The market swallowed Ony like a beast, its streets thick with bodies moving aimlessly, driven by hunger, need, and forgotten dreams. The air stank of desperation, mingling with the scent of ripe fruit and burnt grease from the vendor stalls. He walked past the usual faces—the strung-out addicts lingering in the shadows, grandmothers whose solitude was as heavy as the bags they carried. This part of the city had long since been abandoned by the powerful. No law held sway here, only the gangs who ruled with quiet violence, like whispers in the dark.
Ony moved purposefully, pausing at a stall laden with bruised fruit. He picked through the offerings, selecting a few that would make a decent enough gesture at the next meeting. The colors of the fruit, muted and pale under the dust of the market, seemed out of place in the hands of a man who knew nothing but gray.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a rusted scrap dealer’s stall, barely standing behind a door so worn it seemed like a sigh might bring it down. He approached, half-thinking of tables and benches the meeting hall lacked. The rest of the space was lost to time, much like the people who drifted here. He went in, scouting the store for minutes.
Suddenly, the door burst open with a violent crack, breaking the rhythm of the market. A man stormed in, his eyes wild, brandishing a pistol like a man with nothing left to lose.
“Where’s my fucking ring?!” he roared, the words slicing through the air, his voice raw with betrayal. His hand shook, the pistol swinging in the dealer’s face.
The scrap dealer, a man who had seen his share of threats, still flinched, his voice trembling. “I don’t—how should I know which ring is yours?”
The man’s gaze flicked to a small tray of rings, his breath catching when his eyes locked onto one. “That one. That was my sister’s. And you dared to sell it?” His voice cracked on the word ‘sister,’ the pistol rising with newfound fury. “Who sold it to you?”
“I can’t tell you that…” The dealer’s voice dropped to a whisper, fear tightening his throat as the barrel pressed against his forehead.
The man cocked the gun, his face a mask of desperation. “Tell me now, or you’re dead.”
As Ony watched from the shadows, the flicker of a mark on the man’s wrist caught his eye—the mark of the organization. Silently, he moved, slipping closer, unnoticed.
“I… It was a man called Rif,” the dealer finally stammered. “I don’t know him well, but he’s dangerous.”
The man lowered his gun, the weight of betrayal heavy on his shoulders. Ony saw it in his face—the slow realization of a knife in his back, the world crumbling around him. Without another word, the man turned toward the door.
Ony’s movements were swift and fluid. He closed the distance with the grace of a shadow, seizing the man’s arm and twisting the gun from his grip in one motion. The cold steel of the barrel pressed against the man’s temple before he even realized what had happened.
“Who are you?” Ony’s voice was calm, a deep current undercutting the chaos. “And why do you bear the mark?”
The man, frozen, hesitated, then spoke in a voice that barely held together. “I… I don’t have a problem with you, man. I’m just trying to get my sister’s ring back. She’s dead. That ring—it’s all I have left of her.” His voice cracked, and the grief bled through the anger, softening him like rain on stone. “I have nothing else. I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll kill him.”
Ony’s grip loosened as he took in the man’s words, his expression unreadable. He could feel the man's pain, raw and real. The tears that fell weren’t from weakness; they were from a heart gutted by life’s cruelty.
"You’ve been to the organization,” Ony said, lowering the gun but keeping his gaze locked on the man. “You wear the mark, but you haven’t joined. You’re lost, brother. Life is a cruel joke, and Rif—he’s selfish, but he’s playing the same game we all are.”
He tossed the pistol at the man’s feet, the gun shattering as Ony crushed it beneath his boot. “Revenge won’t bring you peace. You don’t need it. You need clarity. Right now, your emotions are drowning you.”
The man stood there, trembling, grief rippling through him. “Of course I can’t think straight,” he whispered. “Life has fucked me up. I can’t take it anymore.”
Ony stared at him, the silence between them thick with unspoken truths. Then, without another word, Ony turned, leaving the man standing in the debris of his broken revenge.
Ony’s steps were slow and steady as he left the man behind, but before he could fade back into the rhythm of the market, he heard footsteps running after him.
