2025-07-19 01:35:06Cold Awakening
A breath. Heavy. Tastes like rust and rot. Jayce’s eyelids crack open to a ceiling scabbed with water stains and mold, shadows drifting like old ghosts across exposed beams. Glass grinds beneath his shoulder as he shifts— “His limbs shake, lungs grind—his body screaming that death missed by inches.” . No gun, no cash, no friends. Just pain. Just the sound of his own pulse, relentless, echoing against crumbling concrete and broken window glass. He rolls over—every joint a protest—and spits blood onto the scarred warehouse floor. It paints the night blacker. He remembers: the club’s stench of sweat and gun oil, Grim’s offer, Zion’s smirk, the way a promise fits in a whisper. “You’ve got 24 hours, Jayce. After that... you’re just another dead street rat.” His fingers dig into his shirt—and feel the sticky wound at his ribs. Well-packed. Not lethal. Not yet. Outside, sirens shriek distantly, neon branding the windows in crimson and gold. The city—alive, hungry, waiting for his next mistake. Dawn is a rumor on the other side of the city. He rises. Grits his teeth. Pain is proof: he’s not dead yet. Tick. Tock. Jayce limps out of the warehouse, hood up, blending into the dark arteries of the city. His pockets are empty but his mind is busy—counting enemies, debts, old favors. Most are buried. One isn’t. He pulls his cracked burner from a fire escape where he’d stashed it weeks ago—paranoia paid off, for once. His last number dialed: Rico “The Bull” Martinez. A thick-fisted bastard who runs bare-knuckle fights under the crumbling Midtown viaduct. Once, Jayce bailed him out for murder. Time to see if Rico remembers. The phone answers on the third ring. “Who the fuck?” “Jayce. I need in tonight. Fights.” Silence, then a grim chuckle. “Didn’t you die?” “I got better.” “Bring cash.” Click. Jayce laughs—just to hear it. It hurts. He pulls his hoodie lower and heads east. A basement under a pawnshop. Crowds pressed against chicken wire, shouting for blood. Rico waits, arms crossed, jaw twitching. “You got nothing?” Jayce peels off his jacket. “I’ve got me.” “Idiot. This ain’t a hero’s night.” Jayce steps inside the ring. His opponent is three inches taller, muscles knotted under prison tattoos, mouth guard flashing yellow grin. A bell clangs. A fist lashes out. Jayce ducks—pain shrieks up his side. He drops, rolls, springs up—slams an elbow home. They clinch. The world narrows to fists and fury, sweat splashing, skin splitting. Fists smash his cheek—he tastes copper. Bites his own rage. Remembers his brother, his father, the street that made him. He jabs out—catches the man’s throat. A crack. The crowd roars. Jayce nearly blacks out. Thirty seconds later, it’s over. He stands, swaying. Rico grins—almost proud. “Still a stubborn son of a bitch.” Jayce blinks blood from his eyes. Rico slides him a roll of cash. “You want a gun, downstairs—the old man. You want a crew, that’s on you.” Jayce stuffs the money into his jeans, nods, keeps his jaw set. Supplies Down a narrow hallway, he finds the old arms dealer, hunched and wrinkled, eyes bright. Cash on the counter, a battered Glock in his hand, and a burner phone. Jayce loads the gun, tucks it in his waistband, slides the phone into his pocket. He stands in the night, jaw squared, city hissing vengeance. Jayce needs more than muscle. He needs eyes. Hacks. Maya. He rides the subway downtown, past midnight. Maya’s lair is a derelict internet café, humming with cheap fluorescent light and the stink of burnt coffee. Her hair is wild; her gaze, sharper than lasers. “What’s the death wish, Jayce?” she says. “Grim’s on me. Odds are bad.” She spins in her chair. “He trust you? You trust me?” “I trust I’m out of time.” She laughs, high and thin. “Last time we worked together you left me stranded in Brooklyn with a pissed-off money launderer and two pounds of fake coke.” He shrugs, wincing. “I said sorry. Help me.” She stares at his bruised face, bloody knuckles—a calculus ticking behind her glare. “I can wipe some cameras. I can sniff texts, block a few trackers.” She pulls out a flash drive, flicking it between two fingers. “But Grim’s got his claws deep. If I do this, you’re not half-in, Carter. You