Late Night Tattoo Parlor, Baton Rouge

The dim glow of flickering street lights cast erratic shadows that danced across the cracked pavement, setting the stage for a meeting of destiny.

The air was thick with anticipation as a group of tattooed misfits gathered outside the entrance of a run-down tattoo parlor.

They were drawn there by whispers of an old artist, a master of his craft, known throughout Baton Rouge for the artistry of his needle.

Inside, the old artist stood behind the counter, his eyes, sharp and knowing, scanned the eclectic crew.

His voice, casual yet authoritative, cut through the quiet hum of the night.

“It’s about a hundred bucks per person,” he stated, his words a gentle challenge to the gathered throng.

The crew nodded in unison, their collective silence a testament to the unspoken promise of enduring the long night ahead.

Among them, a young woman took a seat, her gaze wandering until it found the de facto leader of the group—a woman whose back bore an intricate tattoo.

It was more than ink; it was a tapestry of her journey, etched onto her skin.

With a voice barely above a whisper, the young woman leaned in, “Is it alright if I wait?” Her question hung in the air, a quiet plea for inclusion.

The leader acknowledged her with a nod and a slight smile that spoke of camaraderie. “You're with us. Don’t worry.”

Reassured, the young woman allowed herself to relax, her connection with the group solidified by this shared, unspoken bond.

The old artist meticulously gathered his tools, each piece carefully prepared with the precision of a surgeon.

The hum of the needle filled the room, a siren song that heightened the anticipation in the air.

From the corner, an onlooker murmured in disappointment. “Aw man, all I wanted was a simple tattoo, and he’s getting a whole back piece?”

The young woman rolled her eyes, echoing the sentiment. “I just wanted a single tattoo! This guy's hogging the chair.”

Just then, Zack, a confident crew member, sidled up beside her with a grin that was as cocky as it was charming. “Hey there, beautiful. What's your name?”

She raised an eyebrow in response, then stood and moved to a seat further away.

The room erupted in laughter.

“Damn, Zack, she totally curved you!” one of the gang members teased. “You really need to up your game, man!”

Zack, defensive, shot back, “Well, fuck you too, then! You’re missing out on some good dick!”

Unfazed, the young woman laughed. “Why would I want you when I can go to Target and get a small sausage for $4.99?”

Laughter exploded around the room, leaving Zack stammering, caught off guard.

“Why you little—”

“Hey!” The old artist’s voice was firm, cutting through the chaos. “Keep harassing my client, and you’re not getting a tattoo tonight.”

Zack froze, his bravado quelled by the artist’s authority. “I’m sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

The old man returned to his work, the room settling into a rhythm as the young woman mouthed a silent “thank you.”

“It’s okay, honey,” the old artist replied, focusing on his craft.

Feeling the need for air, Zack headed outside, lighting a cigarette.

The cool night air filled his lungs as he exhaled, his gaze falling on a note stuck to the boss’s car.

Frowning, he picked it up and muttered, “Sorry, this is just business. What the hell?”

He pocketed the cryptic message and returned inside, where the hum of the needle and vibrant energy of the crew awaited.

His mind buzzed with questions.

Few moments later

Scarface, the lieutenant of the crew, stood before a large mirror, admiring the fresh ink that now covered his skin.

The old artist gestured towards the mirror, a subtle nod of approval. “Hey, young man, you can look in the mirror.”

Scarface’s eyes lit up as he checked his tattoo. “Wow, this is really good.”

Grinning with satisfaction, he slipped his jacket back on, ready to leave.

As he headed toward the exit, Zack, one of his lackeys, called out hesitantly. “Hey, Lieutenant Scarface!”

Scarface paused, turning back with a curious look. “What’s the matter, Zack?”

Zack held up a small piece of paper, frowning. “I found a note on your car. It says, ‘Sorry, it’s just business.’”

Intrigued, Scarface took the note, scrutinizing the handwriting.

Something about it felt off, the style too polished. “This can’t be from just any gang,” he mused, gesturing at the note. “The handwriting... It's too clean.”

As he examined the note, he noticed a faint, powdery residue clinging to its surface.

Instinctively, he brushed it off, but some of it fell onto Zack.

“Oh! Lieutenant, what—” Zack’s words were cut short as his body began to shudder, then collapsed to the floor, his face pale and unresponsive.

Scarface dropped to his side, shaking him urgently. “Hey, hey, snap out of it, man!”

Zack remained unresponsive, his breathing shallow.

Scarface’s expression shifted from worry to grim determination. “Everyone, cover your mouths!” he yelled to the room.

The crew scrambled to obey, fear rippling through them.

“What’s going on?” a gang member asked, terrified.

“That note was laced with fentanyl!” Scarface’s voice was sharp, tinged with urgency.

“How can you tell?” another member inquired, eyes wide with fear.

“I’ve seen this before,” Scarface gritted his teeth. “I know a fentanyl overdose when I see one.”

Without hesitation, he pulled a small nasal spray from his pocket and leaned over Zack.

“What’s that you’re giving him, boss?” a gang member asked, watching closely.

“Naloxone,” Scarface replied, his focus unwavering.

He administered the spray with calm precision, tilting Zack’s head and spraying it directly into his nostrils, a silent prayer for his friend’s life on his lips.

“Naloxone blocks the opioid receptors in the brain,” he explained quietly to the room. “It reverses the effects of drugs like heroin and fentanyl.”

The gangsters watched as Zack’s breathing began to ease, his chest rising and falling with a semblance of stability.

