《Rowan Voss》


 Rowan Voss

    <h2>Chapter 1</h2>


    Rowan Voss


    A gloomy afternoon. I walked through an empty passage, leaning against a rain-slicked pillar. The chill gnawed through my trench coat, seeping into my suit. Mist swallowed the skyline.


    A sharp clink. The gritty scratch of a flint wheel. A small flame flickered to life. I lit a cigarette, snapping the Zippo shut. Rain pattered on the slate roof, in rhythm with my sinking thoughts. The deeper I fell, the more I inhaled the coffin nail.


    As I exhaled the smoke, my fingers slipped inside the pocket, grabbing the pistol by its rough grip, absently tracing the cold metal of its brand. It was heavy and cold but strangely comforting, like a silent companion.


    But when it came to death and life, its quiet rumble felt like a whisper in my ear, reminding me to go on living this dull, purposeless life¡ªwhether I wanted it or not.


    The phone inside my pocket buzzed, pulling me back. I stubbed out the cigarette and glanced at the bright screen¡ªa message from the company: ¡°The intel was successfully delivered.¡± I slipped the phone back inside my pocket and turned to the wet city once again.


    I walked along the pavement, descending the staircase through the rain, watching ripples form in puddles along the way. A blurred reflection wavered in a puddle. For a moment, their faces flickered beside me¡ªghostly, shifting with the ripples. So clear, then gone. A car sped past, shattering the vision into nothing. I blinked, wiped my eyes, and kept walking.


    The afternoon bled into evening, the street crowded with people; I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets. The damp wind whispered into his ears, carrying faint conversations and the hum of car engines. Neon signs and shopfronts cast shifting shadows. Among them, a warm glow caught my eye¡ªa caf¨¦.


    Inside, a group of friends laughed over drinks, carefree as if reunited after years. Glasses clinked. Ice sparkled under warm yellow light. Steam curled from fresh coffee. Their joy mirrored the rain¡ªconstant, unending.


    Every now and then, muffled laughter and cheers come about as one of them leans forward, sharing stories or jokes. A slight smile appeared on my face as I looked away and walked into the mist of the rain.


    I exhaled, slow and deep. The only thing I could think of is the time with my friends. How could I forget that laughter as it softly echoes¡ªa whisper from another time? I could almost hear it, almost embracing it. How long has it been since we last met? The thought came softly¡ªI was afraid to imagine. It wasn¡¯t a question, but something distant, something that slipped away a long time ago.


    At some point, my smile had faded. The air thickened with unspoken feelings, tightening around me, making it hard to breathe. The rain streaked the streetlights into trembling pillars of gold, wavering¡ªjust like my vision. I turned away. The blurry gaze couldn¡¯t stand watching them for any longer.


    They all rose higher, while I remained¡ªbound to the company, serving them. Because, in the end, what else was there?


    Why did I choose this path? Why did I abandon everything¡ªbecause of someone''s death? I thought to myself as he kept walking. He would be so disappointed. Opportunities came and went, but he had let them slip through his fingers. And that promise¡­ that sweet voice¡­ The words echoed, a ghost of something lost.


    I leaned against a wall next to an electronics store. The muffled chatter of a news anchor leaked from TVs in the window¡ª¡°a new continent risen from the ocean depths.¡± I barely glanced at the screen, uninterested. I took another breath and walked on.


    I stopped in front of the Horizon Skyline hotel and walked to the entrance, where a doorman greeted me. ¡®Good evening, sir,¡¯ said the doorman, holding the door¡ªinviting me in.


    I nodded slightly and stepped into the hotel lobby, where the thick air carried the scent of fresh roses, mingling with the golden glow of a chandelier. Its delicate ornaments were the purest crystals, exquisitely arranged into the finest piece of art.


    At the receptionist desk, a female front desk politely asked me, ¡®Good evening, sir, what can I help you with?¡¯ I slid her a card with the company mark on it. She checked the screen for a moment and handed me back my card. ¡®Please take the elevator in the right corner. Then change the elevator on the 20th floor, on our casino grounds.¡¯


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    I thanked her and quietly walked to the elevator. A charming ding echoed, and the elevator door slowly opened; the lobby¡¯s floral scent faded, replaced by the faint aroma of cigar and whisky, as the elevator slid, revealing the famous Horizon casino, the cheers of the gamblers, the metallic noises of coins, and its blinding light beckoned those who believed in fate: get in as a gambler, get out as a millionaire¡ªor so they say.


    But I wasn¡¯t here for games; I changed to another elevator, heading to the rooftop. The casino¡¯s lively hum receded with each passing floor, melting into silence.


    I walked out of the elevator to the rain-soaked rooftop; the skyline was sunk in ink, its buildings smudged into shadowy silhouettes. The lights scattered like embers, glowing gold and white.


    At the city¡¯s edge, there was a man leaning on a handrail, holding an umbrella. The man was wearing a thick coat with a suit beneath, similar to mine.


    I walked toward the man, but just a few steps away, a voice broke through the silence in a young adult tone, halting me in my tracks.


    ¡®How''s it going?¡¯ The man turned around, facing me. ¡®You don¡¯t look so well¡ªlost in the memories again?¡¯ Chuckled the man.


    I exhaled, shaking away the haze. ¡®You called me earlier. What was it, Reed?¡¯ I walked closer to him.