want me? Bring me a piece of his machine. Blood.” He nods. “Give me a name.” She types furiously, hands jittering. “Tonight—his runner. Call him Ghost. Moves product for Grim on 66th. You take him down, leave a message—we’re in business.” Maya flicks the flash drive to Jayce. “Don’t die on me.” He grins, feral. “Not yet.” One Shot, One Message Jayce stalks the streets, nerves thrumming, rain masking his footsteps. On the corner of 66th, he spots Ghost—skinny, mean, eyes always moving. Backpack bulging, hand always in his pocket. Grim’s product, fentanyl—enough to drown the city. Jayce waits. Follows. The alley is perfect—dark, reeking of trash, footsteps silenced by wet asphalt. Ghost pauses, checking his phone. Jayce moves like a shadow, arm snakes around Ghost’s neck, Glock pressing into ribs. Ghost thrashes—Jayce hisses, “Scream and you die.” Ghost freezes. Jayce knees him hard, spins him into the wall, pulls the bag from his grip. “Tell Grim—” Jayce pistol-whips Ghost. He drops. Jayce yanks Ghost’s shirt open, pulls his knife. In careful, bloody strokes, he carves a message across Ghost’s chest: I’m not dead. I’m coming. — J. He drags the backpack away, adrenaline a storm surge in his veins. Maya’s flash drive clinks in his pocket—the next step, almost within reach. The glow of a dozen phones flickers inside Grim’s office. The runner’s body dumped in a puddle, message fresh and raw. Grim leans forward, cigar glowing. Smoke coils, tongues of fire in shadow. He traces the message with gloved fingers, reading out loud. Face blank, eyes cold. His lieutenant shivers, inches backward. Grim smiles—a thing full of knives. .”Grim slams the table hard enough to shatter a glass. His hand bleeds. Then, calm as a prayer: “Bring me his head. Slowly.” He taps ash to the floor, breathes deep, and somewhere Jayce’s name is spoken like a curse, a promise, a challenge the whole city will hear by morning. Jayce crouches on a rooftop, city burning beneath him, pain flaring but pride burning brighter. He dials Maya, breath hot in the night. “You in?” Her voice, electric: “I’m in.” Rico’s text buzzes on the burner: You got my attention. When do we start? Jayce grins into the storm. Hunter now. The clock keeps ticking.
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Feast of shadows
Chapter Ten: The Feast of ShadowsI. Morning’s GhostsThe dawn seeped through the filthy glass, painting Elior’s tiny room in a frail, anemic light. Nightmares clung tight beneath his skin as he lay motionless on his cot, staring up into the mildew-flecked ceiling. Every muscle ached—the residue of battles both external and within—but the wounds had sealed overnight, leaving only faint, silvery lines upon his skin. Magic coiled in his marrow; with every beat of his heart it pulsed, restless, refusing to let him find peace.Knock. Knock. Knock.Sharp, urgent—too brittle, too early. Elior squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to will the world away, but the knocking persisted, gaining a rhythm that made his bruises throb. He forced himself upright, the blanket slithering to the floor. An echo of pain flared in his side, and faded instantly—as if his flesh had never been torn, as if suffering itself was denied permanence.He crossed the chill room, the floorboards creaking quietly be
blood
Jayce’s apartment was a prison of shadows and silence, where exhaustion and fear tightly coiled together. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, charged with a sense of dread that clung to every cracked corner. His eyes glowed hollow beneath bruised lids, dull yet burning with a tortured fire, as if haunted by fighting demons only he could see. His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, the muscles twitching involuntarily from the weight of restless nights tumbling endlessly into dawns soaked with sweat and dread. Every night, he sat in his worn chair, staring at the cracked wall opposite him — a fractured canvas littered with peeling paint and ghostly stains — convinced it held the whispers of ghosts that trailed his every step.Memories invaded like vultures. The cold barrel of a gun pressed to flesh. The roar of breathing choking in panic. Rico’s blood pooling beneath his own shaking hands. That night, three years ago, had clawed its way into his bones, never loosening its grip.And the