"Wait!" The man’s voice, still trembling from the earlier encounter, caught up with him. Ony stopped, his back to the man, his face expressionless.
"Take me back," the man said, breathless. "To the organization. I’ll decide this time. I need to."
Ony turned to face him, the cold detachment in his eyes softening ever so slightly. Another lost soul. "What’s your name?"
"Jake," the man replied, his voice quieter now, as if saying it aloud reminded him of who he once was. "Jake."
Ony nodded once. "Follow me."
They moved together through the maze of the market, the noise and chaos swallowing their footsteps. Ony led, his eyes scanning the crowd, always searching, always aware. Jake, silent beside him, walked like a man pulled in two directions—toward hope or despair, neither clear.
As they turned a corner, Ony’s gaze landed on a figure ahead, dressed in plain, civilian clothing. Something about him tugged at Ony’s memory, a faint echo of recognition. At first, it was nothing—a face he'd seen before, perhaps. But as they moved closer, that echo became a pulse, and the pulse grew into a tremor deep within his gut. His body tensed, muscles locking, though his face remained impassive.
Hart.
Ony’s breath didn't falter, but his mind raced. The memory of Hart’s cold eyes and cruel ambition flickered, but Ony kept himself steady, calculating. He hadn’t seen him in a long time, and yet here he was, moving through the market as if he belonged. Hart never moved without purpose, and Ony knew better than to underestimate that.
Without slowing his pace, Ony leaned toward Jake, his voice cold and controlled. "Go the other way. Now."
Jake blinked, confused, but Ony’s tone left no room for argument. They veered off, slipping between two stalls and into the shadows, where the noise of the market dulled. From their hidden spot, they watched Hart as he moved through the crowd, alone, dressed in clothes too ordinary for him. His eyes scanned the market with quiet precision.
Ony’s mind ticked through possibilities. Hart never appeared without a reason. What was he doing here?
Pulling his phone from his pocket, Ony quickly dialed Rif’s number. His hand was steady as the call connected. Rif’s voice came through the static, casual and unbothered.
“We have a problem,” Ony said, keeping his voice low. “Hart’s at the market.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, then Rif’s voice sharpened. “Hart? Are you sure?”
Ony’s eyes never left Hart’s figure. “I’m sure.”
On the other end of the line, Rif was leaning casually against a lamppost, cigarette hanging lazily from his lips, watching the world pass by with disinterest. The smoke curled upward, lost in the city air, but when Ony’s words fully sank in—Hart at the market—the cigarette suddenly felt too heavy, its weight like a ticking clock. He stubbed it out violently against the wall and threw it aside, his mind snapping into focus.
"Get to safety," Rif instructed, his voice urgent now. "Don’t pick a fight we can’t win. He’s not alone, I’m sure of it. I’ll be there as soon as I can."
With that, Rif ended the call, pocketing his phone and breaking into a run, dodging pedestrians as he raced toward the nearest bus stop. His mind churned with plans, but the one constant was simple: Hart cannot be underestimated.
Meanwhile, Ony tightened his grip on Jake’s arm, not hard enough to alarm him, but firm enough to let him know this was no time for questions. Without a word, they wove through the market’s chaotic flow, Ony’s eyes darting from face to face, searching for threats. Hart wasn’t the type to stroll into a place like this without backup, and that made every stranger a potential enemy.
Spotting a narrow alley that led to a cluster of dilapidated buildings, Ony led Jake through the crowd, quick but quiet, like a predator guiding its prey out of sight. They reached the alley’s mouth, slipping into the shadows unnoticed, and bolted toward a crumbling building that looked like it had seen better centuries.
They dashed inside, the air stale and thick with neglect, and headed for the stairs. Every creak beneath their feet felt too loud, but Ony pushed forward, leading Jake up flight after flight, never stopping to catch his breath. By the time they reached the top, the weight of the chase pressed on them both, but there was no time for exhaustion. Ony carefully approached the edge of the roof, crouching low as he peeked out over the market below.
Hart was still there, weaving through the crowd with deliberate ease, scanning faces like a hunter surveying prey. His movements were calm, calculated, as though he was waiting for something—or someone.