    Reed is my broker¡ªthe one who hands me jobs, important intel, and sometimes, unsolicited advice.


    Reed softly sighed and came up with a calm smile. ¡®Someone wants to meet you,¡¯ Reed explained, handing me a folder with a card stapled on it.


    ¡®Is it a job or what?¡¯ I asked, taking the folder from his hand.


    ¡®You could say that, but it''s more like a meeting.¡¯ Reed moved away from the railing. ¡®His name is Bishop¡ªa higher-up.¡¯


    ¡®Bishop,¡¯ I muttered, reading the name on the info card to myself.


    ''Yeah, the intel is in the folder; the number''s online 24/7, so maybe give it a call.''


    I nodded, slipping the folder inside my coat; my head was clouded with questions, piled up with the former sinking thoughts.


    ''You should take some rest,'' said Reed, watching me carefully. ''You look like hell.''


    ¡®Yeah, yeah, I¡¯m fine. Don¡¯t worry.¡¯ I smirked, waving him off.


    Reed sighed once again, shaking his head, and leaned on the railing.


    ''A man of work he was.''


    I stepped back into the elevator¡ªleaving Reed admiring the night sky.


    ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Meanwhile, the man from the higher-ups sat at a corner table in the caf¨¦, quietly observing the group of friends.


    His fingers idly traced the rim of his coffee cup as he listened to their laughter and conversations. In front of him, there was a folder marked in red¡ªClassified. Bishop reached for the folder and mildly concealed it inside his coat.


    He took a slow sip of his warm coffee. ¡®What will the shadow of the past offer me, I wonder?¡¯ he murmured to himself under his breath.


    A smile formed at the edges of his mouth. His gaze lazily turned distant as he lost himself in his thoughts, whether it was the far future or the next fleeting second. No one knows.


    Bishop walked out of the caf¨¦ into the dark hours of the street; the rain above softened into a delicate drizzle, barely whispering against the ground.


    As he wandered down the alley, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He picked it up, expecting a call from his new contractor.


    ¡®Hello, hello, is this the supervisor¡¯s number?¡¯


    The voice spoke quickly and uncertainly, as if he was in a rush.


    ¡®I¡¯m the supervisor, Bishop, speaking. What¡¯s the deal?¡¯ Bishop replied in a casual tone.


    ''I¡¯m on the White Road with the delivery container; could you confirm the ¡°drop-off¡± site, please? I¡¯ve been driving for at least an hour from the entrance, sir.¡¯ His voice was steadier this time.


    ¡®There is nothing but white walls on both sides of the road, sir.¡¯


    ¡®Hm? That''s strange; drive in the same direction as you were for 15 more minutes. If you still found nothing, just turn back the same way.¡¯


    ¡®Understood, sir.¡¯ And the call hangs up.


    Bishop stopped on his path, leaning against alley walls¡ªthinking. He felt strangely uncomfortable after that call. He rubbed his hand against his chin. Is it a worry? He couldn¡¯t tell. His mind starts racing¡­ After a short moment that felt like an hour, the softened rain now entirely ceased, leaving him surrounded by complete silence, just dripping droplets against the soaked ground.


    The light smile in the caf¨¦ is now gone, only leaving the furrowed brows as he pressed his thumb against his forehead repeatedly with unexplainable concern.


    Bishop took a long, deep breath, ignored all thoughts, and kept on walking through the dark alley¡ªfading into the night.

 Memory

    <h2>Chapter 2</h2>


    Memory


    3 hours before, Reed meets Rowan.


    The grey clouds blanketed the sky, yet a sliver of sunlight pierced through the whitish veil. Reed stared out the office window, adjusting his collar. He holstered his pistol beneath his coat and stepped out of the office.


    Earlier this week, he¡¯d been informed of an important figure requesting a meeting and an urgent delivery requiring his intervention. The company reached out again, requesting a meeting¡ªsomeone important, they said.


    That ¡°someone¡± wanted to meet one of Reed¡¯s contractors through him, but he had never been told why.


    Reed walked through Silvercrest Street, the sparse evening traffic slicing through the air, leaving behind the sharp hiss of wind. When he arrived, the sun melted and dissolved into the radiant city view.


    The rendezvous point was an abandoned hotel on the highest hill¡ªa decayed paradise, now a corpse overlooking the city. He climbed through the decaying hallways to the rooftop, where the client awaited.


    Reed stepped onto the rooftop; his eyes glanced around the remains of a once-grand paradise. Among the ruins sat Bishop, lounging on the crumbling edge, legs swinging idly as he gazed out at the horizon.


    ¡®Took you long enough¡ªI finished a book,'' Bishop said without looking back.


    Reed was about to respond when Bishop continued, ¡®A tale of a man rich in talent, yet cast aside by the world he once knew.¡¯ He paused, lifting the book from his lap and setting it beside him.


    ''He poured his soul into the company, only to be abandoned, drifting through life without purpose. His mind... drowning in its own sorrow.¡¯ Bishop lay back, both hands behind his head. ¡®It''s a wonder, isn''t it? The thing that makes us human. Too little, and we¡¯re empty shells¡ªwalking corpses. Too much, and we lose ourselves, wandering blind, convinced we¡¯re in control. But it¡¯s all just an illusion.¡¯


    The city lights flickered, swallowed by the thickening mist. The wind picked up, cool and damp. Bishop turned, his teashades catching the glow of neon reflections, blending with the chromatic skyline.


