《#9》


 Prologue: Waking Hell

    The world was a blur of fading lights and muffled sounds. The cold bite of concrete against his back was nothing new¡ªhe''d felt worse. The rhythmic pounding in his skull was a result of too many drinks, and that much he could remember. Everything else, though, was a haze.


    Footsteps echoed, slow at first, then growing nearer. Two men, laughing. The smell of sweat and cheap alcohol hung thick in the air, a stench he could easily ignore. They were talking about something¡ªprobably a robbery, or a deal gone wrong¡ªbut their words didn''t matter. Not yet.


    Then, a boot slammed into his side.


    Kick me again, he thought. Just once more.


    The pain was sharp, cutting through the fog in his head like a knife, but it didn''t bother him. In fact, he welcomed it. There was clarity in pain, something he could hold onto.


    "Get up, you fucking bum," one of the men muttered, their voice slurred. "Think he''s homeless?"


    The second man chuckled. "Yeah, looks like it. But let''s see if he''s got anything worth stealing."


    Number Nine didn''t respond. Didn''t move. Didn''t flinch. He didn''t need to. They would learn soon enough.


    A second kick landed, harder this time. A grunt of amusement from the man who struck him. Number Nine let his body relax, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. The cold of the alley was nothing compared to the fire in his veins.


    As they loomed over him, the sounds of their boots scraping against the concrete, he opened his eyes. Slowly.


    His gaze was empty, devoid of any empathy, any remorse. There was nothing human left in him, not after everything he had done. He was a weapon, and weapons didn''t need to explain themselves.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.Without a word, he moved.


    The first man reached down, his fingers stretching for Number Nine''s jacket, ready to go through his pockets. He never saw it coming.


    In a flash, Number Nine''s hand shot up, gripping the man''s wrist with an iron vice. He yanked, twisted, and the man''s face contorted in pain as he lost control of his own body. The gun pressed to the man''s temple was a mere formality¡ªan inevitable conclusion to a conversation that didn''t require words.


    Number Nine stood, his movements unnervingly calm as he dropped the gun from his side, feeling its weight shift before grabbing it again. In one fluid motion, he slammed the butt of the gun into the man''s nose, the sickening crack of bone loud in the alley.


    The man crumpled to the ground, hands clutching his ruined face.


    The second man froze, staring in shock, his hands shaking as he fumbled for a weapon. Number Nine didn''t even acknowledge him, stepping over the fallen man and advancing on the one still standing.


    In one swift motion, Number Nine grabbed the second man''s phone from his pocket, unlocked it with a practiced swipe, and held it to his own face. The screen lit up, his cold expression mirrored in the glass as the phone beeped in approval.


    He tapped the screen, making a quick call. The phone rang once, twice¡ªthen a voice answered.


    "Molly, pick me up. Now."


    He didn''t wait for a response. The call ended, and the phone fell from his hand, clattering against the cold pavement.


    The silence that followed was deafening. The second man could only watch as Number Nine turned his back, leaving the alley behind him.


    The world might have been burning around him, but for Number Nine, it was just another day in hell.

 Chapter 1 : A Broken Pipe

    The cold rush of night air hit his face as he slid into the back of the Benz. His eyes adjusted to the interior''s dim light, the faint scent of leather and expensive cologne clinging to the seats. Molly was behind the wheel, her eyes glinting in the rearview mirror as she flicked the ignition. She knew better than to ask questions when he returned in this state. She simply nodded, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence. She called him Mr. Nine¡ªalways had. She owed him more than she''d ever admit. After all, he was the one who had plucked her out of the gutter, given her a new path. He never asked about her past, only about her loyalty, and she''d given it to him without hesitation.


    Number Nine stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of yellow as they passed. Molly''s voice broke through the haze.


    "Mr. Nine, someone has recently been asking to book your service."


    He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his expression neutral. "Who?"


    "Elias Wolfe," Molly replied, her tone clipped but calm. "He wants you to fix a broken pipe."


    Number Nine''s brow furrowed for a moment, and then he smirked darkly. "A broken pipe, huh? That''s the kind of call I get these days?"Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    She didn''t reply, keeping her eyes on the road as she maneuvered through the late-night traffic. The streets were empty, save for the occasional car speeding by or the occasional figure huddled in the shadows¡ªanother ghost in this city of misfits.


    "Alright," he said after a moment of silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "Schedule a meeting. Let''s see what this ''broken pipe'' is about."


    Molly gave a brief nod, taking out her phone to start the process. As she did, Number Nine let his mind wander, his thoughts drifting back to the city.


    "Consider it done, Mr. Nine," Molly said, breaking his thoughts. She didn''t look at him, but he could hear the quiet sense of purpose in her voice. It was something she''d learned from him over the years. "I''ll set it up for tomorrow night."


    Number Nine nodded once, a gesture that was both dismissive and final.


    The dim glow of a streetlamp cast shadows on the cracked pavement as Number Nine stepped out of the Benz. The air smelled of rain, mingling with the scent of oil and city grime. The warehouse stood in front of him, looming like a forgotten relic from another time. Molly stayed behind, her hands steady on the wheel, ready to take off at a moment''s notice.


    Number Nine pulled his coat tighter around himself as he approached the building. The faint echo of dripping water inside reached his ears. A fitting sound, he thought, for a meeting about a broken pipe.


    He pushed open the heavy door, the creak reverberating through the empty space. A figure waited in the shadows, his silhouette outlined by the faint light filtering through a broken window.


    "Mr. Nine," the man said, stepping forward. "I''m glad you came."

 Chapter 2 : The Devil鈥檚 Return

    The dim warehouse light flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows on the concrete walls. The man stepped further into the light, revealing a lean figure with sharp features, dressed in a dark overcoat that hung loose over his wiry frame. His name was Luka Vargic, and in the underworld, he was known as The Rat¡ªnot because he snitched, but because he thrived in the city''s sewers, digging up secrets no one else could find.


    Luka''s face was angular, with hollow cheeks and piercing, calculating eyes that darted around the room like he was always one step ahead of everyone else. His hair, a messy tangle of dark strands, looked like it hadn''t seen a comb in days. He carried himself with a nervous energy¡ªrestless, like a man who didn''t trust anyone for too long.


    But Luka wasn''t just some informant. He had survived in this city''s underbelly for over a decade by making himself indispensable to people in power. He knew how to connect dots, how to make problems disappear before they became public, and¡ªmost importantly¡ªhe knew how to survive.


    Despite his jittery demeanor, there was a cunning intelligence in his eyes, and a trace of confidence that came from someone who understood the stakes better than most.


    Number Nine took a step forward, his heavy boots echoing in the empty warehouse. His gaze locked onto Luka with cold intensity.


    "You''re glad I came?" Number Nine''s voice was low and steady, carrying an unmistakable edge of menace. "Since when do you request my presence?"


    Luka raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a crooked grin spreading across his face.


    "I didn''t request," Luka said, his tone measured. "I left the right breadcrumbs. Molly knew you''d follow them."


    Number Nine didn''t blink. His silence stretched long enough to make Luka shift on his feet.


    "What do you want, Luka?"


    Luka dropped his hands, his grin fading into a more serious expression.


    "Someone''s digging into your past."


    Number Nine''s eyes narrowed.


    "And you thought I''d care because...?"


    Luka took a step closer, lowering his voice.


    "Because they''re good at it, Nine. They''re careful. They''re covering their tracks. And they''re asking about jobs you did over a decade ago."


    Number Nine''s jaw tightened. "Who?"


    "I don''t know yet." Luka''s voice softened. "But I''ve got leads. And you know me¡ªI always find the truth."Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Number Nine stared at him for a long moment. Then he gave a single nod.


    "Keep digging. Bring me a name."


    Luka smirked. "Of course."


    Number Nine turned to leave, but Luka''s voice stopped him.


    "One more thing."


    Number Nine paused, glancing over his shoulder.


    "The person asking about you?" Luka said quietly. "They''re not just looking for your name. They''re looking for your ghost jobs¡ªthe ones no one ever knew you did."


    For the first time that night, Number Nine felt something stir.


    "They''re not just looking for Number Nine," Luka added. "They''re looking for who you were before."


    Number Nine''s footsteps echoed as he turned back toward Luka, slow and deliberate. His eyes were cold, calculating.


    "You''ve been quiet for a long time, Luka. Too long," Number Nine said, his voice low. "And now you''re crawling out of your hole with stories about ghosts?"


    Before Luka could respond, Number Nine closed the distance between them in an instant, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him against the warehouse wall. Luka gasped as his back hit the concrete, but the grin never left his face.


    "You think you can play me?" Number Nine hissed, his grip tightening.


    "Nothing ever happens without you knowing everything about it," he growled.


    Luka''s hands instinctively grabbed at Number Nine''s wrist, but he didn''t struggle. Instead, his grin widened.


    "We both know how this ends," Luka rasped, his voice strained but amused. "You won''t kill me, Nine."


    Number Nine pulled his gun from his coat, pressing the cold barrel against Luka''s temple.


    "Maybe I''ve changed," Nine growled.


    Luka chuckled through gritted teeth, his voice barely a whisper.


    "We all know there''s no bullets in that gun."


    For a moment, the two men stood frozen in place, the tension thick in the air. Luka''s grin was smug, confident.


    Then, without warning, Number Nine pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the air.


    The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed through the warehouse, the sound reverberating off the walls. Luka flinched, his grin faltering as he stared wide-eyed at the hole now punched into the ceiling.


    Before he could recover, Number Nine pressed the barrel back to his temple.


    "How about now?" Nine asked, his voice cold and steady.


    Luka blinked, his expression shifting from shock to something else¡ªsomething almost... proud. Slowly, the grin returned to his face, but this time it wasn''t smug. It was satisfied.


    "So that confirms it," Luka said softly, his voice steady despite the gun against his head. "You''re back."


    Number Nine didn''t move the gun for a long moment. His eyes bore into Luka''s. But Luka''s grin remained, unwavering.


    After what felt like an eternity, Nine pulled the gun away and slid it back into his coat.


    "Keep digging," Nine said, his tone final. "And bring me a name."


    Luka straightened his coat, brushing dust from his shoulders.


    "You know I will," Luka replied. He tilted his head, that same crooked grin on his face. "Welcome back, Mr. Nine."


    Without another word, Number Nine turned and walked out of the warehouse, his footsteps echoing in the silence.


    As the warehouse door creaked shut behind him, Luka let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.


    "Goddamn," he whispered to himself. "The devil''s back in town."

 Chapter 3 : Lies in the Silence

    Number Nine slid into the back of the sleek Benz, the leather seats cool beneath him. He leaned back, his eyes momentarily closed as he tried to shake off the tension of the night. After a beat, he spoke quietly, his voice flat. "Molly, let''s go home."


    She didn''t answer right away, the engine humming beneath her. The city lights flickered past as she kept her eyes on the road. Then, without warning, Number Nine whispered, his words laced with something darker. "He fucking lied to me."


    Molly glanced over, brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"


    Number Nine''s tone hardened as he repeated, slower and more deliberate. "He fucking lied to me."


    Her silence lingered for a moment, a thread of understanding beginning to pull at her. "Luka?"


    He nodded, leaning back again, his jaw tight. "I take a couple years off, and this is what happens. People lie to my face."


