2025-03-06 07:14:38
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Clash
Walker wasn’t in a rush. He moved with the ease of someone who’d done this before.The sun was soft against the hospital roof as he stepped out of the black cab across the street, a brown paper bag in one hand and his eyes doing what they always did—scanning.He’d parked two blocks away and walked the rest. Not out of habit—out of necessity.Private hospital. Minimal foot traffic. Neutral colors. A blue logo painted on a cream wall that looked like it hadn’t seen graffiti in twenty years. Classy. Quiet. Too quiet.He adjusted the paper bag in his grip, the warm sandwich scent from the deli still rising out. Not that he planned to eat. He just needed the visit to look normal.That was the game—make things look normal. Even when they weren’t.Before he crossed the street, he slowed. His left eye twitched.There. The guy across the florist van. Pretending to be on a phone call.Another one—bent at a vending machine too long.Something in the air shifted. Not loud. Just a scent. But Walke
Walker is found again
Dax stood still—frozen, like a man watching his own shadow stretch under a dying sun.His breath dragged out longer than usual. A pulse ticked under his jaw. Slowly, he lifted his wrist and glanced at the time—a black-faced Rolex Sea-Dweller, thick-strapped, gifted by Montoya himself during a silent night of blood and loyalty.The hands on the watch ticked without mercy.Time… slipping.Only twenty-two hours remained out of the thirty-six he’d been given. If Walker wasn’t caught before the clock bled out, Dax wouldn’t just lose his rank—he’d lose his head.And the Stone-Faced Man?That man didn’t make empty threats.Already, Dax had dispatched his crew across the boroughs—Brooklyn to Bronx, from the belly of Queens to the upper glass towers of Manhattan. His men were hunting, and their phones stayed hot. Walker or Riven—he didn’t care which one showed up first. One would lead to the other.He slid his tongue across dry lips and tried to swallow, but the air tasted metallic.The gangs
Left To Die
The warehouse reeked of silence.A heavy, moldy silence—thick like spoiled milk left too long in summer heat.In the center of the dim, rust-stained space stood a single metal pole, its base corroded into the cracked concrete floor.Wrapped around it, bound like an offering to some unseen god, was a girl.Anita.Her frame—once lively and laced in neon lights—now slumped. Her wrists bore deep red rings where the thin, silver chains had bitten into her flesh. Her ankles? Worse. Skin peeled in flaky strips. Swollen. Bruised. One foot twitched every few minutes, not from strength—no, that was long gone—but from involuntary nerves fighting hunger’s grip.Her black leather miniskirt was soiled. Her crop top clung to her skin like a second, sweat-drenched hide.She hadn’t eaten in days.Her hair, once slick and shining under the club's violet strobes, now hung in tangled mats, clumped with sweat, dust, and the dried scent of old urine.And the stench...Even rats stayed away.Three days ago,
"You Will Regret This"
The air inside the dimly lit cave was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the skin and made every breath feel like a labor. A single, flickering lantern cast elongated shadows on the rugged walls, its light dancing over the faces of two men locked in a silent standoff.Jett stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes, narrowed to slits, bore into Walker with a mixture of disdain and suppressed fury. A fresh bruise was blossoming on his temple, the skin already turning a mottled shade of purple. He winced slightly as he adjusted his stance, the pain evident in the tight clench of his jaw.Walker, a few feet away, maintained a defensive posture. His hands were open, palms facing slightly upward in a gesture of placation. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, now held a glimmer of remorse. He took a cautious step forward, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots."You’re a coward, and you know it," Jett spat, his voice low bu
“I’m flying out to the States tomorrow.”
Svet had dialed Walker’s number for the third time that morning.No response.No ringing tone either.Just that cold, dead silence.He stared at his phone screen, then slowly brought it down from his ear. A crease formed between his brows. That was when it truly hit him. Elizabeth had been right all along.Something… felt wrong.He shoved the phone into his pocket, turned, and marched toward his parked truck—a monster of a machine, wide-chested and gleaming, the kind of vehicle that made him feel like he was driving a two-storey apartment on wheels. That truck was his sanctuary. His shield. His noise.The engine grumbled to life.Twenty-five minutes later, tires crunched gravel just outside a modest brick home tucked in the outskirts of Paris. Svet stepped out of the truck, his heavy boots thudding against the earth. He adjusted his jacket and looked up at the house, his breath slowing.Then he walked toward the door.One knock.Pause.Second knock.It opened before his knuckles hit t
The Silence After Prison
The sunlight outside barely touched the cracked edges of the window blinds. It filtered in like it was unsure whether it belonged in the room with Ramirez—whether it had permission to warm a man whose world had grown so cold.Ramirez sat still, almost like a statue.The prison uniform was gone, but the weight it left behind still clung to him—across his shoulders, in his posture, behind his dark, tired eyes. He had grown leaner, quieter, and the way he ran his hand across his jaw now—slow, distracted, the tips of his fingers tracing the roughness of a barely-shaved beard—was the same way he'd learned to move in confinement.Carefully. Slowly. Intentionally.His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone.Oscar. That name alone pulled something sharp from deep inside his chest. The phone vibrated gently on the wooden table, and the sound echoed through the hollow silence like a ticking bomb.He didn’t want to answer. Not yet. Not now.Ever since he walked out of that damned prison gate
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