From his vantage point on the rooftop, Ony felt tension coiling within him, though his expression stayed hard. Hart’s presence here meant something, but what? The man looked out of place, desperate even, but to Ony, that made him more dangerous. A corporate man with untold power, influence, and resources. If Hart was here, walking the market streets like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, there was no telling what kind of force he had lurking in the shadows.
Ony’s hands were steady as he grabbed Jake by the arm, pulling him back from the edge.
"Stay low. We can’t let him see us. Not yet," Ony whispered, voice cool and measured. His gaze never left Hart, who continued moving from stall to stall, asking questions that, to anyone else, would seem harmless. But Ony knew better. Hart was too high up the food chain to be doing anything as simple as scouting for parts. There had to be something else. There was always something else with men like him.
"Listen to me, Jake," Ony murmured, his voice steady and cold. "That man down there... he's not like the others. He's dangerous. If he finds out we're watching him, it’s over for both of us. Understand?"
Jake’s eyes widened as he nodded slowly. He didn’t know the details, but Ony’s words carried the weight of certainty, and that was enough.
They peered over the edge again, watching Hart as he stopped at yet another stall, this time holding up a discarded circuit board, asking the vendor something they couldn’t hear. Even from this distance, Ony could see the frustration building in Hart’s face. It made no sense. A man like Hart didn’t need to beg for scraps in a forgotten part of the city. But the desperation, however slight, was unmistakable.
And yet, even with that desperation, Ony couldn't shake the feeling that Hart had some unseen power looming over them all. He was a man who could unleash hell if he wanted to, even if he appeared out of place now. As Hart moved on, the tension in the market thickened, and it wasn’t long before whispers began to spread.
The gang’s lookouts, always present, always watching, had already marked him as suspicious. The word traveled fast, and soon enough, the boss himself had heard the name Hart being thrown around. It was only a matter of time before things escalated. Rif knew this too. That’s why he was running.
As Rif pushed through the crowded streets, his phone buzzed again. The boss. Shit. He didn’t need a second reminder that time was running out.
"Just keep your men away from him," Rif muttered into the phone, trying to keep his voice calm despite the rising dread. "If he even suspects you’re watching him, we’re all dead. Let me handle it."
The boss grumbled something in return before hanging up. Rif ran harder, knowing full well that whatever was about to unfold, Hart would be the one pulling the strings, and they’d all be at his mercy.
Hart stood in the crowded, gritty marketplace, trying to keep his composure despite the growing frustration gnawing at him. His plain clothes did nothing to mask the fact that he didn't belong here. The vendors eyed him with suspicion, their patience wearing thin as Hart haggled over prices.
“This is all I’ve got,” Hart said, pulling a few crumpled bills from his pocket and holding them up to the vendor. “But if you help me, I can build something far greater. A future where none of us have to struggle like this. Think about the possibilities!”
The vendor, an older man with deep lines of weariness carved into his face, stared at the bills, unimpressed. "I don't care about the future, man. I care about getting paid today. You want this part or not? 'Cause you're wasting my time."
Hart’s mind raced. He needed the parts—without them, his project would stall. His vision for a better world would falter. But these people didn’t understand. They were stuck in survival mode, blind to the greater possibilities.
"You don't see it," Hart continued, his voice taking on a tone of desperation as he tried to appeal to the vendor’s logic. "This is more than just a transaction. It’s an opportunity to be part of something revolutionary. A future where scarcity doesn’t exist—where technology empowers us all."
The vendor narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Look, pal. I’ve been hearing that ‘better future’ crap for decades. Ain't none of it come true. You think you're the first one to roll through here with big promises? I’m not interested. Take your money somewhere else."
Hart stepped back, frustration growing as the vendor turned his attention to the next customer, dismissing him entirely. He looked around the market, scanning faces for anyone who might understand his vision. Potential allies—someone with enough ambition, enough dissatisfaction with the way things were, to join him. But the market buzzed with indifference, the people around him too focused on their daily survival to even hear his words.
Hart saw a younger man, standing at the edge of a stall, arms crossed, looking like he didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the vendors. Maybe he was a drifter, someone untethered. Hart approached with renewed energy.