    ¡®So¡­ why am I here?¡¯ Reed asked.


    ¡®I need that guy. I need the one who was left behind,¡¯ said Bishop, turning back to the skyline.


    ¡®Who exactly?'' Reed asked, standing still like a statue.


    ¡®Rowan Voss¡­ or whatever remains of him.¡¯ Bishop leaned forward and stood on the ledge. His coat waved as the city gale passed by.


    ¡®I want someone loyal to the company,¡¯ he continued, his voice calm and steady. ¡®Someone who doesn¡¯t flinch at a little bloodshed. Straightforward. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just... get the job done.¡¯


    ''Rowan?¡¯ Reed asked, unable to hide his surprise. He had worked with him for a long time, yet Rowan¡¯s past remained a mystery to him. The way Bishop spoke¡ªas if Rowan were just a ghost of what he once was¡ªmade him question what he had overlooked. Who was Rowan Voss, really?


    Bishop exhaled, glancing at the skeletal remains of the rooftop. ¡®This is where it all started, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ He picked up a piece of concrete, then let it fall. ¡®But, well, it doesn¡¯t matter anymore.¡¯


    He turned back to Reed; he said with a smile, ¡®I¡¯ve got to say, I am genuinely impressed by your works.¡¯ He pulled out two folders, one with a card stapled to it. ''Here, you might want to read it.'' He handed the folder over. ''Give the contractor the one with my card stapled to it, and keep the other for yourself¡ªand only for yourself,'' he emphasised.


    Reed flipped through the folders, inspecting them with his usual calm. He was just about to open one when Bishop cleared his throat¡ªa pointed stare locking onto him.


    ¡®Ah¡ªright.¡¯ Reed shut it before even catching a single letter. ¡®If I take this, you¡¯re not going to send a hitman after me later, are you?¡¯


    Bishop left without waiting for any more response. ¡®That¡¯s all. Good luck, Mister Reed.¡¯ He turned and walked down the crumbled ruins, disappearing into the mist as drizzling rain began to fall, his figure fading into the grey haze.


    Reed slipped the folders into his coat and opened an umbrella. With the wind picking up, he made his way down the hill, the city lights calling him back.


    When he arrived at his office, he placed one folder on his desk without a thought, keeping the other close. But something nagged at him¡ªa feeling, faint but persistent, urging him to open them. It lingered in the back of his mind, following him from his desk to the bustling taxi ride through the rain-slicked streets.


    He shook it off. No time for nosiness. With the downpour growing heavier, Reed adjusted his coat and set off to meet Rowan.


    _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Present¡ªMonday, 10:00 am.


    The morning sun warmed the city, drying out the rain-soaked streets and vanishing the last puddles. The dampness faded as dawn broke over the horizon.


    The company received a report warning that their property might be at risk, as a shipping trailer had crashed at the tunnel before the entrance. In response, they sent someone to inspect the site¡ªsomeone who, as it happened, turned out to be Reed.


    ''The truck crashed at the entrance? And the container vanished?'' His voice sharpened, cutting through his grogginess with disbelief and frustration.


    On the other end, Reed''s voice was laced with urgency and frustration. ¡®Yeah, I¡¯m here at the site with some of my men. The driver¡¯s dead. I¡¯m gathering clues and collecting evidence right now.¡¯


    ¡®Alright, stay put. I''m coming.¡¯ Bishop grabbed his coat and teashades, then left the room.


    ¡®You¡¯re coming to the site? What about the contractor meeting¡ªhas he contacted you yet?¡¯ Reed''s voice became more steady despite the chaos around him.


    ''My phone was silent all night until you called; no, he didn¡¯t call. Just give me his number.¡¯ Bishop answered as he stepped into the street, his voice commanding.


    Bishop shot his hand into the air, fingers splayed wide as if trying to grab the morning air. ¡®Sent,¡¯ Reed replied as the message notification appeared on Bishop¡¯s phone. I¡¯ll be there.¡¯ Bishop hung up as a taxi pulled up.


    ¡®Where to?¡¯ the driver asked in a simple tone.


    ¡®White Road, northern city¡¯s edge,¡¯ Bishop replied as he hopped into the cab.


    The driver nodded, switched on the taximeter, and the car engine hummed to life as it merged into the bustling road. Bishop leaned back against the cool leather seat and exhaled deeply. His thoughts remained sharp, fixed on the task ahead. And then there was Rowan Voss¡ªwherever he was, Bishop had a task waiting for him.


    _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


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    Across the city, within the crumbling palace, lay a man shaped by his past, surrounded by the remnants of human artistry¡ªtaken back by nature as humanity''s presence faded. Amongst the ruins, Rowan stood from his rest. His gaze lingered with quiet wonder, reflecting on the filtered sunlight seeping through the grime-covered glass roof.


    ¡®This place still holds its glory, even in death.¡¯ His eyes traced the fractured walls, the past lingering in its cracks. ¡®The past is breathing here, its echoes woven through these halls.¡¯ He exhaled, inhaling the scent of damp stone and earth after fresh rain.


    Moss-cloaked white pillars stood solemnly in the luminous room. A shadow of its former self, a double staircase stretched upward, leading to an empty throne. The worn railings, adorned with carved stone rings, bore the weight of time¡ªmany broken, yet a few enduring, preserving a fragment of the palace¡¯s forgotten beauty.


