After Steven Crane concluded his call, a profound unease overcame him, compelling him to restlessly prowl every corner of his residence, vigilantly checking each door and verifying the integrity of every lock. The world outside seemed to hush, every sound muted, as Crane's heart pounded in his chest, his pores exuding sweat profusely. His senses tingled, and then, amidst the oppressive silence, he detected the distinct crunching of boots in the snow.

At first, he questioned his own senses, attributing the sound to mere paranoia. However, as he concentrated, the unmistakable scrape of an intruder's attempt to breach the back door confirmed his worst fears.

Crane stood petrified by terror, his mind a whirlwind of frantic thoughts.

"It must be the police," he reasoned.

Checking his watch, only a few minutes had elapsed since the Chief Constable’s call. Panic surged as he hurriedly made for his bedroom, desperate to access his safe where he kept his sidearm. A relic from his time in the Great War. But trembling hands and a harried state thwarted his efforts to open the safe, no matter how strenuously he struggled.

Then, a shattering of glass as a window was violated, sending a shiver of dread through Crane. Someone was unequivocally closing in on him.

He pondered a desperate escape through his bedroom window, but the peril of a fatal fall or susceptibility to an unknown assailant halted him in his tracks. Panic-stricken, he surged forward, a singular objective in mind: reach the front door and summon help.

With breathless haste, Crane navigated the upper-floor hallway and descended the staircase, muttering to himself.

“A right turn, and I'm at the front door, I can make it."

However, as he made the critical turn, he confronted a sinister figure barring his escape. Before Crane could muster a word or action, three shots resounded, and he crumpled lifeless to the ground.

The assailant, holstering his weapon with eerie composure, passed over the fallen body and focused solely on his objective. From Crane's safe, he extracted a file containing the contracts of the late Steven Crane's business affairs, indifferent to the wealth and hidden secrets it housed.

He retreated methodically, erasing fingerprints and collecting spent bullet casings. He calmly walked out of the house to a parked car nearby, the driver just as calm as the gunman waited for his accomplice to sit in the passenger seat.

Unbeknownst to them, a witness had observed their nefarious act.

As they sped away, a car on their tail grabbed their attention. Each left turn was mirrored, every right turn followed. Speculation arose amongst the criminals, with one suggesting it might be a police pursuit.

"Just continue calmly; they have nothing on us," reassured the other.

To their relief, the car eventually veered away at great speed, disappearing down an alternate road.

Stolen novel; please report.

The crooks in their attempt to elude the pursuing vehicle had found themselves in an antiquated industrial district, shrouded in darkness due to the absence of functional streetlights, the dismal terrain illuminated solely by their headlights.

Struggling to navigate amidst factories and discarded debris, they encountered an unexpected roadblock, a car left engine idling, positioned precisely as law enforcement would employ to terminate a pursuit.

Perplexed, the criminals stepped out of their car and scrutinised the empty vehicle before them.

The epiphany struck the gunman.

"Wait a sec! This is the same car that followed us earlier, what the hell is going on?"

The driver, disinterested and absorbed in his own thoughts, gave no response. Growing irate, the first crook swivelled to berate his companion, but what he witnessed robbed him of colour.

His partner grappled for breath, a crowbar pressed tightly against his throat, while looming behind him was a tall, dark figure, garbed in a black suit and a cloak-like long coat with white bandages covering his face. The phantom's eyes were concealed behind circular goggles, they penetrated the criminal's soul, an eerie crimson glow emanating from them.

"Why did you murder Steven Crane?" Demanded the shadowy figure, his voice had a sinister cadence akin to an ominous transmission from an antiquated radio.

Before the crook could muster a response, his partner lost consciousness, and the dark figure released him, advancing toward the remaining criminal.

The criminal acted with swiftness, producing his firearm and discharging the weapon in a rapid volley, completely emptying his weapon. The bullets, upon striking the shadowy form, resounded with an unmistakable clang, like metal meeting metal. The enigmatic figure and his crowbar plummeted to the floor, leaving the criminal a window of opportunity to seek refuge in their vehicle.

Yet, as he spun, he heard someone move, he turned to look hoping it was his partner. The grim spectre stood before him, a dark hand pressed resolutely over his chest, an unmistakable fire of anger in his eyes.

The criminal, undeterred, raised his fists and surged forward, unleashing a relentless barrage of punches. The shadow man adeptly parried the blows, his movements resembling that of a seasoned pugilist. A calculated retreat led the figure to skillfully evade each punch, allowing the assailant to exhaust himself.

The criminal made an obvious jab to the shadow’s face, as the tall figure moved to block this attack, the criminal pulled back and swung at the exposed body of the phantom. Striking his ribs, the shadow man yelped in pain, the criminal took his chance to deliver several quick blows upon his enemy.

Recovering, the shadow man blocked an incoming punch and delivered a right hook into the face of the criminal. The criminal attempted to jab and hook his opponent, but the spectre discombobulated him, who was now dazed and confused. Seizing the moment the tall figure tried delivering a powerful kick but narrowly missed his mark.

With one final, desperate lunge, the criminal hurled his fist, but the shadow man seized the punching hand and pulled him forward, toppling him from his feet, subsequently delivering a sharp blow to the back of the criminal's skull as he fell to the ground. The figure quickly retrieved his crowbar and, as the criminal rose to his feet, swung it with force into the crook's knee, producing a sickening snap. The crook, now writhing in agony, offered pitiful pleas for mercy as the final, fatal blow caved in his skull.

His partner, now conscious, witnessed the grotesque scene before him, while the sinister figure rifled through the fallen criminal's possessions, retrieving the stolen contracts and securing a revolver and spare bullets.

The figure then approached the surviving criminal, who, trembling, beseeched,

"Please mate, don’t hurt me! I beg you! Please don’t kill me, I did nothing to you!"

The phantom replied,

"I shall not inflict harm upon you. Instead, you shall divulge who commissioned you to assassinate Steven Crane."

The criminal, trembling on his knees, swore ignorance, declaring,

"I know nothing about the guy who hired us. Aaron, the man whose head you just bashed in, only told me to drive him to Carnock ’s and Crane's residence, after the job was done I was to drop him off in Salford."

The shadowy figure expressed his scepticism by driving the crowbar into the criminal's shoulder, prompting cries of agony.

But the shadow man, unswayed, ultimately retreated, reloading the gun and aimed it at the criminal.

As the figure prepared to execute the criminal, the latter continued to protest his lack of knowledge regarding the identity of the contractor behind the assassination.

The shadowy figure turned and left, seemingly inclined to accept the information provided.

The desperate criminal implored,

"Wait! Who are you?"

The dark figure turned back and, tipping his hat, declared,

"I have been dubbed by scum of the earth and the public as The Bonville Shadow."