2025-02-07 00:37:49Walker sat by Elizabeth’s side, gripping her hand as if letting go would shatter her completely.
Her fingers trembled weakly in his grasp. Her lips parted, but her voice barely emerged. "They… they’re hiding… something…" Walker stiffened. "What?" he whispered, leaning in. "Lizzy, what are you talking about?" Her breath was shallow, her gaze unfocused yet terrified. Dr. Graham adjusted one of the machines, his movements precise—too precise. Walker’s eyes snapped to him. "What is she talking about?" Dr. Graham smiled, but it felt… wrong. Too measured. Rehearsed. "She’s disoriented," he said smoothly. "Not uncommon after severe blood loss." Walker’s grip tightened on Elizabeth’s hand. She wasn’t just delirious. She was afraid. Dr. Graham’s voice cut through his thoughts. "Your wife is unstable, but we’re doing everything we can." Then why did it feel like a bad dream? Nothing added up. "Stress can make things seem worse than they are," Dr. Graham continued, his tone too soothing, like a practiced script. "Why don’t you step out for some air? We’ll take care of her." Walker’s jaw clenched. "No. I’m staying right here." Dr. Graham exchanged a glance with the nurse—a silent conversation passing between them. "Very well," he said. "But remain calm. Your presence is only helpful if you’re composed." Walker didn’t buy it. Every fiber of his being screamed that something was deeply wrong. And he was going to find out what. "Can I see you in my office right now?" Dr. Graham’s voice was light, almost too polite. Walker hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Elizabeth’s side. The moment he stepped away, they could— "Doctor, I don't mind discussing it here," Walker said, voice firm. "Whatever it is." Dr. Graham exhaled through his nose, his lips twitching—almost like a smirk. "That’s against our policy. Once we’re done, you can return to her." Walker’s pulse pounded in his ears. "Doctor, I understand," he said slowly. "But she needs me now more than ever." Dr. Graham studied him for a long moment before turning on his heel and walking away. Walker watched him go, his suspicion growing like a storm cloud. "Why does he feel so... wrong?" Everything about Dr. Graham’s aura was off. He wasn’t just a big man—he was huge. Not in the way of a medical professional, but like a man trained for something else. Something darker. A bodybuilder could pass as a doctor. But Dr. Graham? He felt more like a guard. A warden. Walker swallowed hard. Elizabeth let out a soft whimper, drawing his attention back. He cupped her forehead with his palm—burning hot. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I won’t let anything happen to you, Lizzy. I swear." A deep voice sliced through the air. "Sir, you’re not allowed to do that." Walker turned. Dr. Graham was back, his expression unreadable. This time, he carried a white paper and a pen. Walker squared his shoulders. "She’s my wife." "I know," Dr. Graham said. "But her condition is critical, and she needs rest." Walker hesitated before loosening his grip. Dr. Graham motioned toward a quiet corner. "Please, let’s have a talk." Walker didn’t trust him—but refusing could make things worse. He followed the doctor, his senses sharp. Even as they walked, his eyes flicked around the hospital. Something wasn’t right. A nurse passed by carrying a small box—not quite a first-aid kit, but something close. Walker tracked her movements until she vanished past the elevator doors. Dr. Graham stopped beside a steel cabinet with drawers. Each drawer had something written on it, but Walker couldn’t read the labels. Dr. Graham placed the paper down. "You seem very… protective of your wife." Walker met his gaze. "She needs me." Dr. Graham’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Your name?" Walker hesitated. "Walker Steve." Dr. Graham jotted it down, his grip on the pen oddly tight. "And your wife’s?" Walker glanced at Elizabeth’s bed from across the room, uneasy. "Elizabeth Steve." Dr. Graham nodded slowly. "She lost a lot of blood." "I know." "She’s been scanned. We found a spinal fracture." Walker’s stomach clenched. "Is she…?" "We’re monitoring her condition," Dr. Graham cut in. "Now, tell me exactly what happened." Walker’s breath hitched. His eyes burned, but he forced himself to speak. He told him everything—where the accident happened, how it happened. For a brief moment, he