    The empty passage whispered with echoes of forgotten voices, their chant creeping through the halls. Yet, if one listened closely, they could hear the ethereal hum of morning insects, their delicate symphony weaving into an exquisite orchestra. Together, they created a haunting beauty¡ªa divine harmony between nature and the past.


    A slight vibration pulsed beside him. He glanced down, saw the phone lying on his coat, and raised it to his ear without a word.


    ¡®Good morning, Mister Rowan,¡¯ a crackled voice came through the line, muffled yet clear enough to comprehend. ¡®I¡¯ve been waiting for your contact since last night, so I decided to call myself. About our meeting¡ªunfortunately, we need to reschedule due to an incident last night.¡¯


    Rowan¡¯s eyes shifted from his surroundings to the emptiness in front of him. The golden-silver rays from the roof seemed to fade, leaving only a grey vision of the ruins.


    ¡®About that¡­¡¯ he murmured. He exhaled slowly, staring at the dust-covered floor. ''I¡¯d like to pass on this job, regardless of how much it¡¯s paid or what it¡¯s about.'' All he wanted was freedom from this life, a life bound by a vow he swore to keep regardless of the cost. Yet, memories crept in, the very ones he wished to forget.


    The night she confessed¡ªthe night he realised what he feared, what they had all kept hidden to protect something fragile. And that fragile trust shattered, leaving him in silent misery. She cupped his face, brushing away his tears. ¡®I promise I will come back.¡¯


    Bishop was surprised when Rowan declined the contract before he could even discuss it.


    ¡®Oh? Well, I believe your broker told you how significant this job is, even if not in detail. I respect your decision, Mister Rowan. But are you sure this is what you want?¡¯


    Rowan hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it, uncertain of what to say.


    ¡®You are a skilled tracker¡ªyou''ve never failed a job, and you''ve even made what I¡¯d call an ¡°unofficial promise¡± to our company.¡¯ Bishop continued. ¡®But if that¡¯s really your desire, then I won¡¯t stop you.¡¯ He leaned back, his voice hard and cold, like metal puncturing through the phone line. ¡®Walking away isn¡¯t the same as being free.¡¯


    ¡®Wait.¡¯ Rowan hesitated, then said with quiet resolve, ¡®I¡¯ll accept the job¡ªbut only in exchange for my freedom.¡¯


    ¡®Mhm. I won¡¯t promise you that¡ªI may or may not be able to make it possible¡ªbut right now, you have two options, Mister Rowan.¡¯ Bishop paused, a sigh escaping through the phone line. ¡®Actually, I don¡¯t force things to go my way.¡¯ His voice softened, a hint of empathy in his tone.


    ¡®I will do what I can to help you, but before that¨C¨C¡¯


    ¡®The task... I¡¯ll take it,¡¯ Rowan¡¯s voice interrupted; his resolve hardened. There was no turning back now. ¡®I¡¯ll take the job.'' The words left his mouth before his thoughts could catch up. He told himself it was the only way out. He refused to wonder what lay behind the door¡ªor why this man had chosen him to open it.


    ¡®Very well. I¡¯ll draft a new contract, effective within twenty-four hours. We¡¯ll review the details later. And, due to the incident I mentioned, I¡¯ll assign someone to assist you during this time.¡¯ Bishop confirmed.


    Before Rowan could hang up, Bishop added, ¡®If you want to start early, investigate Red Light Street. Find a man named Brass. The intel is in the folder. Best of luck, Mister Rowan.¡¯


    Bishop hung up and glanced up from his phone. ¡®Hey, are we there yet?¡¯


    ''The country roads aren¡¯t so busy these days. Should take about fifteen minutes, sir.¡¯ The driver answered, eyes locked on the road.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry to bother, but can you make it ten? This is a bit urgent,¡¯ Bishop said politely.


    The driver scratched his head. ¡®I hate to say it, but... the place is pretty far. This is the fastest we can go, sir.¡¯


    Bishop¡¯s patience wore thin, but he nodded finally. ¡®Alright, carry on then.¡¯ He scrolled through his contacts slowly before dialling a number.


    ¡®Good morning, sir, Bishop. What service do we owe you today?¡¯ A warm, welcoming voice of a man came through the phone line.


    ¡®Can you assign my student to a task at Site 1210 in the City of Light?¡¯


    ¡®What kind, sir?¡¯ the voice asked.


    ¡®I need an agent¡¯s assistance.¡¯ Bishop answered plainly.


    ¡®Ah, it''s quite busy there, isn''t it? Would you like to provide details or instructions?


    ''Look up the "City of Light" documents in the discovery category from my archive. Also, get her the city''s print. Deliver both to her¡ªand if you don¡¯t mind, find her a fine white rose.¡¯


    ¡®Understood. We¡¯ll send her the documents right away. The rose may take a day or two to arrange, so her arrival might be slightly delayed.¡¯


    ¡®That¡¯s fine. Thank you.¡¯


    As he ended the call, the car rolled to a stop.


    ¡®Here we are,¡¯ the driver said, glancing at Bishop through the rearview mirror.


    Bishop stepped out onto a passage paved with white bricks, each sculpted and engraved with intricate patterns. Some bore blooming lotuses; others twisted into knotted vines. The artistry stretched beneath his feet, worn yet elegant, telling silent stories of time and craftsmanship.


    Leaning against the car window, he asked, ¡®How much?¡¯


    ¡®Forty bucks, sir,¡¯ the driver replied, holding out the payment reader.


