him through a narrow alley, past graffiti-tagged dumpsters and flickering neon signs. 

The city seemed oblivious to the small drama playing out, a world where fortunes could vanish overnight, where a ruined man could disappear without a ripple.

A battered van waited at the alley’s mouth. They shoved him inside. Charlie’s head struck metal, stars bursting behind his eyes. “Last chance, Charlie,” Concrete Face muttered. “Where’s the money?”

Charlie laughed bitterly, a dry, hollow sound. “Check Kessler’s offshore accounts. Oh wait, you already did, didn’t you?”

The taller man’s boot slammed into his side. Pain flared white-hot. The van jolted over a curb, tossing Charlie against the cold steel wall. 

Each bump sent daggers through his ribs. Rain thudded on the roof like impatient fingers. “Boss said the bridge,” Concrete Face reminded the driver.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Through the smeared window, Frankfurt’s skyline blurred, towering spires of finance lit like a gaudy promise. 

Charlie remembered standing in one of those towers beside Kessler, dreaming of power. He’d believed in loyalty then. Believed in mentors. “Tell you what,” Concrete Face said, leaning close. “Give us a number. We can tell Kessler you tried. Maybe he spares you.”

Charlie’s cracked lips curled into a grin. “You really think he spares anyone?”

The man’s eyes hardened. “Then you die.”

Minutes later, the van screeched to a halt on the Friedensbrücke. The rain-washed bridge stretched over the dark river, a quiet place to make problems disappear. 

They yanked Charlie out, boots slipping on the wet pavement. “On your knees,” the driver ordered.

Lightning flashed, throwing the men’s faces into stark relief. Charlie swayed but refused to kneel. “If you’re gonna bury me, at least let me stand.”

A punch sent him sprawling anyway. His palms scraped concrete. His breath came ragged, shallow.

Concrete Face drew a pistol, the metal glinting beneath the bridge light. “Any last words?”

Charlie’s mind raced. Memories of his mother’s laugh. The taste of whiskey after his first deal. 

Kessler’s smug smile. Rage cut through the pain, a hot, clean blade. “You’ll wish you finished the job,” he rasped.

The gunshot cracked, but not at him. A bullet sparked off the railing as a black sedan roared onto the bridge. 

Headlights blinded the thugs. Screeching tires spun water into mist. “Police?” the driver hissed.

“No,” Concrete Face muttered, stepping back. “Too fast. Too… deliberate.”

The sedan skidded sideways, blocking the bridge. Its window rolled down. A voice, calm, mechanical, almost inhuman, echoed over the storm. “Outstanding Debt Cleared. Assets Granted: Five Hundred Million Euros.”

The thugs froze. The air changed, electric, heavy. Charlie felt something unseen coil around his chest like invisible chains snapping loose. Pain dulled. His vision sharpened unnaturally.

“What the hell was that?” the driver whispered.

The sedan’s engine growled. The voice spoke again, sharper: “Charlie Charlie, Asset Transfer Complete. Initiating Priority Protocol.”

A sudden pulse of blue light burst from the car, slamming into the thugs. Concrete Face screamed as his pistol flew from his hand, clattering into the river. 

The driver staggered, clutching his head, and collapsed. Charlie staggered to his feet, stunned. “Who are you?” he called toward the car.

The window stayed dark. The sedan’s taillights flared crimson, like eyes in the rain, then, silence. 

The sedan vanished into the storm, leaving unconscious bodies sprawled across the bridge and Charlie alone with a strange warmth coursing through his veins.

He reached for the pistol on the ground, but a whisper, inside his head, stopped him. “Welcome to the Game, Mr. Charlie. Survive, or be collected.”

His breath caught. The words weren’t spoken aloud. They bloomed directly in his thoughts, precise and cold.

A blue notification flickered across the wet pavement before dissolving like mist. For a heartbeat, Charlie thought he saw numbers, massive balances, shifting accounts, foreign currencies blinking in and out.

The city’s skyline loomed, glittering and predatory. Somewhere in those towers sat Markus Kessler, untouchable, already playing.

Charlie clenched his fists. The throbbing in his ribs faded under the surge of new power, intoxicating and terrifying.

Behind him, one of the thugs groaned, alive, then, from the far end of the bridge, a shadow detached from the darkness. Tall. Hooded. Watching.

Lightning split the sky, and the figure stepped forward, silent, deliberate, revealing the unmistakable crest of Kessler Holdings gleaming on a silver signet ring.

Charlie’s pulse thundered. He stumbled back, but the railing blocked him, the river churning below.

The hooded stranger lifted a hand, gloved fingers curling like a promise. “Charlie Charlie,” a low voice said, deep as thunder, “your debt isn’t the only one that’s been cleared.”