    Molly didn''t respond, letting the car roll in the quiet tension between them. The drive felt endless, the hum of the engine almost soothing in contrast to the storm swirling in his mind.


    When they finally arrived at his apartment, Number Nine exited the car, walking toward the building without a word. Molly followed, her heels clicking on the pavement behind him.


    Upstairs, inside the apartment, the familiar scent of his space hit him. The minimalist decor. The silence. But what caught his attention was Molly, already moving through the room with an odd sense of purpose. She folded his clothes neatly, preparing the kitchen like she''d been there for hours. When she noticed him, she stopped, as if waiting for some cue.


    "I made food," she said, her voice casual. "But I have to leave. Got a date." Her eyes were steady, a strange mix of defiance and patience.


    Number Nine didn''t respond immediately. He crossed the room slowly, his gaze never leaving her. He was a shadow against the dim light, his movements calculated. When he reached her, he stopped, his presence overwhelming her as he looked down at her with cold, assessing eyes. He didn''t speak, just watched her for a moment¡ªalmost studying the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands rested awkwardly at her sides.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Then, without a word, he stepped closer. His hand rose, fingers brushing against her temple as he brought her head toward him. The motion was slow, deliberate, almost too intimate. When their eyes locked, he kissed her forehead¡ªjust a brief touch of his lips. His voice came next, soft but steady, with a hint of something almost like approval.


    "You have my blessing," he said with a light chuckle, his breath warm against her skin.


    For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Molly stayed perfectly still, her expression unreadable. Then, she gave a small nod, the weight of his words hanging between them. There was no more to say.


    Number Nine''s eyes lingered on Molly for a moment longer, watching the subtle tension leave her shoulders as she absorbed his words. There was an odd finality in his tone, as if he had granted her permission¡ªthough for what, neither of them could say. It was the way he did things: actions spoke louder than words.


    She didn''t need to argue, didn''t need to say anything more. Her voice was steady as she grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "I''ll see myself out," she said, her gaze flicking to him one last time before she turned for the door.


    The sound of her heels clicking on the floor was the only noise that followed her as she left the apartment, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality.


    Number Nine stood still in the silence, his back turned to her as she disappeared down the hallway. The warmth of her presence lingered, but it was fleeting, like smoke vanishing into the air. He turned toward the window, looking out over the city, but his mind was elsewhere¡ªsomewhere far darker than the city lights could reach.


    Minutes passed. The hum of the city outside had become a dull roar, distant and unimportant. He was lost in thought, piecing together fragments of the conversation he''d had with Luka, replaying the lies, the games being played in the shadows. He''d been a part of this world too long to let things slide. It was time to make his move.


    The sudden sound of footsteps in the hallway jolted him from his reverie. His hand instinctively reached for the gun tucked at his waist. The footsteps were quick, too quick. Then a loud bang rang through the hallway, followed by a muffled shout¡ªthen silence.


    Number Nine''s eyes narrowed as he moved swiftly toward the door. The familiar weight of tension hung in the air as he pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any further signs of movement. His instincts were sharp, honed over years of danger, deceit, and violence. Whoever was out there wasn''t here to play.

 Chapter 4 : The Cold Veil

    Molly never had the luxury of time. She was born in a place where warmth was a commodity few could afford¡ªa quiet town buried somewhere in the frozen north of Russia. Her real name was Anastasia Morozova, but that name had died the moment she stepped out of her childhood home. It was a relic of a past she had no use for.


    Her parents were simple people¡ªhardworking, scraping by. But she had learned early that survival demanded more than just labor. It demanded cunning, control, and a willingness to trade away pieces of yourself until you barely recognized what was left. Moscow had called to her like a whispered promise, though she knew better than to believe in salvation. She didn''t arrive by choice, but she stayed out of necessity.


    By sixteen, she had transformed. The girl named Anastasia was gone. Molly, sharp and cold, had taken her place. She learned quickly how the world worked¡ªhow to smile just enough, speak just little enough, and never, ever give a man the satisfaction of thinking he owned her. She moved through that underworld with precision, slipping between money, men, and power, careful never to be caught in the machinery that chewed up women like her and spat them out.


    Until the night he came.


    The private room had been filled with low murmurs and sharp laughter, the clinking of glasses cutting through the smoky air. Molly had seen these types before¡ªmen who thought their money made them untouchable. She''d been sitting on the lap of one, pretending to listen, waiting for the night to end. The girls around her did the same. None of them wanted to be here, but that didn''t matter. The job wasn''t about want.


    Then the door exploded off its hinges.


    She flinched¡ªjust a little¡ªbut the moment she turned to look, her breath stilled.


    The man in the doorway was not like the others.


    Tall. Composed. Cold in a way that went deeper than expression. His presence sucked the air from the room. In one fluid motion, he pulled a gun from his jacket. He didn''t hesitate. Didn''t announce himself. The first shot rang out, and before the men even had time to react, he was already moving.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The room descended into chaos¡ªscreams, shattered glasses, bodies hitting the floor. The other women ran. Some bolted for the door. Others crawled under tables. It was instinct. But Molly didn''t move.


    She couldn''t.


    She just watched.


    The men never stood a chance. He didn''t waste bullets. Every shot was precise¡ªsilent efficiency. When the last body hit the floor, the only sound left was the faint ringing in her ears.


    And then, he did something that didn''t make sense.


    He crouched beside one of the bodies, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a marker.


    Slow. Methodical. He clicked the cap off and pressed the tip to the man''s forehead. The number 9 took shape, ink sinking into cooling skin.


    Then, he laughed.


    Not a real laugh. Not something meant to be heard. It was quiet, under his breath, like an inside joke no one else was in on.


    Molly should have run. She should have crawled for the exit, should have screamed, should have felt something. But all she did was watch.


    He stood. Finally noticed her. Their eyes met. Held.


    For a second, she thought he might kill her. Just raise the gun and pull the trigger.


    Instead, he reached out¡ªnot for the weapon, but for her.


    Fingers brushed against a strand of her hair¡ªthe dyed streak that stood out under the dim light. He twirled it between his fingers like it amused him, lips curving slightly.


    "You''re still here," he murmured.


    Not a question. A statement.


    Molly didn''t flinch. Didn''t blink.


    She just let him touch her hair.


    A beat passed. Then another.


    Finally, he let go. He turned and walked toward the door, stepping over bodies like they were nothing.


    The moment the door clicked shut, she exhaled, realizing she hadn''t even noticed she was holding her breath.


    She was alone.


    With the dead.


    And yet, for the first time in her life¡ªshe didn''t feel alone at all.


    ?


    Now.


    Blood dripped onto the floor.


    Molly stumbled down the hallway, hands pressed to the wound, trying to breathe, trying to move. Trying to survive.


    She didn''t remember how she got here. The gunshot had been loud. Sudden. One moment, she was leaving. The next¡ªpain.


    Somewhere behind her, she heard footsteps. Steady. Unrushed.


    A shadow stretched against the wall. Coming closer.


    She tried to turn the corner, tried to push forward, but her vision blurred. The walls felt farther away.


    The last thing she saw before everything went black¡ª


    Was the figure stepping out of the shadows.

 Chapter 5 : The Cost of Information

    Number Nine pressed his ear to the door.


    Six men.


    Boots scuffing against the floor. The sharp clicks of weapons being checked. They weren''t panicked. They weren''t running. They knew he had heard them and were waiting for him to make a move.


    Molly had been shot when she tried to escape. She hadn''t stayed down. Hadn''t given up. The second she saw them, she panicked. And for that, they shot her.


    That was a mistake.


    His jaw tightened¡ªnot in anger. Anger was useless. It clouded judgment. This was something else. A quiet, precise calculation. He wasn''t rattled. He never was.


    But something gnawed at him, a suspicion taking root the moment he recognized the cadence of their movements. These weren''t just hired guns. This wasn''t a random hit. This was planned. Coordinated. Someone had been waiting for him.


    Luka.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    That fucking rat.


    Of all the people who could''ve sold him out, Luka made the most sense. Number Nine had built his fair share of enemies over the years, but Luka? He was a survivor¡ªa snake slithering between allegiances, selling information to the highest bidder. The thought of Luka betraying him wasn''t surprising. It was expected.


    And that meant one thing.


    They couldn''t risk me coming back.


    They moved fast. Too fast. Whoever put this together had deep pockets and an even deeper fear of what would happen if he was back in the game. Number Nine almost chuckled.


    Impressive.


    But something still didn''t add up.


    There weren''t just six men.


    No.


    The six outside were the first wave. The expendable ones. They were meant to draw his attention, force him into a reaction. But the real players? The ones waiting in the shadows? They were still out there.


    This wasn''t just a hit.


    It was an execution.


    His eyes narrowed, listening. The air carried more than just the weight of an ambush¡ªit carried patience. Someone out there was watching. Tracking his every move. They had been waiting for him to come out of retirement. And the moment he did, they moved.


    Too clean. Too well-organized.


    A soft laugh escaped his lips, low and dark.


    Luka really thought this would be enough.


    He shook his head. It was almost flattering, the speed at which they tried to erase him. Almost.


    A smile crept onto his lips.


    Let''s see who''s really hunting who.

 Chapter 6 : No Exit

    Number Nine kept his ear to the door, listening.


    The man on the right shifted¡ªjust slightly, a subtle crouch. His joints cracked.


    Rookie mistake.


    The others stayed disciplined. Trained. Maybe ex-military, maybe private contractors. Didn''t matter. They weren''t waiting for him to come out. They were waiting to force him out.


    A sudden clink¡ªmetal on wood.


    Flashbang.


    Nine''s instincts took over. He raised his pistol, pressing the barrel tight against his face to shield his eyes.


    Boom.


    The world erupted in white heat, sound collapsing into a deafening whine. The walls warped, the door rattled, but he was already moving.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    They expected him blind, stunned, off-balance. They''d pour in right after, weapons drawn, aiming for center mass.


    Wrong move.


    The door burst open. The first man lunged in. Nine snapped forward, hurling his pistol straight into the guy''s face¡ªcrack¡ªbone crunched, head snapped back. The man staggered.


    Nine caught the pistol mid-air and fired.


    A bullet buried itself in the man''s forehead before he even hit the ground.


    The second man was already raising his rifle. Nine stepped in, close¡ªtoo close for the guy to aim. A shove sent the rifle sideways, the man struggling for control. Too slow.


    Nine''s gun was already under his chin. One shot. A muffled pop. The body dropped.


    Gunfire erupted from the hallway. Nine ducked left, a bullet tearing through the drywall where his head had been.


    The third guy hesitated¡ªjust for a second. That was enough.


    Nine threw the pistol again¡ªstraight into his throat this time. The man gagged, staggering. Nine stepped in, caught the pistol mid-drop, fired once.


    Three down.


    The other three scrambled back into the hallway, regrouping. One yelled into his radio.


    Calling for backup.


    Nine exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The fun was just getting started.


    He could already hear movement beyond the first wave. The real players were mobilizing.


    This wasn''t just about taking him out.


    This was about sending a message.


    Too bad. I don''t take messages.


    Nine stepped over the bodies, reloading as he moved.


    Time to send one back.

 Chapter 7 : Thinning the Herd

    Number Nine moved fast.