    Bishop tapped his phone against it. ¡®That¡¯s a hundred¡ªthe rest is yours.¡¯


    He turned away, continuing down the passage as the car reversed and drove off, leaving him alone on the road.


    Bishop gazed into the distance. Nothing on either side¡ªno life, no cars, only the ancient road stretching into silence. Occasional lamp posts stood idle; their glow was drowned out by the radiant sun, waiting for the night to return.


    He walked on, but then in the distance the wreckage appeared in his eyesight. Reed and his men scattered around, carefully collecting evidence. As he got closer, the smell of smoke hit his nose, along with the smell of rusted metal. Reed noticed Bishop on the trail; he waved a leather-covered notebook at him.


    From a closer view, he saw a trailer cab slammed into a barricade beside the tunnel, the windshield shattered. Glass scattered on the dust-covered ground. The fender was demolished against the concrete; thick smoke billowed from the burning engine. A white cloth veiled the body slumped behind the wheel.


    ¡®As you can see, the driver¡¯s dead, the transport vehicle is heavily damaged, and the container is missing.¡¯ said Reed, tucking a pen inside his coat, his hand gripping tight on the book.


    ¡®Bad news for Mister Manager, isn¡¯t it?¡¯ Bishop chuckled. ¡®But anyway, is the GPS on?¡¯ He asked Reed, walking toward the roadside and looking down at the hillside. The empty trailer detached from the head and fell to the side of the road. A long trace of it sliding down the slope, but the container is nowhere to be found.


    ¡®Yeah, my men are working on it,¡¯ Reed replied.


    The starkness of the situation began to sink in as he examined the wreckage of the trailer. Bishop put on his teashades and glanced back. ¡®If you don¡¯t find it soon¡ª¡¯ he smiled, bright and unreadable. ¡®Mister Manager, I can guarantee we¡¯ll be in serious trouble.¡¯


    Reed frowned and came up with a forced, stiff smile. ¡®You say that like it¡¯s anything new.¡¯


    Bishop glanced up; his teashades reflected the clouds threatening rain. ¡®I thought you were the calm one¡ªdon¡¯t be a hothead just now; we¡¯ve got work to do.¡¯


    ¡®I¡¯d be calm if this mess hadn''t left my job hanging in the air. But isn¡¯t this your problem?¡¯ said Reed, scratching his head. ¡®A higher-up showing humility¡ªnow that¡¯s a rare sight.¡¯


    Bishop scoffs. ¡®Tch, I¡¯ll take that as a compliment. But more importantly¡ªwhat¡¯s in the book?¡¯


    As they spoke, one of Reed¡¯s men drifted toward the woods, eyes locked on a GPS locator. The device had been quiet until now¡ªthen, a sharp, mechanical beep shattered the silence. The sound grew quicker, pulsing faster and louder as he ran through the trees.


    Then, in the middle of the river, he saw it. A blue metal container sat half-submerged in the water.


    Bishop remained smiling as he glanced at the treeline behind the wreckage. ¡®Yeah, as I said, you shouldn''t be worried¡ª¡¯


    ¡®Hey, you guys wanna see this!¡¯ The shouting voice interrupted. He urgently waved them over to see what he had found. Instantly they looked at each other and both walked toward the other side of the road, climbed over the barricade, and made their way down to meet him.


    When they got to the shore, the man was sitting on a rock, pointing at the cargo container. Without hesitation, Bishop forded across the river. As he reached the container, to his surprise, the cargo door was unlocked. A circuit board had been hastily rigged to the security reader.


    He yanked the cargo door open. The water inside gushed between his feet. Inside¡ªnothing but water.


    Reed had followed him silently from the shore and now stood behind him, peering into the container. ¡®Stolen?¡¯ he asked.


    ¡®Yeah, stolen.¡¯ Bishop exhaled before moving back to the shore. He sat back on a log, legs shaking with thoughts.


    ¡®Do you have a name in mind?¡¯


    ¡®I think I should ask you that. Anyone in mind?¡¯


    Reed stood in silence, looking at the river-cast pebbles on the shore. ¡®Maybe¡¯, he said.


    ¡®Let''s head back to the road first.¡¯ said Bishop; he finally moved from the log, tapped on Reed''s shoulder, and so they climbed their way back to the road, followed by Reed''s men.


    As they got back to the road, Reed walked to his field desk inside the tunnel, fingers tapping against the smooth plastic surface before taking his seat and running through folders. It didn''t make sense. Neither was the timing. He exhaled through his nose, calmly turning to draft the reports.


    Bishop stood still, staring at the clouds like they had something to say. The wind curled through the tunnel, tugging at the edges of his coat. He could hear Reed¡¯s men talking in the distance, but the words felt weightless. His fingers traced the barricade. Just waiting.

 Chinese New Year

    Chapter 3


    Chinese New Year


    The wind howled through the tunnel, its cold bite stealing the warmth from my skin. The sky hung heavy, the air thick with the promise of rain¡ªa weight that pressed on my chest. It was the kind of night where the past crept up behind you, wrapping around your throat like a noose. I could still hear their voices, feel their presence¡ªsharp and unsettling, like the last warmth of a once-loved touch.


    But they were gone, and I never got to say goodbye.