circuit
Chapter Nine: The Sin in the Circuit 1. The Descent The air in the old lab was humid and electric. Mold crawled up the peeling tile, and somewhere water dripped in a rhythm as tense as Jayce’s heartbeat. The battered memory drive in his palm felt volcanic, humming with secrets. He glanced sidelong at Zion, who wiped sweat off his brow and hunched over an ancient console, tirelessly plucking at the broken keys. They had been at it for hours—the sound of fingers on plastic, code on code, silence swelling between them and the world outside. Every now and then, the lights would flicker and Jayce caught his own reflection—a face wracked with exhaustion, eyes too sharp for someone his age. Below ground, it felt as if the world had split away and left them in the marrow of memory itself. Jayce thought of every promise broken: to Pops, to the crew, to Zion. He thought of Maya, her laugh echoing from some gilded room, always ten steps ahead. Grinding his teeth, he waited for answers, the g
rage and doubt
The Warehouse — A Crucible of Rage and Doubt The dilapidated warehouse reeked of rust and long-forgotten sins, with a single flickering bulb barely illuminating the bloodied concrete floor. Rain hammered the tin roof, a cold metronome to Jayce Carter’s trembling fists. His knuckles were raw, shredded from hours of brutal reckoning, red rivulets dripping down like the silent testimony of his self-inflicted torment. Across the room sat Zion, slumped in a heavy chair, wrists bound tight with thick chains carving wounds into his flesh. His face was bruised, swollen, and stitched with dark cuts, yet his silence was deafening—less a sign of guilt and more a stubborn projection of defiance. Nothing Jayce did could draw out more than the shallow rasp of a ragged breath. The tension in the air was suffocating, a choking silence punctuated only by the sharp drip of Jayce’s blood hitting stone. Rage and confusion wrestled inside Jayce’s chest, a storm unleashed and bottled all at once. Diesel
rage and blood
The Warehouse — Rage, Blood, and Unanswered Questions Rain battered the battered roof. The light overhead was one naked bulb, flickering a pale pulse over Jayce’s bloody hands. The warehouse air reeked: sweat, iron, betrayal. Each drip of blood from Jayce’s knuckles hit the cracked floor with its own judgment. Across from him, Zion hung limp in the chair, wrists tied so tight they’d begun to purple, bruised face mottled and swelling, but his mouth stayed stubbornly shut. Jayce’s fury was volcanic—a storm threatening to blind him. He’d wanted to break Zion. He’d wanted to make him beg. But every silence, every half-lidded glare was a new wound in Jayce’s gut. Diesel stomped in, eyes wild. “He played us, Jayce! Fed Grim every damn move. We’ve been rats in a cage!” His voice was raw, alive with betrayal’s poison. Jayce wiped his split knuckles on his shirt, scowled at Zion, then at Diesel. “Then why didn’t he run? He had chances. Why’d he stay?” Diesel spat, face dark as thunder. “Y
loyalty test
Jayce’s Loyalty TestThe abandoned building wore its scars like a war veteran—cracked concrete, rusted pipes dangling overhead, and shadows pooling in every corner like blood spilled long ago. Jayce led Zion inside without a word, his footsteps echoing hollow and hard, the silence between them thicker than any steel.Jayce stopped in a barren room, the detritus of forgotten lives swirling in dust motes caught in the weak shafts of light. At the far end, a man was tied to a chair — bruised, bloodied, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and pleading.Jayce grabbed a cold pistol from his coat, then slid it firmly into Zion’s palm.“You want to be one of us again?” Jayce’s voice was flat, dangerous. “Then kill him.”Zion stared at the man, then at the gun, hesitation bleeding into every breath he took. The captive’s voice cracked, shaky and urgent.“I’m innocent. I swear it. You don’t have to do this.”Jayce’s eyes were ice. “I don’t need a maybe beside me. I need a monster.”The air tighten
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