    His boots barely made a sound as he surged into the hallway, gun leveled. The remaining three had regrouped further down, using the walls as cover. Professionals. They weren¡¯t panicked¡ªyet. That would change soon.


    The first of them leaned out to fire. Nine was already ahead of him. One shot, center mass. The impact folded the man in half, his rifle clattering to the ground. The hallway was momentarily deafened by the sound of the gunshot, but it was short-lived. There was no immediate response from the building¡ªno shouts, no panic, no doors slamming shut. Odd. Too quiet.


    The second dropped low, trying to spray suppression fire. Nine ducked right, pressing himself into a doorway as bullets tore through the air where he¡¯d just been. Too slow.


    Nine stepped out, snapping his wrist forward. A knife left his fingers, spinning end over end. It caught the man in the throat, cutting off his breath with a gurgling gasp. Blood pooled quickly around him, his body collapsing to the floor in a heap.


    One left.


    The last man, cornered and smart, didn¡¯t hesitate. He darted back, sprinting deeper into the building. Nine knew it was coming. A last-ditch attempt to escape. To regroup. But escape wasn¡¯t an option.


    Nine followed, moving like a shadow. His steps were light, but his mind was sharp, sensing everything. The floor creaked. The faintest shift in the air. The target was fast, but Nine was faster. He heard the man¡¯s breath hitch just ahead¡ªwaiting, setting up an ambush.


    Not today.


    Nine moved first. He pivoted, throwing his body into a fluid roll, clearing the doorway just as the man turned, rifle raised to fire. The shot missed, the air splitting with the thunderous report, but Nine was already on him. A knee to the gut dropped the man to the floor with a wheeze. A shot rang out, and the target¡¯s face went slack, blood spraying as the bullet tore through his skull.


    Silence.


    Nine stood, breathing evenly, his pulse steady. It was over.


    But something didn¡¯t sit right.


    The building was still. Too still. Normally, in a place like this, he¡¯d expect to hear the sounds of people panicking, running for cover, shouting for help. The walls were too quiet. Even the faint hum of the elevator was absent. There was no distant murmur of television sets or the soft shuffle of feet through hallways.


    No civilians.


    Nothing.


    Nine¡¯s instincts screamed at him. He moved toward the window and peered through the blinds. The sky had darkened, but what caught his eye wasn¡¯t the city lights or the looming clouds¡ªit was the silhouette of a helicopter approaching. The familiar hum of rotors beat in the air, the sharp metallic glint of the chopper cutting through the blackened sky.


    This wasn¡¯t just a squad of hired guns. No. This was something bigger. The side door of the helicopter slid open mid-flight, and a figure stood at the edge, their silhouette clear against the backdrop of the city.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Nine¡¯s grip on his gun tightened. These weren¡¯t just random mercenaries. This was an extraction team sent for him.


    They weren¡¯t here to negotiate. They were here to eliminate.


    And the fact that there was no sound of other people running or evacuating from the building? That didn¡¯t sit well. This operation wasn¡¯t just a raid¡ªit was controlled, planned. They¡¯d sealed the building, making sure no one could alert the authorities. No civilians had fled, no one had tried to get away.


    The building was locked down.


    Nine smirked. They thought they had him cornered. But they were about to find out just how wrong they were.


    He moved swiftly to the stairwell, taking two steps at a time. He wasn¡¯t going to stay on this floor. He needed a better vantage point, a way to outmaneuver them. He could hear the sounds of boots echoing in the stairwell below, but they weren¡¯t moving fast enough.


    When he reached the rooftop, he wasted no time. He kicked the door open, the harsh wind hitting him immediately. The city sprawled beneath him, the lights flickering in the distance. But he didn¡¯t have time to admire the view.


    He ran toward the edge, calculating the distance. A quick glance confirmed what he already knew¡ªthe next building was too far to simply leap across.


    No matter.


    Without hesitation, Nine sprinted at full speed, pushing himself toward the edge. In an instant, he launched into the air. His heart hammered in his chest, but his body was a machine, honed for moments like these. He hit the next rooftop with a hard thud, rolling to absorb the impact. The pain in his ribs flared, but he ignored it. The real fight was only just beginning.


    Gunfire erupted behind him. The squad had followed, but they were trailing too far. Nine didn¡¯t stop, weaving through the shadows, using the skeletal steel structures of the city as cover. The sound of footsteps grew louder. They were closing in, but they weren¡¯t fast enough.


    He needed an opening.


    Ahead, he saw it¡ªa construction site, filled with unfinished steel beams and cables stretching across the skyline. Perfect.


    Nine¡¯s eyes narrowed as he sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop. He grabbed a dangling cable mid-stride, using its momentum to swing across the gap. His boots barely touched the framework before he was already moving, using the beams for cover, his eyes flicking back toward the rooftop he¡¯d just left.


    The squad was on him, closing in, trying to box him in from all sides. They were faster than he¡¯d anticipated.


    He didn¡¯t have time to think. He just moved.


    A flash of metal¡ªa gun barrel¡ªwhizzed past his head, narrowly missing. He ducked, then slid beneath one of the beams, taking cover. There was a burst of gunfire from another direction¡ªhe wasn¡¯t alone. They were methodically closing in from every angle.


    His heart raced. He couldn¡¯t let them surround him. One of them tried to get the drop on him, moving up from his right. Nine shot first, the bullet slamming into the operative¡¯s shoulder, sending him sprawling.


    Another operative was on the far side, trying to maintain pressure. Nine rolled behind a steel beam and popped back up in one fluid motion, taking him down with a quick shot to the chest.


    There were only two left.


    Nine kept moving, flowing like water between beams and cables, always one step ahead. The last two operatives moved closer, communicating silently, setting up a perfect crossfire. They thought they had him cornered.


    But Nine was already there.


    He emerged from the shadows with one final, brutal sprint. The first operative was taken out with a shot straight through the throat. The second barely had time to react before Nine was on him¡ªgrabbing him by the wrist, twisting his arm behind his back, and snapping it with a single, vicious motion.


    The operative¡¯s gun fell to the steel floor.


    Nine didn¡¯t hesitate. One last shot.


    The man¡¯s body crumpled to the ground.


    The city stood still. There were no more sounds of gunfire. No more footsteps. The squad was dealt with.


    But something felt wrong about this. No civilians. No alarms. They¡¯d been waiting for him. But why? And who else was behind it all?


    Tonight wasn¡¯t about answers. It was about survival.


    And Nine had just sent a message.


    He wasn¡¯t going anywhere.

 Chapter 8 : The Reckoning

    Elias Wolfe, a businessman deeply connected to the underground, sat in the corner booth, the low hum of conversation filling the background, mingling with the clink of silverware and glasses. The restaurant was dimly lit, an intimate place with red velvet chairs and dark mahogany walls, offering an air of quiet elegance. His fingers drummed absently on the polished table, eyes darting from the menu to the clock on the wall. The man who had set this meeting had yet to show up.


    He was a businessman¡ªa man who thrived in the underworld, who made deals in the shadows and didn¡¯t mind getting his hands dirty. But there was one thing he couldn¡¯t stand¡ªuncertainty. That¡¯s why he¡¯d set up this meeting. He¡¯d heard the rumors, of course. The whispers that Number Nine had retired, gone into hiding. But in this world, the retired don¡¯t stay that way for long. And when the monsters crave more, they don¡¯t just stay in their cage.


    The waiter arrived, holding a notepad in his hand.


    ¡°What can I get you, sir?¡± the waiter asked, his tone courteous but a little too eager. Perhaps he was new.


    Elias looked up, his lips curling into a thin smile. ¡°Nothing for now,¡± he replied smoothly, settling back into his seat. ¡°I¡¯m waiting for someone.¡±


    The waiter nodded and turned to leave, but then, as if on cue, he paused. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the waiter turned back toward the table and slid into the booth across from Elias, sitting down with a casual ease that didn¡¯t belong in a fine restaurant.


    Elias¡¯ eyes narrowed. He knew instantly something was wrong. The man who had just been a waiter a moment ago now seemed far too composed, his posture too relaxed. It clicked too fast¡ªthis wasn¡¯t a mistake, and it wasn¡¯t a coincidence.


    Before Elias could react, the waiter¡¯s hand moved under the table, pulling something from beneath his coat. A gun.


    Elias froze, his heart skipping a beat. He knew this feeling¡ªthe sudden surge of danger, the shift in the air. He didn¡¯t panic, though. It was a reflex, a survival instinct honed over the years.


    The man across from him, cool and unruffled, set the gun on the table with deliberate slowness, the barrel pointing directly at Elias¡¯ chest.


    ¡°I started thinking,¡± Number Nine said, his voice calm, low, as though they were discussing the weather. He leaned back slightly, observing Elias with those cold, piercing eyes. ¡°I figured something out. It was you, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    Elias'' eyes widened, a momentary flash of disbelief crossing his face before he masked it. He knew what this was about. Number Nine, the infamous enforcer, the one no one could touch, the ghost who slipped through every trap. He¡¯d survived too many assassination attempts, but now it seemed the tables had turned.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been busy, Nine,¡± Elias said, leaning forward, trying to maintain some semblance of control. His hand twitched, instinctively ready to reach for the gun hidden under his jacket. But he stopped himself. The man in front of him wasn¡¯t just any ordinary threat.


    ¡°Thought you could finish what you started, huh?¡± Number Nine continued, eyes cold, unblinking. ¡°Set up this meeting in case I survived. Thought you¡¯d finish the job yourself if you got the chance.¡±


    Elias, ever the manipulator, smiled, though it was thin and lacking its usual confidence. ¡°You think I¡¯m behind the hit?¡± His voice was soft, almost amused, as if he couldn¡¯t believe Nine had figured it out. ¡°You¡¯ve got me all wrong.¡±


    But Number Nine wasn¡¯t fooled. His lips barely twitched upward, his gaze unwavering.


    ¡°I know it was you,¡± Number Nine said, his tone like a quiet verdict. ¡°You don¡¯t take risks unless you¡¯re sure. You had to know someone would survive, but you didn¡¯t care. You set the trap. You made sure that if I lived, I¡¯d walk right into your hands.¡±


    Elias held his ground, even as the gravity of the situation pressed down on him. ¡°You¡¯re paranoid. I¡¯m not the one who¡ª¡±


    Number Nine leaned forward, his voice cutting through Elias¡¯ words like a blade. ¡°Cut the crap, Wolfe. You ordered the hit on me. Not just to eliminate me, but because you knew I¡¯d survive. You¡¯re not smart enough to think I wouldn¡¯t. So you set up a meeting to finish the job. Or maybe you just wanted to watch it all unfold.¡±


    Elias¡¯ expression faltered for a split second before he regained his composure. The realization hit him like a freight train¡ªthis wasn¡¯t just a confrontation. This was the reckoning. Number Nine knew. It wasn¡¯t just about a hit anymore. It was personal.


    But Elias wasn¡¯t going to let it go that easily. He couldn¡¯t. Not yet. ¡°And if I did?¡± he said, forcing a casualness he didn¡¯t feel. ¡°What are you going to do, Nine? Kill me here? In a restaurant full of witnesses?¡±


    Number Nine didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I¡¯ll do whatever it takes. The game¡¯s over, Elias. You¡¯ve been playing with fire, and now it¡¯s burning you alive.¡±


    A brief silence settled between them, thick with tension. The other diners around them seemed unaware of the looming danger, lost in their own worlds. But Number Nine and Elias knew¡ªthis was the end of the line.