    Across town, I stood before an old house, its front porch covered in cobwebs, catching dust. The windows were foggy, almost impossible to see through. I lowered myself onto the creaking floorboards, lit a cigarette, and stared at the overgrown yard. The clouded sky deepened to dark blue, making everything feel unreal, like a fading dream.


    I exhaled the smoke, rubbing my face as I tried to shake off the lingering thoughts. I stubbed out my cigarette and walked toward the door, an old lock hanging loose by the knob. The owner should really lock their property. I used to have a key. Where it went? I couldn¡¯t say. A smile flickered at the corner of my mouth.


    I broke the lock and stepped inside. The air was thick with stale neglect, and the floorboards groaned beneath my weight, a mournful protest against the stillness. I grabbed some spare mags from my stash and put everything back in place.


    As I turned, my eyes caught a frame resting on the desk. Hm. A place of memory. I inhaled the damp air one last time before stepping through the broken door.


    In front of the house, colourful sparks appeared at the edge of the horizon before they faded away.


    ¡®Firework?¡¯ I muttered to myself as I walked toward the city.


    Half an hour later, I stepped into Red Light Street. The air was thick with the sharp scent of garlic, fish sauce, and the faint, earthy tang of incense smoke. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting warm light that illuminated the crowds. The streets swirled with bodies, laughter, and the occasional shout of a street vendor calling to their children.


    Everywhere, fireworks echoed in the distance, while a majestic dragon puppet¡ªsurrounded by tourists¡ªdanced in the moonlight, adding to the festive chaos.


    On either side, restaurants spilt into the narrow space; their facades, painted in bold reds and golds, shimmered beneath the lanterns'' glow, while the shadows of diners were cast across the windows. Conversations in a dozen languages filled the air, each word blending together into a cheer that shouted, ¡®Chinese New Year!¡¯.


    I kept strolling.


    The crowd began to ease, and the chaos began to fade as I walked into the ¡°Red Light¡± district.


    Though humanity had risen, placing itself above beasts, it still drowned in lust, shackled to the tainted path of indulgence. The neon lights bled through the smoke in a garish haze, but no amount of colour could wash away the grime that clung to the streets.


    I sighed. But thinking back, I was no better than them¡ªnicotine to keep me sober, blinded by pessimism, addicted to the comfort I longed for. Now I am arrogant¡­


    Took a turn at a cut-through; I pulled out a piece of paper confirming the location.


    Bishop''s task required me to talk to a man named Brass. The folder labelled him as a ''highly dangerous¡¯ individual¡ªone of the biggest weapon dealers in Light City. But it also noted that he was ''negotiable'', as the position of a father had softened him.


    I approached the rusty aluminium door, but when I was about to knock, it was already ajar. Something was wrong.


    The door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound too loud in the thick silence.


    Inside, the living room was finely furnished but poorly lit, with only a single lamp casting weak light that barely pushed back the darkness.


    Then, a sickening sound¡ªlike the thrusting of a blade into flesh, or meat. It grew louder as I crept deeper into the house, passing a tight staircase.


    A few steps from the kitchen, the stench of rotting blood hit me, making me gag. Then I saw him¡ªa man sitting on the floor, a kitchen knife in hand, stabbing something over and over.


    ¡®Mister Brass?¡¯ I called, my hand reaching for the pistol under my coat.


    The figure froze, then snapped his head toward me, eyes wide and unblinking. He didn¡¯t reply. Slowly, he rose to his feet, the knife still clutched in his hand¡ªrevealing the bodies of a woman and a little girl in an embrace.


    Blood poured from the torn flesh of the woman¡¯s back, exposing a glimpse of pale ribcage. The little girl¡¯s wide, unblinking eyes were frozen, as if trying to capture every detail of the nightmare that was her final moment. Despite the crimson fluid seeping from her throat, soaking into the fabric of her shirt, her small arms clung tightly to her mother¡ªunwilling to let go.


    ¡®Those whispers¡­¡¯ Mister Brass whimpered, stumbling back before collapsing against an empty wall, his body curling in on itself as if something unseen had cornered him.


    I stood still, my body refusing to move as my heart hammered in my chest, telling me to do something.


    He was on his knees, hands covering his face, yet still clutching the knife in a white-knuckled grip. As his hands lowered, a sinister smile crept onto his face¡ªgrinned his teeth like a feral beast. His eyes gleamed with something twisted¡ªfear or madness, it was hard to tell.


    I stepped back as he stood back up again; Brass let out a broken chuckle, dragging the blade against the dining table with a slow, deliberate scrape. He tilted his head, as if listening to something only he could hear.


    ¡®No¡­ No!¡¯ he roared.


    The table flipped, sending dinnerware crashing to the ground in a violent clatter. His chest heaved, his grip tightening around the knife. Then, his voice softened, trembling with terrible joy.


    ¡®Ah¡­ so it¡¯s true,¡¯ he murmured, his eyes wild. ¡®The Lord had left us¡­ Leaving us all despite what we¡¯ve worshipped.¡¯


    He lurched; his body swayed like a lifeless puppet with sagging strings. ¡®If that is so¡­ I am freed. Freed from what Will he held over me.¡¯


    He ended with an inhuman, terrifying laugh. He launched himself toward me with the knife.


    The gun kicked back, the crack of the shot shattering the air. His body jolted¡ªstopped¡ªand lurched forward again. Blood spread across his stomach. He didn¡¯t flinch.


