The Return Of the God Of War

THE HOUSE OF GLASS

The rain eased just before dawn, leaving the city slick and raw under the first ghost of daylight.Mira pulled the stolen truck into the shadows of an abandoned parking garage three blocks from Petrov’s glass fortress.She killed the engine but left the keys in the ignition — ready if they needed to run.Above them, the cracked ceiling wept slow drops onto oil-slick concrete.Somewhere above, pigeons shifted and cooed in the rafters.Ares climbed out first, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirrored the tower’s jagged reflection.He rolled his shoulders under his damp coat, eyes locked on the skyscraper stabbing at the dull sky — thirty floors of glass pretending Petrov’s money was stainless.Mira dropped down beside him, landing light on her boots.She stretched her arms overhead until her ribs popped.The bruise under her left eye had bloomed deep purple, a war medal painted on skin.She caught Ares staring and raised an eyebrow.“Don’t start,” she muttered, wiping dried blood from her nose.“I look better than him.”

Ares didn’t answer.He flipped open the fireproof case on the truck’s hood — steel battered by years of hidden wars.Inside, the stolen files sat like coiled snakes — contracts, bribes, photos, signatures that linked politicians to cold graves no one mourned.“We drop these when the sun comes up,” he said.“Burn his safety net.Burn his name.”

Mira leaned her hip against the cold metal, rolling a cigarette between bruised fingers.“Daylight.You used to hate daylight.”

“I still do,” Ares said, snapping the case shut.“But fear wakes faster in daylight.”

Mira struck a match.The flame sputtered in the damp air until she cupped it close.Smoke curled from her split lip as she breathed it in.“He up there now?Sleeping?”

Ares’s jaw tightened.“He’s up there.He thinks the old guard’s wall can hold.”

She flicked the match away, ember dying on the concrete.She checked her pistol, racking the slide.“Then let’s tear it down.”

They crossed the empty street at a steady pace, moving through puddles that swallowed their reflections.Neon signs flickered above shuttered shops.Somewhere far off, a siren yawned itself awake.Ares slipped into an alley’s mouth, Mira ghosting close behind, both hands buried in her pockets but her mind sharp as broken glass.Petrov’s tower rose from polished marble and mirrored glass, surrounded by hedges trimmed so neat they looked fake.Two guards in cheap suits smoked by the front doors, eyes half-shut against drizzle and boredom.Jonas’s files had counted six men tonight — four outside, two inside, lazy and comfortable in the illusion of steel and locks.“Front?” Mira murmured.Ares shook his head once, his chin lifting toward a narrow alley running behind a shuttered café.“Up.”

A grin flickered across Mira’s bruised face.“Old times.”

They cut behind dumpsters that smelled of stale pastries and cheap disinfectant.A rusted fire escape clung to the tower’s side like an afterthought, half-swallowed by new security cameras no one bothered to wire right.Mira grabbed the lowest rung.It stuck.She turned — eyebrow cocked.Ares laced his fingers, gave her a boost.Metal groaned under her weight.She swung the ladder down with a scrape of old bolts.Ares climbed fast behind her, boots clanging off the steel.By the fifth floor, the street was gone beneath them, just rain and wind whispering over neon ghosts.They paused on a landing that rattled when the wind pushed at it.Mira wiped rain from her lashes and leaned close to the window — cracked glass, dusty blinds behind it.The glow of forgotten monitors painted the dark.“Here,” she mouthed.She fished a glass cutter from her jacket.Ares raised an eyebrow — a silent question.“Berlin,” she whispered.“Best doors are the quiet ones.”

The circle popped out clean.She reached through, flipped the latch, and pushed the pane wide enough for them to slip inside.The carpet smelled like old coffee and cold printer ink.They moved slow, pistols drawn, feet sinking silent into the plush.At the door, Mira listened — head tilted, breath steady.Ares cracked it open.The hallway beyond was all marble and muted lights, hush money built into stone.Cameras blinked.Mira pointed — Ares popped the lenses in two quick shots.Red light glowed somewhere deeper in the walls.“Clock’s ticking,” she said.“Let it.”

They found the stairwell behind an unmarked door.Ares slammed his shoulder into it until the latch gave.They climbed.By the eighteenth floor, sweat ran cold down his back.Old stitches in his ribs itched like ghosts under his coat.Mira paused two steps below him, voice low.“You good?”

Ares didn’t waste breath.He kicked the final door open.The executive floor swallowed their boots in thick carpet.Down the corridor, Petrov’s office waited — frosted glass etched in gold letters.Two guards lounged on either side, bored hands tucked in suit jackets.Ares raised his pistol.Mira mirrored him.Two muffled pops.Two bodies dropped, soft thuds lost in plush.At the office door, Ares laid his palm against the frosted glass.He could feel the hum of expensive air conditioning, smell the orchids someone changed every day so the place always looked alive.Mira stood behind him, gun raised but eyes clear.“Ready?” she whispered.Ares pushed the door open.Petrov sat behind a desk big enough to bury secrets under.He didn’t rise.Didn’t flinch.He looked older, hair silvered at the edges, eyes soft but mouth curling into the same wolf grin Ares remembered.“Ares Lin,” Petrov said, voice velvet-wrapped poison.“Did the grave get lonely?”

Ares dropped the case on the desk.Flipped it open.The files spilled like poison across polished stone — photos, bribes, unburied bodies on paper.Petrov’s eyes flicked to Mira.He almost laughed.“You think this kills me?” he asked softly.“These walls stand because you men are too small to tear them down.”

Ares slammed his fist on the desk.Marble cracked.Petrov flinched — mask slipping for half a heartbeat.Mira’s gun stayed steady.“You built this on ghosts,” Ares said, voice cold as old dirt.“I’m the one you left breathing.”

Petrov’s hand twitched for a drawer.Mira shot him through the wrist.Blood splattered white orchids, red blooming soft on petals.His scream was thin, muffled by the hum of a tower built to hide noise.Ares drew his knife — same blade that dug him out when the dirt wouldn’t hold him.He pressed it to Petrov’s throat, felt the old man’s pulse fighting.“You can’t—” Petrov rasped.“I can,” Ares whispered.The knife slipped deep.Petrov’s breath rattled in his chest, eyes wide at the ceiling he’d built too high to save him.Ares let him slump forward, blood soaking his precious files.Mira lowered her gun.Her shoulders dropped, but her eyes stayed sharp.“Done?” she asked.Ares turned to the window.Dawn crept through glass that had never known rain.His voice was flat.“Halfway.”