    For a moment, the world outside the booth seemed to slow. Elias could feel the weight of Number Nine¡¯s stare. The gun on the table was a silent promise of death. His heart hammered in his chest, but he didn¡¯t let it show. He was used to being the one in control, the one pulling the strings. But now? Now the strings were in Nine¡¯s hands.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°You¡¯re too smart for your own good,¡± Elias finally said, trying to buy time. His eyes flickered toward the door, calculating the distance, mentally mapping out the escape. ¡°But you¡¯re not the only one who plays the long game.¡±


    Number Nine¡¯s lip curled into a faint smile. ¡°I don¡¯t play games, Wolfe. I win them.¡±


    Elias shifted in his seat, but Number Nine¡¯s eyes never left him. The silence grew deafening, heavy with the knowledge that this conversation was nearing its conclusion.


    ¡°I don¡¯t give second chances, and you of all people should know that,¡± Number Nine replied, his voice dangerously quiet. He tilted his head. ¡°And worse of it all, you killed my fucking assistant. Not only did you try to kill me, now I¡¯ve got to find a new one.¡± He sighed dramatically, as if the inconvenience of it all was too much to bear. ¡°You took my eyes.¡±


    Elias stiffened, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He tried to keep his composure, but the man before him¡ªthis ghost, this legend¡ªwas all too real. Number Nine had a reputation that preceded him. Stories of brutality. Of precision. Of things done in the shadows that no one could even fathom.


    He let the silence hang for a moment, then began to speak again, his voice taking on a mocking tone as he leaned closer to the table.


    ¡°You want to know why I¡¯m called Number Nine?¡± he asked, his gaze never leaving Elias. ¡°It¡¯s not because of some cold-blooded killer nickname. Nope, it¡¯s because I killed my older sister when I was nine. Does that surprise you, Elias? Does it shock you?¡±


    Elias¡¯ eyes widened, and for just a second, he was taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. His mind raced, trying to process what he¡¯d just heard, but before he could form a response, Number Nine let out a loud, guttural laugh.


    ¡°I¡¯m joking,¡± he said, his voice filled with amusement as he pulled back. ¡°You should see your face. You actually thought I was serious.¡± He shook his head. ¡°No, Elias. The truth is, I never had a sister. I never had a family. I was born into this life. And from the moment I could walk, I knew what I was. A predator.¡±


    Elias exhaled, trying to steady his nerves, but his voice wavered when he spoke again. ¡°What do you want from me?¡±


    For a moment, the two men just stared at each other across the table. The air was thick with tension, with unspoken threats. Number Nine didn¡¯t seem to be in any rush to end the conversation, taking his time to savor the fear that was slowly creeping into Elias.


    ¡°Consider this your warning,¡± Number Nine said finally, standing up and placing his gun back inside his jacket.


    Elias¡¯ hands clenched into fists, his mind working fast. He knew this wasn¡¯t a negotiation. Number Nine was a storm, and no amount of words or deals could stop it. Elias might¡¯ve been powerful in his own right, but Number Nine wasn¡¯t just a man¡ªhe was a force of nature. And in this game, Elias had just realized he was outmatched.


    As Number Nine turned and walked toward the door, Elias Wolfe sat back in his seat, staring at the empty space where the man had just been. His heart still pounded in his chest, but he couldn¡¯t ignore the sinking feeling that he¡¯d made a fatal mistake.


    Number Nine turned to leave, his steps slow and deliberate as he made his way toward the door. He had already made his point, and Elias Wolfe was left to stew in the aftermath, trying to steady his breath, trying to regain control. But just as his hand reached the door handle, Number Nine stopped.


    He turned back, his gaze locking with Elias¡¯s.


    ¡°I almost forgot,¡± Number Nine said, his voice cool. ¡°I need to take something from you.¡±


    Elias furrowed his brow, a knot forming in his stomach. He stood up slowly, instinctively reaching for the weapon under his jacket. ¡°You can have anything,¡± he said, trying to keep his voice steady. ¡°Money, influence¡ªwhatever you want. I can make it happen.¡±


    Number Nine didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I have money.¡± His tone was flat, devoid of any emotion. ¡°I don¡¯t need yours.¡±


    He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. He raised a finger and pointed directly at Elias¡¯s face.


    ¡°That¡¯s what I want.¡±


    Elias froze, his mouth dry. He knew the look in Number Nine¡¯s eyes¡ªit wasn¡¯t a request. It was an order. And he could feel the weight of it.


    For a moment, Elias let out a nervous laugh, trying to mask the growing dread. ¡°What are you¡ª¡±


    Number Nine¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. His face was as cold as stone, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.


    ¡°Give me your eye.¡±


    Elias¡¯s heart skipped a beat. The chill in Number Nine¡¯s voice, the raw demand¡ªit was too real. And for the first time in the conversation, Elias felt the full weight of his mistake.


    ¡°No... no,¡± Elias stammered, stepping back, his mind racing. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.¡±


    Number Nine¡¯s gaze never wavered, and the silence between them thickened, suffocating. The only sound was Elias¡¯s own breath, shallow and rapid, as he tried to grasp the reality of the situation.


    Number Nine took a step forward.


    Elias¡¯s stomach churned as he tried to make sense of what was happening. He reached up instinctively to protect his face, his fingers trembling.


    ¡°I¡ªI can¡¯t¡­¡± Elias whispered, his mind fighting against the inevitable. He¡¯d never imagined this. Never thought it would come to this.


    Number Nine¡¯s eyes gleamed with a detached cruelty. ¡°You took something from me. Now, I¡¯m taking something from you.¡±


    There was no room for negotiation. No room for escape.


    Elias¡¯s breath came in ragged gasps. He reached up with shaking hands, but his fingers wouldn¡¯t touch his eye. Not out of defiance, but because he knew he couldn¡¯t stop it. He could see it in Number Nine¡¯s eyes: the unflinching certainty, the coldness, the emptiness.


    For a long moment, there was only silence. And then, with a final, resigned breath, Elias slowly lowered his hand, his eyes locked on Number Nine''s.


    ¡°Do it,¡± Elias muttered. The words felt like acid on his tongue. ¡°If you¡¯re going to do it... just do it.¡±


    Number Nine stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Elias didn¡¯t flinch. There was no point in resisting.


    And as Number Nine gripped his face, Elias Wolfe knew that he would never be the same.


    Number Nine stepped closer, his movements smooth and fluid, as if he had all the time in the world. Elias''s breath quickened as he saw the glint of something sharp in Number Nine''s hand¡ªa simple, ordinary fork.


    Before Elias could react, Number Nine drove it into his left eye with a sickening crunch.


    The world went white-hot with pain. Elias screamed, a sound born of terror and agony, his hand instinctively reaching for his face, trying to claw the fork out. But Number Nine twisted the utensil, gouging deeper, and Elias¡¯s scream turned into a garbled, guttural cry.


    It was a cold, brutal punishment, something far worse than anything Elias had imagined. His body jerked with the force of the twisting, his vision blurring as he fought to comprehend the reality of his own suffering.


    ¡°Please!¡± Elias managed to choke out, blood streaming down his face. ¡°You¡ªyou can have anything... just¡ª¡±


    The door to the restaurant slammed open.


    A pair of security guards rushed in, their weapons drawn, ready to deal with any threat. But by the time they entered, the room was empty. Number Nine had already disappeared into the shadows, vanishing as silently as he had come.


    Elias¡¯s screams filled the air, but no one could stop it now.

 Chapter 9 : The Price of Loyalty

    The wind carried the scent of freshly turned earth, cold and unforgiving. Number Nine stood at the edge of the grave, eyes fixed on the casket as it was lowered into the ground. The small crowd gathered in a loose circle, each face an unreadable mask¡ªsome fighting back tears, others resigned to the inevitable. But Nine didn¡¯t care. Not about their grief, not about the hollow words of a priest. He was here for one reason: Molly had been loyal, and that was worth something.


    His gaze flicked briefly to the woman beside him. She wasn¡¯t like Molly, but she didn¡¯t have to be. She¡¯d been chosen. She was his new assistant. Number Nine had made it clear to Molly long ago that she needed to find a replacement. The world wasn¡¯t kind to those in his line of work, and Molly knew the risks. In the end, her death wasn¡¯t a surprise. But the new assistant? She was a variable.


    Molly had prepared everything¡ªleft behind files, instructions, and enough information to ensure the transition was seamless. The girl standing next to him had been briefed on every single detail of Molly¡¯s operations: the laundering schemes tied to various clubs in the city, the extensive network of prostitutes who served as his eyes and ears on the street, the deals and contacts that kept their operations running smoothly. She¡¯d read the files. She knew the territories, the players, and the stakes. She¡¯d been made aware of every contingency. Molly¡¯s death wasn¡¯t a setback. It was just the price of doing business.


    "How do you feel?" The assistant¡¯s voice was quiet, hesitant¡ªalmost as if she was testing the waters.


    Number Nine didn¡¯t look at her, his focus still on the grave. "I don¡¯t feel anything."


    The words hung in the air for a moment before she spoke again. "Do you ever mourn anyone?"


    A brief, cold smile flickered across his face. "I mourn when it¡¯s necessary. But not today."


    Her silence spoke volumes. She hadn¡¯t fully grasped it yet. She was younger, still new to the cruel reality of this world. Unlike Molly, she wasn¡¯t accustomed to the weight of loss or the grim shadow of Number Nine. He¡¯d already briefed her on her duties: keep her eyes open, stay sharp, and learn quickly. The rest was irrelevant.


    The priest finished his eulogy, and the small crowd began to disperse, most walking away with their heads bowed, lost in thought. Number Nine stayed where he was, his hands clasped behind his back. He didn¡¯t need to say anything. Molly¡¯s legacy was already set, and she would be remembered, even if it was only by those who mattered.


    The assistant shuffled slightly, glancing nervously at the others before speaking again. "Are you sure we should leave her like this? Alone?"


    Number Nine turned his head slowly, meeting her eyes for the first time. His expression was unreadable, cold as always. "Alone? She¡¯s dead. And in this business, you don¡¯t get to cling to sentiments. You either survive, or you don¡¯t."


    She nodded, though he could tell the words didn¡¯t sit well with her. She didn¡¯t get it yet. But she would. Over time, she¡¯d understand that there was no room for weakness.


    As the last of the mourners filtered away, the assistant stepped closer, her gaze still lingering on the freshly buried grave. "I¡­ I don¡¯t understand. Why hire me if you don¡¯t need anyone? Why bother replacing Molly if you¡¯re so cold about it?"Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Number Nine¡¯s gaze flickered to the grave once more, then back to her. His voice was lower now, almost a whisper. "Because in this world, everyone needs someone. Even me."


    The assistant didn''t speak, but the hesitation in her eyes showed she wasn¡¯t convinced. Yet.


    Number Nine turned, the sharp click of his boots breaking the silence. He started walking away, heading toward the black SUV parked at the edge of the cemetery. The assistant followed, falling into step behind him. She hadn¡¯t earned the right to walk beside him yet. Not in his eyes.


    As they reached the car, she finally spoke. "What now?"


    Nine didn¡¯t break his stride. "We move forward. There¡¯s work to do."