thought he saw something flicker across Dr. Graham’s face. Something dark. Then it was gone. "When did you get married?" Dr. Graham asked. Walker blinked. "What?" "When did you get married?" His tone was eerily casual—like it was just another question. Like Walker’s personal life was some trivial detail, not the reality of his world falling apart. Walker’s patience snapped. "Doctor, was that necessary?" A slow, chilling smile stretched across Dr. Graham’s lips. "Walker, or whatever you call yourself…" His voice dropped, dangerously low. "You don’t come here to tell me how to do my job." Walker’s heart pounded. "Otherwise," Dr. Graham continued, "you can take your patient somewhere else." The words were calm. But the way he said them? Threatening. Walker forced himself to take a breath. He was on thin ice. "Okay, doctor," he murmured, glancing at his wristwatch. The red numbers glowed ominously. 4:00 AM. "Two days ago," he answered. Dr. Graham’s pen scratched across the paper. Walker watched him, every muscle in his body tense. Something was happening here. Something hidden beneath the surface. And he was going to find out what.
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Meet me at the Cave
Walker stood by the cracked window, his silhouette half swallowed in the shadows of the room. The light outside was still, but his insides churned like a distant storm.“Svet…” he began, voice low but firm, “…I don’t want to involve you in what you don’t fully understand.”Svet leaned forward on the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly. His expression had shifted from curious to cautious.Walker stepped away, slowly, almost like retreating. His boots made faint creaks on the wooden floor.“I’ve pulled others into this before,” Walker continued, eyes not meeting Svet’s, “and now… they blame me for everything.”His voice cracked slightly on that last word, as if regret was a bruise he hadn’t stopped pressing.He was about to say more—“involving” was halfway out of his mouth—when his phone buzzed in his palm. A sharp vibration.No name. Just a blank number.Walker stared at it for a beat too long.Then he answered.“Hello,” he said, slowly, cautiously.A silence. Then a voice. Famili
"I'll stay till you figure it out"
The clock ticked past midnight.Walker hadn’t moved far from the window. The lights inside were off. Only the pale glow of the fridge lit the room, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor.Outside, the night sat heavy. The air was thick. Quiet.Then headlights cut through the silence — low, cautious beams. A single car.Walker flinched. His fingers curled tighter around the pistol in his hand. Safety off. Just in case.The sedan crept to a stop across the street. Engine idled. No one stepped out immediately.He stood to the side of the window, one eye just barely peeking through the blinds.Svet.It looked like him. Slouched behind the wheel, shoulders hunched like always. His signature gray hoodie up over his buzz-cut head. No sudden movements.Walker watched for another full minute.Nothing. No second car. No shadows moving behind.Still, he waited.Another thirty seconds.Then he crossed the room silently, reached the door, and unlocked it — click. He kept it half-open, letti
Svet Arrives New York
Walker’s burner phone vibrated against the kitchen counter — a deep buzz that rattled the empty glass beside it.He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. His body stiffened, just slightly, like prey sensing a predator from miles away.The screen flashed: Unknown Caller.He hesitated. His thumb hovered. Then, a quiet sigh.He answered."Walker," a voice said — sharp, urgent, trembling at the edges. "Hello? Am I speaking to Walker?"Walker’s heartbeat skipped. The voice was familiar. Too familiar.He cleared his throat, dropped his tone, and added a rasp. “No. Who’s asking?”The line held its breath."You bastards," the voice snapped, fury laced beneath the words. "You kidnapped Walker, didn’t you? I swear to God — I’ll make sure all of you suffer. I’ll make your lives a living hell."Walker said nothing. He let the silence hang, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the fridge door’s faint reflection.The voice cracked again, this time with disappointment and confusion. “If you're not Walker, then
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,
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