“You,” Hart began, his voice steady as he tried to appear more authoritative than he felt. “You look like someone who’s not satisfied with the way things are. I’m building something—a future where people like you and me don’t have to live like this. If you work with me, we can change everything.”
The man raised an eyebrow, looking Hart up and down with a mix of amusement and confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“A revolution,” Hart replied, his voice filled with a fervor that had won over colleagues in boardrooms, but was now failing miserably in the street. “I’m an inventor. I have technology—ideas that can reshape society. You help me, and you’ll be part of something bigger than you’ve ever imagined.”
The man’s expression hardened. “You recruiting? Here? In this part of town?”
Hart blinked, genuinely confused. “What do you mean? I’m offering you a chance to join something... transformative.”
The man snorted and shook his head. “You really don’t get it, do you? You don’t just walk around here recruiting people. You know whose territory this is?”
Hart’s face remained blank. “No... should I?”
The man chuckled darkly. “You’re either real stupid or you’re crazy brave, but either way, you’re about to get in a whole lot of trouble.” He motioned to someone nearby.
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Before Hart could react, another man—bigger, meaner-looking—came over, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Hart. The first man spoke briefly to him, and the larger man’s face shifted into something unreadable.
“Who the hell are you?” the enforcer asked, stepping closer, his posture aggressive. “Recruiting on our turf?”
Hart, still trying to piece together what was happening, raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m just looking for allies—people who want to build something better. I don’t even know whose territory this is.”
The enforcer’s eyes darkened. “You don’t even know who runs this place? You must be outta your mind, man.”
Hart felt his heart race, his palms sweaty. He wasn’t prepared for this. It wasn’t a robbery, as he initially feared—it was something worse. He was completely out of his element.
“I don’t have much,” Hart said, trying to deescalate. “I’m not a threat. I’m just looking for help.”
The larger man gave him a once-over, then snorted. “Help? From us? You got balls, I’ll give you that. But you’re asking for a beating, not help.”
Just then, a few more figures appeared, emerging from the crowd like sharks circling a wounded animal. Hart’s stomach sank. They formed a loose ring around him, and he could feel the tension in the air rising. His instincts screamed at him to run, but he knew there was nowhere to go.
One of the men shoved him hard, sending him stumbling. “Get outta here. This place ain’t for you.”
Hart regained his balance, trying to think of something—anything—that could get him out of this situation. But before he could speak, one of the gang members raised a hand, halting the shove that would have followed. The man pulled out a phone, glanced at the screen, and frowned.
He held up a hand, signaling the others to stop. “Wait. Got a call from Mitch. Says to bring this guy in. Boss wants to talk to him.”
Hart’s stomach lurched. The sudden shift in tone unsettled him more than the threat of violence had. Why did they want him brought in? What did they know?
“Combat ready,” the man muttered, looking around at the others. “Mitch thinks he might have friends. Could be a cop or... worse. A corporate.”
Hart swallowed hard. He tried to speak up, to explain himself, but no words came. Before he knew it, they grabbed him by the arms and marched him deeper into the market. The faces that had ignored him before now watched him with cold indifference, as if this was just another part of life in this part of the city.
As they led him through the narrow streets, Hart’s mind raced. How had everything gone so wrong so fast?
Ony watched from the shadows of the crowded marketplace, his heart racing with confusion and concern. His eyes trailed after the group of men who had surrounded Hart, now pulling him deeper into the underbelly of the district. Hart didn’t resist, didn’t fight back. Instead, he allowed himself to be dragged along, which was what troubled Ony the most. Hart was always so calculated, always one step ahead—so why wasn’t he calling on his men for backup? Why wasn’t anyone intervening?
Still standing in his secluded spot, Ony hesitated for a moment, then quickly pulled out his phone. He needed answers.
"Man," Ony said, his voice hushed and tense as the call connected. "Something very strange is happening. Some unknown men circled Hart, and now they're taking him somewhere. They’ve gone out of view."
There was a brief pause on the other end, then Rif’s voice came through, sharp and tinged with annoyance. "Are you fucking serious? And they successfully took him?"
Ony nodded, though Rif couldn’t see it. "Yes. I don't know what Hart is trying to do, but he wasn’t fighting back. He didn’t even call for help."