    The assistant glanced back at the grave one last time before following him into the vehicle. The door slammed shut behind her. There was no time for reflection, no room for emotions. Molly was gone, and with her, the past had been buried. The future, however, was waiting for them both.


    As Nine slid into the passenger seat, the assistant joined him in the back. The silence lingered until she asked again, her voice more tentative this time. "Are you sure I¡¯m ready for all of this? Everything that comes with... being your assistant?"


    Number Nine''s eyes flickered toward her in the rearview mirror. He didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up and touched his collar thoughtfully.


    "Your hair," he said suddenly. "I want you to add some color to it. Maybe a dark red. Or violet."


    The assistant blinked, caught off guard. "What? Why?"


    Number Nine¡¯s voice was devoid of emotion, his eyes still fixed on the road ahead. "I like it that way."


    She hesitated, then glanced at herself in the window''s reflection. It was an odd request. But she didn¡¯t ask further. "Alright," she replied, nodding. She had to follow his orders if she wanted to prove she was capable.


    Nine didn¡¯t look at her, but his voice was firm. "Molly was in charge of everything. The clubs. The laundering. The women. The network. She was the one who kept it all running while I¡­ handled other things. She made sure the information flowed. She ensured there were no loose ends."


    He paused, eyes narrowing as he thought of her.


    "Molly understood loyalty. She knew when to be ruthless, when to play the game, and when to leave no witnesses. You¡¯ll learn that soon enough. But first, you have to follow the rules. All of them."


    She nodded quickly, her mind already moving to the next task. "I¡¯ve read everything. The files you left, all of Molly¡¯s reports. I¡¯m ready."


    Number Nine glanced at her again, as if seeing her for the first time. "What¡¯s your name?"


    The assistant hesitated for only a moment. "Ren."


    She studied his face, searching for a reaction, but his expression remained unreadable. Then, with a smirk, she added, "Should I change that too?"


    Nine raised an eyebrow.


    "You asked me to change my hair," she continued, tilting her head slightly. "Figured maybe you''d want a new name for me too."


    For a second, there was silence. Then, to her utter shock, Number Nine let out a laugh¡ªloud, unguarded, and real. The sound was so unexpected that she just stared, caught between confusion and curiosity.


    "No," he said finally, still chuckling as he shook his head. "Keep it."


    The moment passed quickly, his expression smoothing back into its usual cool indifference, but the laughter lingered in the air between them. Ren filed it away, a small piece of something human buried beneath the reputation of Number Nine.


    And just like that, the car disappeared into the night, carrying them toward a future neither of them could predict.

 Chapter 10 : House Rules

    The drive to the club was silent, save for the low hum of the engine. Ren sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow. Beside her, Number Nine¡¯s presence was steady¡ªcalm, unreadable, and as cold as ever.


    "This club," Nine finally spoke, his voice slicing through the silence, "is one of our more important assets. A meeting ground, a neutral zone for business. No fights, no weapons, no trouble. People pay good money for that guarantee."


    Ren nodded. "And if someone breaks the rules?"


    Nine glanced at her, something unreadable in his gaze. "Then I remind them why they shouldn¡¯t."


    The black SUV pulled up outside a sleek, upscale building with a dark red awning. Above the entrance, a neon sign flickered¡ªThe Velvet Room. A broad-shouldered bouncer in a tailored suit stepped aside as Nine and Ren approached. No words were exchanged, just a silent nod before they entered.


    Inside, the club pulsed with the rhythmic thrum of music, low conversations, and the soft clink of glasses. Velvet drapes lined the walls, casting deep shadows where figures leaned in for whispered deals. A bar stretched along one side, manned by bartenders who moved with effortless precision. Private booths were tucked away in the corners, hidden behind sheer curtains. The air was thick with perfume, smoke, and something else¡ªpower.


    Nine moved through the room like he owned it. Because he did.


    Ren followed closely, keeping her posture straight, her eyes scanning the room as he had taught her. He was testing her, seeing what she noticed, how she reacted.


    "Who¡¯s in control here?" Nine asked quietly, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.


    She didn¡¯t answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze wander. The bartender? No¡ªhe was too focused on his work. The security at the door? They held power, but only to a point. The real control belonged to those who weren¡¯t trying to show it.


    Her eyes landed on a booth near the back, where a man in a charcoal suit sat with two others. He wasn¡¯t the biggest, nor the loudest, but the way people approached him¡ªsubtle nods, deferential glances¡ªtold her everything she needed to know.


    "That guy. Back corner. He¡¯s the one pulling the strings."


    Nine smirked. "Not bad."


    Before she could feel any satisfaction, he added, "But you¡¯re only half right. He runs the money here, but the real power?" His eyes flicked to the bar.


    Ren followed his gaze, watching as a woman with striking silver hair moved effortlessly between patrons. She leaned in when she spoke, her expression warm, her body language inviting. People wanted to talk to her. They wanted her approval.


    "The bartender?" Ren asked, skeptical.


    "Not just a bartender," Nine corrected. "She controls the flow of information. What¡¯s said, what¡¯s heard, and what makes it back to me. If something happens here, she knows first."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Ren absorbed that, her respect for the club¡¯s setup growing. This wasn¡¯t just a place for business¡ªit was a carefully crafted web of influence.


    Before she could respond, movement near the entrance caught her attention. A group of men had just walked in. Their suits were sharp, their presence confident, but something was off. They weren¡¯t regulars. They didn¡¯t belong.


    Nine noticed, too. His voice was quiet but firm. "Watch carefully. You¡¯re about to see what happens when someone breaks the rules."


    Ren tensed as the group strode further inside, their presence an immediate disruption to the club¡¯s carefully maintained atmosphere. They moved like they owned the place¡ªarrogant, deliberate, dangerous.


    Their leader, a tall man with slicked-back blond hair and a scar along his jaw, scanned the room before locking eyes with the man in the charcoal suit.


    Nine barely moved, but Ren caught the subtle shift in his posture¡ªhe was ready.


    "Who are they?" she asked under her breath.


    "Outsiders," Nine murmured. "And they¡¯re about to make a mistake."


    The blond man and his crew reached the back booth, where the club¡¯s financial operator sat. One of them leaned down, speaking low enough that Ren couldn¡¯t hear, but the body language was clear¡ªaggression. A deal had gone bad somewhere, and they weren¡¯t here to talk it out.


    Then, the blond man made his mistake.


    He reached into his jacket.


    Before he could pull anything out, a sharp crack rang through the club¡ªNine moved so fast Ren barely saw it. In a blink, he had drawn his gun and fired a warning shot into the floor near the man¡¯s feet.


    The club fell silent. Every patron froze. The music kept playing, but the atmosphere had shifted¡ªrazor-sharp, poised on the edge of something deadly.


    Nine¡¯s voice was calm, but it carried a weight that silenced any thought of resistance. "You must be new here. So let me be very clear."


    The blond man hesitated, his hand still in his jacket. Slowly, he raised it¡ªempty, an attempt to de-escalate. "No disrespect, we just came to¡ª"


    Nine shot him in the leg.


    The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. The man collapsed with a strangled grunt, clutching his thigh as blood seeped through his tailored pants.


    Ren¡¯s heart pounded, but she forced herself to stay still. To watch. To learn.


    Nine took a step forward, looming over the wounded man. "I don¡¯t care why you¡¯re here," he said, deadly calm. "You brought trouble into my house. You broke the rule. And now, you¡¯re going to crawl out of here and tell whoever sent you that The Velvet Room is off-limits."


    The blond man¡¯s crew hesitated, caught between retaliation and survival. Ren¡¯s hand drifted toward the small knife hidden in her jacket. Just in case.


    Nine gave a subtle signal.


    Within seconds, three men in suits emerged from the shadows, armed and ready. The tension cracked, and the outsiders made their choice.


    One of them lunged¡ªstupid.


    Nine didn¡¯t even need to react. The silver-haired bartender intercepted, swinging a heavy glass bottle into the attacker¡¯s temple. He crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.


    The others got the message. They grabbed their wounded leader and dragged him toward the exit. The blond man glared at Nine through his pain but said nothing. He knew better now.


    As the door slammed shut behind them, the club exhaled. Conversations resumed, drinks were poured, and the music played on. As if nothing had happened.


    Ren turned to Nine, her mind still racing. "That was¡­ fast."


    Nine finally looked at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Violence is like a business transaction. The more efficient you are, the less you have to repeat yourself."


    Ren let that sink in. She was beginning to understand why he operated the way he did.


    Nine turned to her, gaze steady, weighing her carefully. "As my assistant," he said, voice low but commanding, "you¡¯re an extension of me. Every decision you make reflects on me. Every mistake you make, I pay for."


    Ren swallowed but held his gaze. She wasn¡¯t going to back down.


    "So what now?" she asked.


    Nine smirked. "Now? You start proving you¡¯re worth the investment."

 Chapter 11 : Shake Down

    The dimly lit lounge smelled of expensive cigars and old money. Ren sat across from three men in tailored suits, their expressions a mix of amusement and thinly veiled irritation. They were syndicate men¡ªbusinessmen in the loosest sense of the word, their power built on smuggling routes, illegal auctions, and offshore accounts that never saw a tax.


    Ren, however, wasn¡¯t here to play by their rules. She leaned back, unfazed, her voice cold and deliberate.


    "Number Nine wants his cut."


    The man in the center, Lucian Graves, took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling a ribbon of smoke before responding. "That so?" His tone was lazy, almost mocking. "And what if we say no?"


    Ren didn¡¯t blink. "I¡¯m not asking. I¡¯m telling you."


    A tense silence settled over the room. One of Lucian¡¯s men shifted, his hand twitching toward his coat¡ªa subtle threat, meant to test her nerve. Ren didn¡¯t flinch.


    Lucian chuckled, setting his cigar down in a crystal ashtray. "You¡¯ve got some fire, I¡¯ll give you that. But tell me, girl¡ªwhat exactly does Nine offer that justifies his¡­ tax?"


    Ren leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make them listen. "Protection. Influence. Stability. Your shipments move because he allows it. Your men walk these streets without looking over their shoulders because he lets them. That arrangement stays¡ªif you pay up."


    Lucian¡¯s smile faded. He knew the truth of her words. Nine ran this city like a silent architect, pulling strings where needed, cutting them when necessary.


    "Fine," Lucian finally said. "Ten percent."


    Ren shook her head. "Fifteen."


    Lucian¡¯s jaw tightened. "That¡¯s steep."


    "It¡¯s fair," she countered. "And if you refuse, I walk out that door, and by morning, every deal you¡¯ve got in motion starts falling apart. Your contacts dry up. Your buyers get warned off. And you? You¡¯ll be waiting for an apology that never comes."


    Lucian studied her for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the table. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his drink and took a sip. "You¡¯re a real pain in the ass, you know that?"If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Ren smirked. "I¡¯ve been told."


    He motioned to one of his men, who pulled out a sleek black case, flipping it open to reveal stacks of neatly wrapped bills. "First installment," Lucian said. "You tell Nine we¡¯re square¡ªfor now."


    Ren took the case without hesitation. "Pleasure doing business."


    Ren didn¡¯t look back. "If it were anyone else, you¡¯d already be dead."