    Crack¡ªmy shot rumbled again¡ªblending with the distant firework. His leg crumpled.


    He collapsed on one knee, arm trembling as he kept crawling, trying to reach me¡ªcrack¡ªhis head snapped back. This time the body stilled, only the blood that slowly flooded the floor.


    It¡¯s over.


    I exhaled slowly, pressing the gun slide against my forehead. Then I sank into the chair beside the overturned table.


    The cold metal settled against my skin, seeping into my mind, calming my thoughts. It was strangely comforting and oddly familiar¡ªlike a cool hand resting on my forehead, checking for fever.


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    Was this really worth it? A path where the lines blurred, where nothing was ever black or white¡ªjust¡­ a job.


    I didn''t mind killing someone. But experiencing death? It was different.


    I slid the gun deep under my coat, glanced at the corpses again, and began to search around. How am I supposed to explain this now?


    The horror of the scene spread across the floor. I lowered myself to one knee and slowly reached for his pockets. But then I realised¡ªif there was something valuable or intel, he wouldn¡¯t be hiding it in his casual clothes.


    I drew the pistol back into my hand, gripping it tight, and quietly moved toward those doors¡ªclearing them one by one until the last. A scent of wilted flowers and firewood; soaked old books, but underneath it, something else lingered¡ªthin, metallic. Too cold, as if left rusting in the rain.


    My chest tightened as the air pressed down, a slow burn lingering in my nose. My heart pounded¡ªnot with panic, but with something quieter, something waiting. My head turned light, my body swaying ever so slightly, as if the ground itself had shifted beneath me.


    I gasped, pulling myself back, tucking my coat and covering my mouth. I sniffed, taking a deep breath, and pushed the door open.


    A paper-towered desk with a reading lamp; next to it was a fractured body mirror, its shards scattered on the ground; opposite it, a set of drawers leaning against the wall. Inside, the air was even thicker; the smell lingered like the soaked rain.


    Behind the desk, an envelope full of cash lay on the floor¡ªbut what caught my eye was the piece of paper beside it. I picked it up and slipped it under my coat. As I rose, something else caught my attention: a cylinder container with a black cap, lying just beneath the desk.


    I grabbed it and stepped out of the door. Outside, I sucked in a breath of cold air. The container was still in my hand¡ªmarked all over with the organisation¡¯s symbol. What the hell is this? I shoved it into my pocket and dialled the company.


    It entered voicemail.


    I said to the speaker, ¡®Need a carrier here in Red Light Street.¡¯ And hung up.


    After the call to the company, I slipped through the alley and onto Red Light Street. Rain stitched the smoke into the air¡ªrich with grilled meat and charred spice¡ªyet the crowd moved like nothing could touch them. Faces lit by neon, boots splashing through puddles, laughter rising like steam.


    A few steps away from the entryway.


    A hand gripped my shoulder, yanking me off balance. Instinctively, I drew my pistol, but before I could fire, a fist crashed into my jaw, knocking the gun from my hand. Another blow hammered into my ribs, sending a shockwave through my chest.


    I staggered, coughing, each breath sharp, burning.


    Then, two feet collided with my chest, sending me flying backward. I slammed into the pavement, skin scraping as I skidded to a halt, rain splattering across my face.


    I pushed myself up, spitting blood and rain. ¡®Shit.¡¯ My ribs groaned as I tried to stand.


    I weaved through the dense crowd, slipping between drunken festival-goers and flashing neon lights. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the greasy scent of fried street food, mingling with the cold bite of rain. Firecrackers popped in the distance, masking the sound of my hurried steps.


    I leaned against a stall, breathing, trembling. My vision blurred, the edges of the world fading. The picture of the little girl clung to her mother, her eyes staring into my soul. They weren¡¯t just eyes¡ªthey burned, like the weight of a thousand untold secrets pressed into my chest.


    In a blink, one of the brothers'' voices pulled me back to the surroundings.


    ¡®This is what those old asses struggled to deal with in the past? Pathetic.¡¯


    The pounding in my chest slowed, but the burn didn¡¯t leave. I gritted my teeth, pressing a hand to my ribs, my breath shallow. My gaze fixed on the shifting crowd, the murmurs of voices growing distant.


    Then¡ªfootsteps. Heavy, deliberate. One of the brothers. Getting closer.


    II lunged, the karambit slicing through the rain. He jerked back, seized my arm, and shoved it upward. A knee hammered into my ribs, sending a shock of pain through me.


    I hit the ground again.


    ¡®Tch, one of the most wanted¡ªthe name hanging for so long, just waiting to be avenged.¡¯ The brother grinned, licking his lips. ¡®What¡¯s wrong? Scared? Don¡¯t worry¡ªevery piece of you will be a worthy exchange for a red envelope this New Year.¡¯


    I pushed myself up, breath quavering.


    Then I dashed, closing the distance and lowering my body as my arm snapped upward with the karambit.


    He snapped his hand out, catching my wrist. His other clamped down on my forearm, stopping the blade inches from flesh.


    I flicked his hand off¡ªsnapped the blade back¡ªthen hooked it deep, burying it into his upper arm, punching through the red fabric of his festive shirt.


    A sharp palm struck his throat. The impact sent him stumbling back as I ripped the blade free, tearing the wound wider¡ªblood streaking down his sleeve.