A frustrated sigh came through the line as Rif processed this. Ony could almost hear the gears turning in Rif's head. "Why the hell would Hart let them take him?" Rif muttered, half to himself. "What’s his angle? Maybe he wants them to take him to the boss… maybe his men are following, planning to wipe out the gang’s leadership. But this seems... unnecessarily dangerous."
Ony couldn’t shake the strange, unsettling feeling in his gut. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t figure out what. Rif’s theory didn’t sit well with him, but maybe that’s because Hart wasn’t behaving in any way Ony would have expected.
"I'm only a few minutes away," Rif continued. Ony could hear the edge of urgency in his voice. "My bus is nearly there. I’ll handle this. Are you in safety?"
Ony looked around, his eyes scanning the crowd once more, but no one seemed to notice him or care about his presence. "Yes," he replied, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Don't worry about me."
Rif grunted in acknowledgment before abruptly hanging up.
The silence between Ony and Jake stretched, the weight of the market’s usual buzz fading into the background. Both men waited, tension gnawing at Ony as his eyes lingered on the alley where Hart had been taken. Jake, beside him, seemed lost in his own thoughts.
After a long pause, Jake broke the silence. “Maybe I should just… jump off the roof.”
Ony sighed deeply, keeping his tone measured but compassionate. “There are better ways, Jake. Ways that don’t involve so much... suffering. We can offer you something peaceful. You wouldn’t feel a thing.”
Jake hesitated, glancing down at his feet. “I won’t jump. Not now. But… how do you deal with it? With the anger? The need for revenge?”
Ony frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”
Jake finally looked up, his eyes filled with frustration. “I’m talking about Rif. I saw him kill one of your people. Someone who was part of your organization.”
Ony froze. “What do you mean?”
Jake studied Ony’s reaction, surprised by the shock that crossed his face. “Wait,” he said slowly, realization dawning on him. “You didn’t know, did you?”
Ony shook his head, struggling to hide his unease. “No… no, I didn’t.”
Jake’s brow furrowed, confusion deepening. “You mean, your people didn’t tell you about it? About Rif killing one of your own?”
Ony kept silent for a moment, the weight of Jake’s words pressing down on him. Rif had acted without informing anyone, without consulting the organization. It wasn’t like him to be so reckless. Or maybe it was, and Ony was just blind to it before now.
Jake glanced sideways at Ony, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Who are you, anyway? You act like you’re in charge or something, but you didn’t even know what Rif did. You’re not one of the street guys, so what’s your deal? What’s your name?”
Ony met Jake’s gaze, hesitating for a second before replying. “My name’s Ony.”
Jake nodded slowly, processing the information. “So, Ony… what happens now? You gonna tell your people about this? About Rif?”
Ony looked away, staring into the crowded market but not really seeing it. "I don’t know yet."
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and desperation, mingling with the sharp tang of rust from the nearby metal scraps. Rif entered the market, cutting through the throng like a knife through flesh. Jake’s gaze zeroed in on him, a flash of anger igniting within him. “There he is,” he said, his voice a low growl, as if the very name carried the weight of a curse.
Rif moved with a predator’s grace, weaving effortlessly through the sea of bodies, his demeanor confident as he headed toward the same alley where Hart had been taken. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, and for a moment, the world around him faded, the vibrant chaos of the market blurring into a backdrop for his solitary pursuit. As he disappeared into the darkness of the alley, an unsettling chill settled over Jake.
Jake's frustration bubbled over as he turned back to Ony, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. “Who were you on the phone with?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.
Ony hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in rhythm with the chaotic pulse of the market. “It was Rif.”
Jake’s eyes widened, disbelief crashing over him like a tidal wave. “Rif is part of the organization?” he echoed, his voice rising in pitch, laced with incredulity and a hint of betrayal.
“Yes.” Ony replied, his tone steady, though a storm brewed in his chest.
Jake took a step back, the reality dawning on him like the dim light of dawn breaking through the night. “Then maybe… maybe this organization isn’t what I thought it was. If someone like him is part of it, then…”
Ony turned to face Jake, concern etched across his features, shadows deepening around them. “What are you trying to say?”