    <hr>


    Ren settled into her chair, placing the phone to her ear. She¡¯d secured the deal¡ªfifteen percent, the highest they''d agreed to¡ªbut she knew it was only the beginning of her negotiation. She dialed Number Nine, waiting for the line to connect.


    "Nine," she began when the call picked up, her voice even. "We¡¯ve decided on fifteen percent."


    There was a long pause on the other end of the line, then a low hum. "Are they smoking expensive cigars?" Nine asked, his tone casual.


    Ren glanced over at the group of men, their cigars resting in fine crystal ashtrays, the smoke curling lazily into the air. "Yes."


    "And are they wearing expensive-looking suits?"


    Ren¡¯s eyes scanned their tailored, immaculate outfits. "Yes."


    "Give me a second."


    Before she could respond, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone begging, their voice frantic, pleading for mercy. The phone line was filled with the sharp crack of a single gunshot¡ªquick, clean, efficient.


    "Okay, put me on speaker," Nine instructed, his voice steady, unfazed by the chaos that had just unfolded.


    Ren reached for the speakerphone button, setting the phone down on the table. The men at the table went silent, their eyes widening, unsure of what was happening.


    Ren heard Nine¡¯s voice again, distant but sharp, laced with cold authority. "Twenty-five percent, and two million upfront."


    One of the men, clearly rattled, shot up from his chair. "How dare you?" he shouted, his hand slamming onto the table.


    Nine¡¯s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Thirty percent, and three million, plus a detailed record of your financials. I want to know exactly how much you''re making. And I want some of those cigars you''re smoking, too."


    Another gunshot rang out, followed by a deafening silence.


    The man who¡¯d shouted staggered back, his face pale. "You''re insane."


    "Insane?" Nine¡¯s voice was like ice, his tone unwavering. "I''m giving you an option here. If you don''t deliver, I''m killing your entire family. Everyone."


    Ren could hear the fear in their breaths, the sense of finality in the words that followed.


    The phone clicked, and Nine¡¯s voice faded into the distance. "Get it done, or you will be hearing from me again."


    With that, the call ended. Ren stood, picking up the phone and placing it back into her pocket.


    She looked at the men at the table, their faces a mix of disbelief and panic.


    As she walked out, she could still hear the tense mutterings from the men behind her, but she didn¡¯t care. Number Nine¡¯s authority spoke for itself.

 Chapter 12 : The Succession Game

    The club was alive with low music and murmured conversations, the scent of whiskey and smoke thick in the air. Ren stepped inside, her heels clicking against the polished floors as she made her way toward the private lounge. A few familiar faces nodded in recognition, but no one dared stop her.


    Inside, Number Nine sat at his usual spot¡ªrelaxed yet sharp-eyed¡ªexuding the quiet authority that kept the city in check. Two men, both in their early twenties, occupied the room. One lounged in his chair, looking bored out of his mind, while the other stood behind him, hands clasped neatly behind his back, listening but saying nothing.


    Ren placed the black case on the table with a soft thud. "Handled."


    Nine barely glanced at it, instead watching her with mild amusement. "Of course you did."


    Anthony let out an exaggerated sigh. "So, Nine, when do I get a cool name like yours? Maybe Number Seven or something." He smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "Think it suits me?"


    Nine laughed, a genuine, amused sound. "You want to be a number now?"


    Anthony shrugged. "Just seems like a thing. You, me, Andie over there¡ª" he jerked his chin toward Anderson, who remained still as a statue. "Maybe we all get numbers. Make it a real brand."


    Nine chuckled again, shaking his head. "I¡¯ll think about it."


    Ren¡¯s gaze flicked between them, but her focus remained on Nine. She knew what this was¡ªhe was waiting. This wasn¡¯t just about money or territory. It was about something far more interesting to him.


    He had three options.


    Anthony. Anderson. Ren herself.


    That was what made this fun for Nine. Not knowing. The anticipation. The gamble. He lived for this.


    Nine finally spoke, his tone almost lazy. "The reason I called all of you over is simple¡ªI¡¯m bored."


    Anderson, still standing, glanced at Anthony.


    Anthony raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "So which one of us is it going to be?"


    Nine didn¡¯t answer. He simply picked up his drink, took a slow sip, and let his smile linger.


    And that silence said more than words ever could.


    Ren finally broke it. "I thought I was already your assistant. Molly appointed me herself."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Anderson let out a quiet chuckle, the unexpected sound breaking through the tension in the room. Everyone turned toward him.


    His voice was calm, but there was an edge of amusement. "He¡¯s not talking about an assistant, Ren. No one wants your position."


    Nine smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, letting Ren¡¯s words hang in the air. Anderson¡¯s chuckle had been unexpected, a rare crack in his usual unreadable demeanor.


    Ren¡¯s eyes narrowed. "Then what is he talking about?"


    Anderson tilted his head slightly, studying her. "You¡¯re smart. Figure it out."


    Anthony leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his amusement growing. "Come on, Ren, you really think Nine gathered us here to talk about jobs? He¡¯s talking about the whole damn thing." He gestured around the room, then to Nine himself. "All of this."


    Nine set his drink down with deliberate ease. "I¡¯m leaving."


    The room went still.


    Ren stiffened. Anderson¡¯s expression remained neutral, but Anthony¡¯s smirk widened.


    "Retiring?" Anthony asked, though he already knew the answer.


    Nine let out a low chuckle. "Something like that."


    Ren¡¯s voice was sharp. "And you¡¯re just giving it away?"


    Nine lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I built this. I ran it. And now I¡¯m bored. So yeah, I¡¯m handing it off." He leaned back, fingers drumming against the armrest. "Question is¡­ to who?"


    Anderson finally moved, stepping forward slightly. "You already have a frontrunner."


    Nine nodded. "Yeah. You."


    Ren¡¯s eyes flicked to Anderson. His reputation preceded him¡ªefficient, ruthless when needed, and already feared in circles that mattered. If Nine was looking for someone steady, someone who wouldn¡¯t burn it all down for a quick thrill, Anderson was the obvious choice.


    But Nine wasn¡¯t just about logic.


    "You¡¯re a solid pick," Nine admitted, then his gaze slid to Anthony. "But this one? He¡¯s a close second."


    Anthony grinned. "Damn right."


    Ren folded her arms. "And I¡¯m here because¡­?"


    Nine met her gaze, smirk still playing at his lips. "Because I haven¡¯t made up my mind."


    Ren exhaled slowly. "So this is a game to you."


    Nine laughed softly. "Everything is a game, Ren. You just have to play it right."


    Anthony let out a slow whistle. "And what exactly does the winner get?"


    Nine¡¯s smirk deepened. "Ninety million a year. More, depending on how ambitious you are. Offshore accounts, assets, connections¡ªpower that most people only dream of." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make them listen. "You take my place, you own this city."


    Silence.


    Anthony stretched his arms behind his head, clearly enjoying himself. "So what¡¯s the test?"


    Nine took another sip of his drink. "There is no test."


    Ren frowned. "Then how do you choose?"


    Nine grinned, eyes gleaming with something sharp, something dangerous. "I let things play out."


    Anthony laughed. Anderson stayed silent. Ren clenched her jaw.


    Then Nine leaned back, voice as casual as ever.


    "Oh, and there¡¯s a fourth option."


    The air in the room shifted.


    Anthony¡¯s smirk faltered just slightly. Anderson finally looked up. Ren didn¡¯t move.


    Nine¡¯s gaze flickered between them, watching, waiting, enjoying the moment.


    "They¡¯re not here right now," he continued. "They¡¯re handling something for me."


    Anthony scoffed, but there was curiosity in his tone. "You¡¯re telling me there¡¯s someone else in the running?"


    Nine didn¡¯t answer. He just lifted his drink again, took a slow sip, and let the silence stretch.


    And that silence was the most exciting part for him.


    He lived for this.


    Finally, he set his glass down and smiled.


    "Let¡¯s see who earns it."

 Chapter 13 : The Bench

    Nine sat on the worn wooden bench, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The city hummed around him, cars passing, distant voices carrying through the crisp morning air, but he was still, as if the world outside had nothing to do with him.


    He heard Anthony before he saw him. Footsteps, casual but deliberate. Then the distinct crinkle of a paper bag.


    "Morning, Nine."


    Nine turned his head slightly as Anthony plopped down beside him, the younger man grinning like he didn¡¯t have a single concern in the world. He reached into the bag, pulled out a muffin, and shoved it into Nine¡¯s hands.


    "Here. My mom made these."


    Nine looked at it. Blueberry. He turned it over in his palm like it was something foreign before setting it down beside him on the bench.


    Anthony chuckled. "You think it''s poisoned or something?"


    Nine smirked. "Nah. Just not in a muffin mood."This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Anthony ripped his own in half, popping a piece into his mouth. "Shame. They''re good."


    Nine let the silence stretch before he finally said, "Where''s Anderson?"


    Anthony didn¡¯t answer right away, just chewed. Too casual.


    Nine¡¯s eyes flicked toward him. "I called for both of you."


    Anthony swallowed, wiped a few crumbs off his jeans, then leaned back against the bench. "He''s busy."


    Nine huffed out a short laugh. "Busy or didn¡¯t want to come?"


    Anthony shrugged. "Both."


    Nine nodded slowly, eyes drifting back toward the street.


    Then, without looking at Anthony, he asked, "He''s still mad about Molly, huh?"


    This time, Anthony didn¡¯t answer immediately. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground as he toyed with the paper bag.


    "Yeah," he said finally. "He''s pissed he wasn¡¯t told. He wanted to be there."


    Nine exhaled through his nose. "She¡¯s dead. It was a funeral, not a fucking invitation-only event."


    Anthony smirked at that. "Yeah, well, you know Anderson. He cared about her."


    Nine glanced at him then. "And you? How do you feel about it?"


    Anthony didn¡¯t even hesitate. "I couldn''t care less. We all die."


    His voice was light, almost indifferent, like the topic was weather or business. But Nine had known Anthony too long to take anything at face value.


    Nine watched him for a second longer before looking away.


    Then he reached for the muffin.


    Took a bite.


    Chewed.


    Swallowed.


    "Not bad."


    Anthony grinned. "Told you."


    They sat there, the city moving around them, as if neither had a single thing to worry about.


    But they both knew better.


    This was just the calm before the next storm.

 Chapter 14 : False Pieces

    Nine wiped his fingers against his coat, brushing off the last crumbs. Anthony leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the bench, looking relaxed but still watching Nine out of the corner of his eye.


    The silence between them wasn¡¯t uncomfortable. It never was. But Nine wasn¡¯t finished talking.


    "What do you think about Ren?"


    Anthony smirked, tilting his head slightly as if the question amused him. "She¡¯s boring."


    Nine raised an eyebrow. "Boring?"


    Anthony shrugged. "Mundane. Predictable. Whatever word fits."


    Nine exhaled slowly. "Go on."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Anthony stretched his legs out, kicking a loose pebble off the sidewalk. "Right now? She¡¯s probably scrambling for leverage. Trying to figure out how to get me or Andie to flip and back her play."


    He shook his head, almost disappointed.


    "That¡¯s a basic move. And it wouldn¡¯t even work."


    Nine glanced at him, waiting.


    Anthony grinned, all teeth. "Because Andie would rather die than betray me."


    He said it like it was fact¡ªlike it wasn¡¯t even worth questioning.


