2025-03-06 14:23:54
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"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,
"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
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