Jake clenched his fists, the internal struggle etched on his face like the jagged lines of a shattered mirror. “I thought joining would mean safety, a way out. But if it’s got killers like Rif lurking in the dark, maybe I should consider another way.”
Jake's eyes darted toward the alley where Rif had vanished, uncertainty gnawing at him like a ravenous beast. “I don't know if I can trust someone like him. But…”
Ony nodded, sensing the shift in Jake's mindset as the world around them grew colder, the weight of their choices looming larger than the bustling market. “Just think it through. You don’t have to make any decisions right now.”
Jake took a deep breath, his chest tightening, a storm of emotions swirling inside him. “Yeah, well, let’s see what Rif is up to. Maybe I’ll figure out where I stand after that.”
Hart was shoved through the heavy door of the bar, stumbling into a dim, suffocating atmosphere. The muffled thrum of bass-heavy music vibrated through the worn floorboards, and low voices rumbled in pockets of shadow. A haze of smoke curled lazily in the air, thick with the scent of cheap liquor, sweat, and the acrid stench of desperation. His throat tightened as he struggled to adjust to the dim light, his eyes squinting through the gloom.
He saw it then—the opulence of the VIP section at the far end, cordoned off by velvet ropes that seemed almost laughably out of place. There, bathed in soft light, sat the boss. A man who exuded the kind of confidence that came from absolute control over his little empire. Crystal glasses filled with vibrant, unnatural colors sat on the low table in front of him, casting fractured reflections on the smoke-stained walls. A couple of women leaned close, their laughter sharp, brittle, and cutting through the oppressive air.
Hart’s heart raced as he was roughly prodded forward by the enforcers. Every fiber of his being screamed that he didn’t belong here. He clutched the front of his jacket nervously, trying to keep the panic at bay.
“Who do you work for?” The boss’s voice cut through the room, slow and deliberate, each word a blade drawn across Hart’s fraying nerves. His gaze barely lingered on Hart, flicking over him with bored disinterest, as if already deciding his fate.
Hart opened his mouth, but before he could answer, one of the enforcers who had dragged him in interrupted, his voice rough. “He’s been snooping around the market. Trying to recruit without permission.”
The boss’s lips curled into a lazy smirk as he leaned back, dismissing the women with a slight gesture of his hand. His casual cruelty sent a cold shiver down Hart’s spine. “Another wannabe cop? Or maybe a corporate rat?” His eyes sharpened as his interest piqued. “You must have a death wish, walking into my territory like that.”
Hart swallowed hard, his throat dry. The walls seemed to close in as the gang members shifted around him like a pack of wolves closing in on wounded prey. His mind raced, grasping for the right words, something to stop the inevitable.
“I—I can help you. I’m not here to interfere. I’m offering an alliance. Together, we can build a better future, reshape this—”
The boss’s chuckle cut him off, cold and devoid of warmth. He reached for a crystal glass, swirling the liquid inside with casual disinterest as he ignored Hart's desperate plea. The silence stretched as he took a slow sip, savoring the taste, before finally setting the glass down.
“Dreams don’t mean much in a place like this,” he said softly, his voice laced with mockery. “Around here, the only thing that matters is respect.”
With a flick of his wrist, he nodded to the enforcers. “Show him the consequences of his little fantasy.”
Before Hart could react, the first fist landed square in his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. He staggered, clutching at his side, but the blows didn’t stop. Another punch slammed into his ribs, and then another. He gasped, choking on pain, as the rough wood of the bar bit into his back. His vision blurred as he tried to speak, tried to plead, but the words tangled with the taste of blood in his mouth.
His glasses fell from his face, clattering to the ground, shattering beneath the boot of an enforcer. He could barely see now, the world around him a mess of shadows and blurred faces.
“Wait—just listen—” Hart tried to choke out, but his words were drowned by the next wave of fists.
The pressure of the gang’s disdain pressed in, their laughter harsh and cruel. He felt utterly powerless, the idealistic plans in his mind shattering like the glass underfoot.
Suddenly, a voice broke through the chaos.
“Boss, hold up!”