    Ren thought she was in control, thought she had maneuvered herself into a power position. But she didn¡¯t understand that Anderson and Anthony were a package deal.


    She was playing the game with false pieces.


    Anthony sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Anyway. Talking about sides¡­ who''s the other guy?"


    Nine chuckled. "What, getting nervous?"


    Anthony scoffed. "Please. Just curious."


    Nine leaned forward slightly, hands still in his pockets. He didn¡¯t answer right away.


    Then, finally, he spoke.


    "You¡¯ll meet him soon."


    Anthony clicked his tongue. "Cryptic as always."


    Nine just smirked, but his mind was already ten moves ahead.


    And somewhere else in the city, the fourth player was already in motion.

 Chapter 15 : All In

    "All in."


    Anthony Pickins pushed his last stack of chips into the center of the table, his grin wide, his eyes burning with something between amusement and madness. The tension in the room thickened, the air turning electric as the other players held their breath.


    A million dollars sat between him and the man across the table¡ªa man who was very much a killer.


    The guy was older, mid-forties, built like someone who had used his fists more than his words to make a living. His suit was expensive, but his patience was running thin. He had already lost more than he expected tonight. His fingers tapped against the table, a subtle betrayal of frustration.


    Anthony, on the other hand? He was having the time of his life.


    His white suit was crisp, untouched by sweat, his hair slicked back like he had walked straight out of a movie. But it was the smile¡ªthe insane, reckless, unpredictable smile¡ªthat had the whole table on edge.


    "Come on," Anthony coaxed, leaning forward, voice dripping with mock encouragement. "This is boring. If you¡¯re gonna bet, then bet everything. Your house, your kids, your soul. Otherwise, what¡¯s the point?"


    Molly had called Number Nine exactly for this.


    "Come see this kid," she had said. "He¡¯s either going to get himself killed, or he¡¯s going to own half the city. Either way, he¡¯s your problem now."


    So Nine had come. He stood in the doorway now, hands in his pockets, watching the scene unfold. He didn¡¯t interrupt. He just observed.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    The older man exhaled through his nose, the vein in his temple throbbing. "You don¡¯t know who the fuck you¡¯re playing with, kid."


    Anthony¡¯s grin widened. "That¡¯s what makes it fun."


    The guy¡¯s men shifted behind him, waiting for a sign. If Anthony won, there wouldn¡¯t be a happy ending.


    And that¡¯s exactly what excited him.


    Nine¡¯s gaze sharpened.


    This wasn¡¯t about money for Anthony. This was about thrill. The risk. The rush. The fact that winning or losing didn¡¯t matter¡ªonly the chaos that followed did.


    Nine smirked. Interesting.


    Anthony leaned back, tilting his head. "So what¡¯s it gonna be? You gonna call or fold? Or are you too much of a coward to gamble with your own life?"


    The room stilled.


    A single second stretched into eternity.


    The man¡¯s jaw clenched. His pride was screaming at him to play. But the way Anthony was looking at him¡ª**like a shark waiting for the water to turn red¡ª**that gave him pause.


    He folded.


    A sharp exhale came from the other players, relief and disbelief mixing together.


    Anthony? He laughed.


    "Smart," he mused, dragging the pile of chips toward himself. "Boring, but smart."


    The older man pushed his chair back, standing slowly. His men followed. His pride was in pieces, but he wasn¡¯t stupid. He wasn¡¯t about to start a war in a place like this.


    But before he left, he leaned in, lowering his voice. "You got lucky, kid. But you keep playing like this? Someone''s gonna put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours."


    Anthony held his smile. "God, I hope so."


    The guy stared at him, like he was trying to decide whether he was insane or just suicidal.


    Then he left.


    Silence settled over the table. The other players started murmuring, some shaking their heads, some laughing nervously. The dealer just let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face.


    And that¡¯s when Nine stepped forward.


    Anthony glanced up at him, still grinning. "Let me guess. You¡¯re here to tell me how reckless I am?"


    Nine tilted his head slightly. "Nah."


    Anthony raised an eyebrow. "No?"


    Nine pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, smirking. "I¡¯m here to see if you¡¯re worth my time."


    Anthony¡¯s eyes lit up.


    Finally, someone interesting.

 Chapter 16 : The Devils Investment

    Anthony leaned back in his chair, the mountain of chips still sitting in front of him, untouched. His grin hadn¡¯t faded, but his eyes had sharpened. He studied Number Nine the way a predator studies another predator¡ªcurious, amused, but ready to bite.


    Nine wasn¡¯t in a rush. He sat there, relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. The weight of his presence pressed down on the room, subtle but undeniable. The other players had already started making themselves scarce. They knew when real power entered the conversation.


    Anthony tapped a finger against the felt table. "So?"


    Nine smirked. "So?"


    "You¡¯re sitting across from me like you own the place." Anthony¡¯s voice was light, playful, but his gaze was locked on Nine¡¯s. "Which means either you do¡­ or you think you do."


    Nine chuckled, shaking his head. "Molly called me."


    Anthony clicked his tongue. "Of course she did."


    "You made an impression," Nine said. "That¡¯s rare."


    Anthony¡¯s grin widened. "You gonna offer me a job?"


    Nine leaned forward slightly. "I don¡¯t offer anything. I take."


    Anthony¡¯s eyes gleamed. "Then take me."Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Silence.


    Nine tilted his head, amused. "You don¡¯t even know what you¡¯re signing up for."


    Anthony shrugged, spreading his arms. "I don¡¯t care. I¡¯m bored. You¡¯re interesting. That¡¯s enough."


    Nine watched him for a long moment.


    This kid wasn¡¯t like Anderson. Anderson was controlled, disciplined, cold¡ªbut Anthony? Anthony was fire waiting to spread. Unstable. Dangerous. But maybe that wasn¡¯t a weakness. Maybe that was exactly what Nine needed.


    "You like games, huh?" Nine said.


    Anthony nodded. "It¡¯s the only thing that makes life worth it."


    Nine exhaled through his nose, then leaned back in his chair. "Alright, then. Let¡¯s play a game."


    Anthony sat up straighter, intrigued. "What kind?"


    Nine reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single bullet. He set it on the table between them.


    Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Russian roulette? Bit clich¨¦, don¡¯t you think?"


    Nine smirked. "No. Too predictable." He gestured toward the bullet. "Tell me¡ªhow much is this worth?"


    Anthony looked at it. A simple .45 round. Nothing special.


    "Market price?" Anthony mused. "Maybe a buck or two. But in the right hands¡­ it¡¯s priceless."


    Nine¡¯s smirk widened. "Go on."


    Anthony picked up the bullet, rolling it between his fingers. "Depends on where it lands. If I put this in the head of a man who owes a hundred million in debt, it¡¯s worth a hundred million. If I use it to take out a politician? Could shift the entire future of a country. This isn¡¯t just a bullet. It¡¯s power."


    Nine liked that answer.


    He nodded, slow and approving. "Good. You understand value."


    Anthony flicked the bullet into the air and caught it. "I understand a lot of things."


    Nine watched him for another moment, then stood up.


    "Let¡¯s go."


    Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Where?"


    Nine smirked. "You wanted excitement, right? Time to see if you can handle it."


    Anthony grinned, pushing back his chair and grabbing his jacket. "Now we¡¯re talking."


    He didn¡¯t know where they were going.


    Didn¡¯t care.


    Because whatever it was, it was finally going to be fun.

 Chapter 17 : Trial by Fire

    The alley smelled like piss, metal, and blood.


    Anthony stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his white suit as if he were walking into a five-star restaurant instead of the filth-covered backstreets of the city. He could hear muffled groans from ahead¡ªsomeone was already getting worked over.


    Nine walked beside him, hands still in his coat pockets, casual as ever.


    "Who are we visiting?" Anthony asked, his voice light.


    Nine nodded toward the building ahead. A storage facility. Unmarked, forgotten, but very much in use. "A guy who thought he could run product through my city without cutting me in."


    Anthony clicked his tongue. "Amateur mistake."


    Nine smirked. "That¡¯s what I thought."


    They entered through a side door, the dim yellow lights flickering overhead. Inside, two men stood over a third guy tied to a chair. His face was already swollen, his lip split, and his breaths came in ragged gasps.


    Nine didn¡¯t acknowledge the other two men immediately. He just walked over to the beaten man and crouched in front of him.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The guy tried to lift his head, blinking through swollen eyes. "Number Nine¡­" he rasped.


    Nine tilted his head. "You know, I get tired of these conversations." He sighed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "You step on my business. I give you a chance to fix it. You ignore me. And now we¡¯re here."


    He exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "Boring, isn¡¯t it?"


    Anthony chuckled.


    Nine turned to him. "You want excitement, right? Go ahead."


    Anthony blinked. "Go ahead and¡­?"


    Nine gestured to the tied-up man, standing up. "He stole from me. He lied. You wanted in on this world, kid? Let¡¯s see what you do with it."


    Anthony looked at the man in the chair, then at Nine.


    Then he grinned.


    The two enforcers in the room exchanged glances, unsure of what to expect.


    Anthony stepped forward, crouching down in front of the man. He looked at him the same way a cat looks at an injured bird¡ªcurious, but detached.


    "Tell me," Anthony said, his voice almost gentle. "Was it worth it?"


    The man swallowed, his breath shaky. "I¡ªI didn¡¯t think¡ª"


    Anthony cut him off with a laugh. "That¡¯s the problem, my friend. You didn¡¯t think."


    Then, in one smooth motion, he grabbed the guy¡¯s broken fingers and snapped another one.


    The man screamed.


    Anthony tilted his head, studying him. "That one was free. The next one¡¯s gonna cost you."


    Nine watched him carefully.


    This wasn¡¯t some kid playing gangster.


    Anthony was enjoying this.


    "Please," the man gasped. "I¡ªI can get you the money¡ª"


    Anthony smiled. "Oh, I know. That¡¯s the fun part."


    Another snap.


    Another scream.


    Nine took another drag of his cigarette.


    Anthony¡¯s white suit remained perfectly clean.


    Yeah.


    This kid was going to be interesting.

 Chapter 18 : A Dangerous Game

    The screams had long since faded.


    The man was still breathing¡ªbarely. Slumped forward in the chair, his body trembled from the shock, his forehead sticky with sweat and blood. His broken fingers curled in unnatural angles, and his breaths came out in short, pained gasps.


    Anthony wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief, careful, methodical. His white suit was still spotless.


    One of Nine¡¯s men, a tall, thick-necked guy named Vince, shifted uncomfortably from where he stood near the door. He had seen plenty of people get worked over in these rooms, but there was something about Anthony¡¯s calmness that put him on edge.


    He wasn¡¯t just doing this because he had to.


    He was enjoying it.


    Nine watched from a few feet away, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. He had seen enough.


    "That¡¯s enough," Nine said finally. His voice was casual, like a bartender calling for last drinks.


    Anthony sighed dramatically, standing up and stretching like he had just finished a workout. "Damn. I was just getting into it."


    The man in the chair let out a whimper.


    Nine stepped forward, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. He crouched in front of the guy, flicking ashes onto the floor.