    He smirked, shaking the blood from his arm. ¡®Not bad.¡¯


    He surged forward, throwing a straight punch. I shoved my arm out, deflecting it with a quick, outward motion. Another strike¡ªthis time a low right uppercut. I twisted my body, bringing my elbow down to intercept, redirecting the blow before it could land. He swept low¡ªI stepped back. He spun mid-air, whipping around with a kick aimed at my ribs.


    Pain burst through my arms. I slipped, boots screeching on the wet ground.


    The moment my balance wavered, he pressed forward¡ªsharp, relentless.


    A jab¡ªI knocked it aside. A hook¡ªI braced, my forearm absorbing the impact. Another kick snapped toward my leg¡ªI pivoted, turning my knee in just in time.


    Then¡ªan opening.


    Then, a punch came in too deep; I stepped in. My hand flicked out, deflecting it aside.


    The karambit darted forward; he tried to row my arm down, but I twisted my body¡ªmy left fist crashed into the centre of his chest with force.


    Thud.


    The force sent him stumbling, coughing against the blow.


    I gasped for air, my chest heaving with the strain, ribs aching with each breath.


    The brother exploded forward again¡ªa sharp strike, driving straight. I shoved it aside and dipped my head, the air slicing past just inches from my face. My other hand lashed out, karambit flashing¡ªblade tearing across his face.


    His head snapped to the side.


    I pressed in. Threw a straight-in strike¡ªhe parried it aside. The karambit''s curve swung for his throat¡ªhe leaned back, dodging it by millimetres. I dropped low¡ªmy shin slammed into his gut, knocking the breath from him¡ªmy knee drove hard, crushing into his chest.


    The Chinatown Brother staggered back, clutching his ribs, breath ragged.


    I didn¡¯t wait.


    I snapped the karambit forward, driving it into flesh¡ªa wet, tearing sound as it sank in. I ripped it free, my fist already following¡ªa cross cracked against his jaw. Blood spattered onto the pavement, swirling into the rain.


    He reeled back, barely dodging another slash. Then, with a snarl, he threw his whole, blood-soaked body forward¡ªone last desperate attempt to grab me.


    I ducked.


    My arm shot up¡ªknife driving deep through soaked fabric, sinking into flesh.


    The brother choked¡ªa sharp, guttural sound.


    I twisted. The blade hooked through muscle, tearing a deep horizontal cut.


    The brother froze, a shudder running through him. Blood spilled from the gash, mixing with the rain. He gagged, stumbling back before collapsing.


    The body hit the pavement. Blood pooled, swirling into the rain.


    I exhaled, flicking the karambit. Drops of red spattered the pavement.


    Then, I felt a presence.


    I felt it before I saw it.


    No voice of warning.


    I turned.


    The second brother stood a few feet behind me, rain slicking his dark jacket. His gaze flicked to the corpse, expression unreadable. His hand curled around a tanto grip behind his back.


    Then, like a gunshot¡ª


    He unsheathed and launched forward.


    I barely tilted my head, the slash cutting past the edge of my cheek.


    My hand snapped¡ªgripping his wrist. I swung the karambit toward his head¡ªhe ducked. The blade came around, pressing against his grip. I pulled to the side¡ªhis tanto slipped from his hand.


    A punch¡ªa straight, full-body strike. He stepped in, snapping a kick¡ªI caught it in the arm hinge, gritting my teeth at the impact.


    But as his foot tapped the ground¡ªhe twisted, a fetal back kick hit right into my ribs.


    I felt like throwing up¡ªsomething cracked inside. My stance broke for half a second¡ªjust long enough.


    A roundhouse kick doubled down to the ribs.


    I staggered back¡ªthen lost my footing. My heel slipped against the slick pavement, and in the next instant¡ªmy back hit the ground, images started to faint.


    But then my hand hit something cold¡ªthe gun.


    The second brother closed in, fury blinding him to everything but me¡ªhis foot lifted for another stomp.


    My fingers tightened around the gun. My breath slowed, steadying, despite the pain still shooting through my body.


    He didn¡¯t notice.


    The gun snapped up¡ª


    No hesitation this time...


    A sharp crack split the air, blending with the distant fireworks. The shot echoed, muffled only by the pounding rain.


    The second brother stopped mid-step. His eyes widened, a brief flicker of confusion before his body crumpled.


    One bullet.


    His head snapped back. The wet, crimson spray was lost in the rain¡ªbut the impact was clear.


    The brother¡¯s body hit the pavement with a dull thud.


    I exhaled, slowly pushing myself up, trying to stand straight¡ªbut my body swayed, tottering like a drunkard, stumbling in the wake of the brutes.


    The gun slipped into its holster. The karambit still clung to my hand.


    I¡¯d done what needed to be done.


    The sound of distant fireworks mingled with the pop of firecrackers, and the drumming of festival music seemed to drown out the memory of the fight.


    Red Light Street remained blissfully unaware of the violence that had just unfolded on its fringes. The neon signs, the bustling food stalls, the scatter of street vendors¡ªeverything worked to hide the blood and death behind me.


    People laughed and shouted, their voices rising above the rain. A few drunken tourists stumbled past, smiling, clueless.


    I strolled on, boots splashing through puddles.


    Not far before my body gave in¡ªleaned against a pole.


    The phone slid out again¡ªcalled for pickup.


    No answer. Just a long, deep tone.


    ¡®Need a lift. Red Light Street.¡¯


    I hung up, catching my breath before slowly sinking to the street, sitting down.