Mitch, the boss’s lieutenant, rushed forward, his urgency cutting through the haze of violence. He stepped close to the boss, leaning in to whisper, his voice taut with caution. “We might not want to be hasty with this one. Let’s wait for Rif. He might know who this guy is.”
The boss paused mid-sip, the smirk slipping from his face as Mitch’s words sank in. His eyes narrowed, a hint of uncertainty breaking through his bravado. “Rif? You think this one’s connected to him?”
Before Mitch could answer, the door to the bar swung open with a force that made the light fixtures above flicker. Rif strode in, his silhouette cutting through the smoke-filled air. The bar seemed to still at his presence, conversations faltering, laughter fading to an uneasy silence.
His sharp gaze swept the room, and when it landed on Hart—crumpled on the floor, surrounded by menacing thugs—his expression tightened. The sound of fists colliding with flesh still echoed in the background, but it wasn’t a sound Rif could ignore.
“Let him go.”
Rif’s voice cut through the room like a blade, cold and commanding. The gangsters hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances before looking to the boss. The boss, now far less amused, gave a curt nod.
The hands that had pinned Hart to the bar loosened, and he collapsed onto the grimy floor, gasping for breath. He clutched at his side, his body trembling from the beating. The shattered remains of his glasses lay beside him.
Rif moved swiftly, crouching beside Hart and grabbing his arm to pull him up. “Get up.” he muttered, his voice low, almost too quiet beneath the tension.
Hart’s legs wobbled as he tried to steady himself, his body still protesting with pain.
The boss raised an eyebrow, leaning forward just slightly, his fingers drumming on the glass before him. His voice, low and gravelly, cut through the murmur of the room. “I can’t just let this go, Rif. If I don’t punish him, what message does that send?” He let the question hang, a warning. “Chaos follows leniency.”
Rif, unfazed, kept his eyes locked on the boss. “This man,” he said, jerking his head toward Hart, “is the most influential corporate scientist out there. If you kill him, he could summon a whole army of cops and corporate agents. They’d be at your door within hours, and none of your men would be ready for that kind of heat.”
The boss tilted his head, his expression darkening as he considered Rif’s words. Silence stretched through the bar, thick with tension, broken only by the soft clink of the boss's glass as he poured himself another drink. He swirled the liquid inside, lost in thought, before finally letting out a low chuckle.
“Combat ready,” he barked, his voice loud and sharp enough to send a jolt through the room.
Instantly, the mood shifted. Every gang member in the bar moved in sync, hands slipping to holsters, bats, knives, and guns emerging from jackets and belts. Weapons glinted in the dim light, catching on the hazy smoke that still swirled lazily around the room. The civilians, who moments ago had been laughing, drinking, or quietly talking, froze. Panic spread through their ranks as they began to realize the violence about to unfold.
Chairs scraped against the floor as people scrambled to their feet, pushing and shoving their way toward the exit. A woman’s scream pierced the air as the mob surged toward the door, the sharp contrast of terror clashing with the cold efficiency of the gang members preparing for a fight. Bottles shattered as they were knocked over in the chaos, spilling liquor across the floor.
Hart felt his heart pound in his chest, the sweat beading on his forehead. His breaths came shallow and fast as the reality of the situation hit him hard. His eyes darted around the room, the flash of weapons reflecting in his wide, panicked gaze. He had no escape, no chance of talking his way out of this anymore.
The boss leaned back in his chair, watching the civilians scatter with mild amusement, swirling his drink in his hand. His voice, calm and collected, cut through the commotion. “You see, Rif, I have to maintain order. If I let one man slip by, the rest will think they can do the same. And that—” he gestured casually with his glass, “would be the beginning of chaos.”
Rif’s jaw tightened, but he stood his ground. His voice, low and measured, was barely audible over the chaos. “You’re about to start a war, boss. This man’s not worth it. The second he dies, corporate security will tear through this place like a firestorm. All that power you hold? It won’t mean a thing when the cops and suits lock this place down.”
“Those corporates want to test me, to see if I’ll bend my knee without a fight. They send an unarmed scientist who has the gall to disrespect us, break our rules, and expects me to forgive him? Not a chance, Rif. Step aside.”