    "Here¡¯s what¡¯s going to happen," Nine said, his tone patient, almost friendly. "You¡¯re going to pay what you owe. In full. By the end of the week." He gestured toward Vince and the other enforcer. "These guys are going to let you limp out of here so you can make that happen."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The man weakly nodded, his swollen eyes barely able to focus.


    Nine stood up, turning back to Anthony. "Walk with me."


    Anthony didn¡¯t hesitate. He followed Nine out of the storage room, into the dimly lit hallway.


    The second the door shut behind them, Nine moved fast.


    He grabbed Anthony by the collar and slammed him into the concrete wall.


    Anthony laughed.


    Not a nervous laugh. Not a fake one. A genuine, delighted chuckle.


    "See, now this is interesting," Anthony mused, smirking. "Gonna strangle me, boss?"


    Nine didn¡¯t squeeze. Just held him there, testing him.


    "You enjoyed that way too much," Nine said, his voice calm but sharp.


    Anthony shrugged, unfazed. "You told me to handle it."


    "There¡¯s a difference between handling a problem and playing with your food," Nine muttered, finally letting go.


    Anthony straightened his suit, rolling his shoulders. "I don¡¯t see the problem. You needed him to listen, didn¡¯t you?"


    Nine didn¡¯t answer immediately. He just studied him.


    "You ever kill someone before?" Nine asked.


    Anthony¡¯s smirk didn¡¯t falter. "Not yet."


    Nine believed him.


    This wasn¡¯t some wannabe psycho trying too hard to act tough. Anthony wasn¡¯t pretending.


    Nine exhaled. "You ever pull that kind of shit on someone who didn¡¯t deserve it, and I¡¯ll put a bullet in your head myself."


    Anthony placed a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. "Oh, boss, you really do care."


    Nine shook his head, already walking toward the exit. "Come on, I need a drink."


    Anthony grinned and followed. "Now that, I can get behind."

 Chapter 19 : The Line in the Sand

    The knocking was sharp, precise, and relentless.


    Anderson ignored it at first.


    He sat on the couch, staring at the dim glow of the TV screen without really watching. The whiskey bottle on the coffee table was half-empty. He wasn¡¯t in the mood for visitors.


    But the knocking didn¡¯t stop.


    With a sigh, he dragged himself up, running a hand through his hair before heading to the door. The second he cracked it open, he saw her.


    Ren.


    Without a word, he slammed the door in her face.


    There was a pause, then her voice¡ªloud, firm, unbothered.


    "Anderson, I know what you want."


    His grip on the doorknob tightened. He should¡¯ve ignored her, should¡¯ve let her waste her breath.


    But instead, after a long pause, he sighed and pulled the door open just enough to look at her.


    He leaned against the frame. "What do I want?"


    Ren smirked. "Let me inside, and I¡¯ll tell you."


    Anderson studied her for a long moment, then stepped aside. "Make it quick."


    She entered without hesitation, her eyes scanning the apartment. Not just his apartment. His and Mia¡¯s.


    It was small. Barely furnished. A place to exist, not to live. A couch. A coffee table. A few unopened bills stacked in the corner. No photos, no decoration¡ªnothing personal.


    She turned back to him, her expression unreadable.


    "I know about your sister, Mia."This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Anderson¡¯s face didn¡¯t change, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.


    "I know about your struggle for money," she continued, stepping closer. "How you took every job you could just to keep her out of foster care. How you made sure she never wanted for anything. And now?"


    She tilted her head, watching his reaction carefully.


    "Now you have money. More than you ever could¡¯ve dreamed of. But you can¡¯t even use it."


    Anderson¡¯s jaw clenched slightly.


    "You have no proof of income. No job history. No legitimate way to explain where it all comes from," she pressed. "You dropped out of high school, and now you¡¯re stuck. No real way forward, no way out. Just keeping your head above water, surviving but never living."


    She let that hang in the air before stepping even closer.


    "And I know you don¡¯t care about taking Nine¡¯s position. You never wanted power. Just security. So let me have it."


    Silence.


    Anderson exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw before speaking.


    "You¡¯ve done your research."


    His voice was unreadable. Calm. But Ren wasn¡¯t stupid¡ªshe saw the flicker of something behind his eyes.


    Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened.


    "Now get the fuck out of my house."


    Ren smiled. She was waiting for that.


    "I thought you¡¯d be more reasonable," she mused, shaking her head. "With all the stories I heard from Molly about you, I figured you''d at least listen."


    The mention of Molly sent something sharp through Anderson¡¯s spine. His fists curled, his breath slowing.


    He moved.


    One second, Ren was talking. The next, Anderson was on her, closing the space in an instant.


    His voice was low, dangerous. "How dare you¡ª"


    Click.


    The metallic sound was unmistakable.


    Anderson stopped.


    Ren had drawn a gun.


    Fast. Precise. Steady.


    And now it was aimed at his chest.


    "Chill out," she said smoothly, her voice as relaxed as ever. "Unless you wanna die in front of your little sister."


    Anderson¡¯s breathing slowed, his eyes flicking between her face and the gun.


    Ren watched him carefully. Measured.


    Then she tilted her head, finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Why shouldn¡¯t I kill you right here and now?"


    Anderson didn¡¯t answer. He just stared at her, cold and unreadable.


    Ren smirked. "Good. You¡¯re thinking. That¡¯s progress."


    She stepped closer, pressing the barrel against his forehead. "I wanted to keep this peaceful," she murmured.


    Then, she slapped him.


    Anderson¡¯s head barely moved. His breathing stayed even.


    But his eyes?


    Cold.


    Ren exhaled, shaking her head as if disappointed.


    "If you don¡¯t back me for what I deserve," she said, her voice calm and deliberate, "I¡¯ll blow your sister¡¯s brains out."


    The words cut through the silence like a blade.


    Anderson didn¡¯t blink. Didn¡¯t react.


    Just stared.


    Ren held his gaze for a moment longer. Then she lowered the gun, stepping back.


    She turned for the door without another word.


    And as she left, Anderson stayed in his chair.


    Silent.


    Thinking.


    And hating.

 Chapter 20 : The Boiling Point

    Anderson sat in silence.


    The weight of Ren¡¯s words pressed against his skull like a vice, but his body didn¡¯t move. Not even a twitch. He just sat there, hands resting on his knees, eyes locked on the door she had walked out of.


    His breathing was slow. Too slow.


    Mia was asleep in the other room. Safe¡ªfor now.


    But that threat? It was real.


    Ren wasn¡¯t bluffing.


    Anderson had been in the game long enough to know when someone was just talking shit and when they were serious. Ren was serious.


    She would kill Mia without hesitation.


    And that was the moment something snapped.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Anderson pushed himself up from the chair slowly, methodically. He walked over to the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water over his face.


    His reflection in the window above the sink stared back at him.


    Dark circles under his eyes. A split lip that had barely healed. A face that had taken too many punches, both literal and figurative.


    He looked like a man who had nothing left.


    And yet¡ªhe still had something.


    Mia.


    And that meant Ren had just made the worst fucking mistake of her life.


    Anderson reached for the whiskey bottle on the counter but stopped himself. His fingers hovered over the glass before curling into a fist.


    Not tonight.


    He needed a clear head.


    Because tonight, he was making a decision.


    Ren thought he was out of options.


    She thought she had him pinned.


    But what she didn¡¯t understand¡ªwhat she had never understood¡ªwas that Anderson didn¡¯t fold.


    He survived.


    Every damn time.


    And if she wanted a war?


    He¡¯d give her one.

 Chapter 21 : Soup Kitchen

    Anderson knew what he had to do.


    But before that¡ªbefore the inevitable¡ªhe had one card left to play.


    Anthony.


    Getting to him had become difficult lately. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Nine was practically untouchable, and Anthony wasn''t far off. You didn''t just find him. You had to be allowed in.


    But Anderson had known Anthony for a long time.


    A simple text. No bullshit. No asking nicely.


    "I need to talk. Now. It''s about Ren."


    Then, he waited.


    And waited.


    When the response finally came, it was an address.


    It wasn''t a bar. It wasn''t a club or some underground meeting spot.


    It was a soup kitchen.


    Anderson stood outside for a second, staring up at the faded sign above the entrance. People filtered in and out, heads low, shoulders hunched, plastic bags clutched tight in their hands. The scent of warm broth and stale bread drifted into the cold air.


    This wasn''t what he expected.


    He stepped inside, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room. Volunteers moved behind the counter, serving bowls of soup and plates of food to the long line of people waiting. The room had a tired kind of quiet.


    And then he saw him.


    Anthony.


    Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, ladling soup into a bowl like he''d been doing it for years. A small smile on his face as he handed it off to an old man who gave him a quiet thank you.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Anderson''s stomach twisted.


    It wasn''t an act.


    Anthony looked at home here.


    Like he belonged.


    For a second, Anderson almost turned around and left.


    Then Anthony glanced up, spotted him, and that easy smile shifted into something else. Something knowing.


    He wiped his hands on a towel and gestured with his chin. "C''mon. Let''s talk."


    They stepped outside into the alley behind the kitchen. The city hummed in the background, a dull contrast to the warmth they had just left behind.


    Anderson lit a cigarette.


    Anthony''s smile disappeared, replaced by something colder. "I already told you to stop those."


    Anderson exhaled, smoke curling between them. "And I already told you I don''t give a fuck."


    Anthony''s expression softened¡ªjust slightly. "I don''t want you to die before me, Andie." His voice was quiet. "I wouldn''t be able to live with that."


    Anderson huffed a laugh, ignoring him.


    Then, just as fast, Anthony snatched the cigarette from his lips and flicked it to the ground.


    "What did Ren say?"


    Anderson clenched his jaw. "She threatened to kill my sister if I didn''t ''align myself with her.''"


    Anthony froze. Just for half a second.


    Anderson caught it. Narrowed his eyes. "Not what you were expecting?"


    Anthony let out a slow chuckle. "Not even close."


    Anderson stepped closer. "I don''t want to have to do what I normally do, Tone."


    Anthony gave him a sideways look. "You want me to fix this for you?"


    Anderson exhaled sharply. "She thinks I might play a factor in this little game you guys are playing."


    Anthony studied him for a long moment.


    "Mia''s almost done with school," Anderson muttered. "After that, I''m done. No matter what Nine says."


    Anthony shook his head. "You think he''d let you go? He practically sees you as a son. He was pretty hurt you didn''t come last time."


    Anderson''s hands curled into fists. "I''m serious, Anthony."


    "You''ve already done too much to leave now, Andie."


    Anthony''s voice was level. Unshaken.


    "And even if you wanted to, you can''t kill her. She''s his assistant." His eyes darkened. "You heard what he did to the guy who killed Molly. I wish I was there."


    Anderson''s jaw clenched. "Me too."


    Anthony held his gaze. "I don''t care about your sister." His voice was quiet, firm. "I care about you. So if Ren tries anything¡ª"


    Anderson shoved him. "Fuck you."


    Anthony just laughed. "See? That''s your problem. You''re not desperate enough yet."


    Anderson turned to leave, but Anthony''s voice stopped him.


    "Don''t take too long deciding, Anderson."


    He paused.


    Anthony took a slow sip of his coffee, watching him with lazy amusement. "Because Ren? She doesn''t hesitate."


    Anderson didn''t reply.


    He just walked away.


    His left hand brushed against his pocket, fingers grazing the place where his pinky should have been whole.


    A reminder.