Rif stepped aside, the weight of his boss's seriousness crashing down on him, crushing any lingering sense of authority he thought he had. Memories of their shared history flashed in his mind—how he had once earned respect through cunning and strength. Now, all he could do was watch as the tension thickened like smoke in the air, suffocating and oppressive. He silently racked his brain for a way to deescalate, but every word felt like a potential spark in a room full of gasoline.
“Put your pistol against Hart’s head, Mitch,” the boss ordered, his voice low and edged with fury. Mitch complied, the cold metal pressing against Hart’s temple. He stood ready to deliver a final, brutal verdict, but the boss hesitated, deep in thought, his jaw clenched tight.
Hart’s heart raced, panic clawing at him as visions of his dreams flickered like dying embers. He had imagined finding allies among those who despised the system, but now, death loomed large, its shadow swallowing hope. Would this really be the end of everything he fought for?
Leaning back, the boss’s expression hardened, a mask of resolve, but behind it lay an undercurrent of doubt. He pulled out his phone, fingers tapping urgently. Rif felt the tension coil tighter, each second stretching painfully. The weight of impending violence hung in the air like a thick fog. “Yeah, it’s me. We’ve got a situation… a corporate rat in my bar. If things go south, will you honor our alliance?” His voice dripped with steel resolve, but the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze betrayed the stakes he grappled with.
After a brief silence, he ended the call, a smirk creeping onto his face. “Looks like we’ll be throwing down after all. Can’t let the corporations think we’re weak, can we?”
Hart braced himself, every muscle in his body tensed as he anticipated the boss’s command that would seal his fate. But just then, a piece of paper slipped from Hart’s pocket, fluttering to the ground like a white flag of surrender. The room fell silent, all eyes drawn to the fallen note.
“What’s this?” the boss muttered, stepping forward to snatch it up, irritation giving way to curiosity. He unfolded the paper, and his expression shifted subtly, intrigued by whatever secret it held.
Rif seized the moment, adrenaline surging through him. “Maybe keeping him alive is worth more,” he urged, urgency lacing his voice as he stepped closer to the boss. “He could be a valuable asset.”
The boss’s eyes narrowed, wrestling with the suggestion. “An asset?” he repeated, weighing the words as if they were stones on a scale. He glanced back at Hart, whose face reflected desperation mingled with fleeting relief. The sweat beading on Hart’s forehead glistened in the dim light, a testament to his fear and determination. “You think the corporates will care about him if we hold him? They might just come after us harder.”
“They will care,” Rif insisted, his voice rising with conviction. “This is a chance to leverage power. If they see a way to save their precious scientist, they might think twice before coming after us.”
The boss hesitated, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He clenched his jaw, the tension in the room thickening as he battled his own thoughts. “It could go wrong. We could end up on their radar more than we are already.”
“Or,” Rif pressed, leaning in closer, “we could gain the upper hand. Imagine negotiating with them. He’s not just a scientist; he’s a key.”
The boss's gaze flicked between Rif and Hart, uncertainty battling ambition. “You really think he’s worth all that trouble?” he finally asked, skepticism mingling with intrigue.
“Yes. Alive, he’s an opportunity. Dead, he’s just another body in the gutter.”
The boss inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling with the weight of the moment. The silence felt deafening, each second dragging out the tension as he contemplated the risk. Finally, he sighed, the lines on his face deepening as he made up his mind. “A prisoner, then. Insurance against their retaliation.” He turned to Mitch, still poised with his gun. “Stand down. We’re not killing him today.”
Mitch hesitated, confusion flickering in his eyes as he registered the shift in the atmosphere. “But boss—”
“Do it!” the boss snapped, his voice slicing through the tension like a knife. “Tie him up. Let’s see how eager the corporates are to negotiate when they realize their little scientist is in our hands.”
Hart exhaled shakily, relief washing over him momentarily, but the harsh reality settled back in. As the enforcers moved to bind his hands, he felt the ropes tighten around his wrists, a physical reminder of his predicament. This wasn’t freedom; it was imprisonment. But it was better than death... wasn’t it?