Though he was still barely responsive, Scarface kept his attention fixed on him, ready to act further if necessary.

The room hung in tense silence.

Scarface thinks he's stable but knows he still needs a doctor,” a gangster broke the silence, relief mingling with caution.

The tattoo artist’s patience snapped, his anger flaring as he addressed the gang. “What kind of bullshit did your hooliganism bring into my shop!?”

“Shut the fuck up! We’re getting out of here now,” Scarface fired back, his voice sharp with authority.

With tension mounting, the young woman grabbed her purse, heading straight for the exit, only to find the door locked.

“Hey! Who locked the door!?” her voice tinged with frustration and panic.

“What do you mean, the door is locked? Zack just walked in not too long ago!” Scarface said, irritation coloring his words as he scanned the room.

One of the gangsters lunged toward the old man, shouting with unrestrained fury. “Hey, old fuck! Open this fucking door!”

The gangsters joined in, a frenzied pounding on the door echoing through the room.

Suddenly, an icy chill swept in, prickling the young woman's spine.

“Hey, why does the room feel cold all of a sudden?” her voice trembled, fear creeping in.

The old man’s face turned ashen, fear seizing him as he gripped the edge of the table for support.

“My god… it’s coming here,” he barely whispered, eyes wide.

The room fell into silence, all eyes turning to him, faces etched with worry and intrigue.

“What is?” a gangster asked, uncertain, trying to keep his voice steady.

The old man swallowed hard before he began.

“Last year, in Hammond, the same thing happened. I was tattooing a group of gangsters, just like now, when suddenly, the lights went out. By the time I could react, everyone was… gone. Mercilessly killed.” His voice dropped, haunted. “I was the only one who survived.”

The gangsters glanced uneasily at each other, fear surfacing in their eyes.

“If that's true, then how did you make it out?” one of them asked with a trace of skepticism.

“I was in the back when it happened,” the old artist replied, his voice low and leaning in.

“I heard the screams… but I didn't see the thing that did it. All I know is it was no ordinary being. It took out an entire room of armed men. That’s when I moved here, to Baton Rouge.”

A grim silence falls over the gangsters until one speaks up, voice shaking.

The room, once filled with bravado and tension, now stood silent, every eye turning to the old man whose words hung heavily in the air.

Gangster #3's voice, tinged with disbelief, broke the stillness. "So, you're saying there's some kind of monster coming for us?"

The old man nodded, conviction solid in his voice, but before anyone could truly process this revelation, chaos struck.

A flash of crimson sprayed across the young woman's face as the top of a gangster’s skull was gruesomely severed, his body crumpling to the floor.

Her scream pierced the air, a sound of pure horror that seemed to freeze time.

Reacting instantly, the gangsters drew their guns, muscles taut with fear and adrenaline.

But as they aimed, an unseen force shattered every light bulb in the room, plunging them into total darkness.

Scarface’s voice, threaded with panic, yelled into the void, "What the fuck!?"

Out of the shadows, a figure emerged, swift and lethal, pulling one of the gangsters back into the dark.

Gunfire erupted, bullets ripping through the air, aimed blindly toward the hallway.

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But the barrage ended, leaving only a heavy silence, thick with fear.

Desperate and disoriented, Scarface turned to the young woman beside him.

His voice was tight with urgency. "Hey! Do you have a flashlight on your phone? Shine it in that doorway—now!"

Reacting swiftly, she retrieved her phone and cast its beam down the dim hallway.

The sight that met them sent shivers through every spine—a body, one of their own, lay dismembered, brutalized beyond recognition.

She stumbled back, her face paling as nausea overtook her, and she turned away, vomiting from the horror.

Scarface exclaimed, his voice thick with shock and dread. "Holy shit! The old man was right! No human could possibly do this."

The gangsters exchanged grim nods, faces taut with fear and astonishment.

Determined, they cocked their weapons, the cold steel an anchor against their rising panic.

But before they could fire, the figure vanished, slipping into the shadows like a ghost.

Scarface's voice edged with urgency. "Where did it go?"

They scanned the room, eyes darting to every dark corner, breaths ragged with tension.

Suddenly, a scream shattered the silence. "No! It took Thomas!" Gangster #5 pointed, terror-stricken.

All eyes snapped upward to see Thomas, suspended by some unseen force, his body limp and lifeless.

Then, as if discarded, his remains rained down to the floor in a grotesque display.

Scarface’s voice was thick with confusion and rage. "What the fuck is going on!?"

One gangster, face pale, turned to Scarface, voice quivering with a terrifying realization. "This goes beyond anything human. The only conclusion…" he swallowed hard, "…this is a demon."

Scarface, skeptical yet shaken, retorted, "A demon!? What the hell are you talking about?"

Before anyone could respond, a sudden onslaught of projectiles sliced through the air, sharp and deadly.

Four gangsters fell, bodies crumpling to the floor before they even had a chance to scream.

The remaining survivors starred in horrified disbelief, the room cloaked in an unnatural, bone-chilling silence.

As panic tightened its grip, the gangsters unleashed a storm of bullets, spraying the darkness, but each one found only emptiness.

Scarface’s voice broke with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "What the fuck!? Why can't we hit this thing!?"

The echo of gunfire faded, leaving a piercing silence.

Scarface’s gaze fell to the wall where some of the projectiles were embedded, his eyes widening in shock. "What the hell... these are throwing stars!"

The old man stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he inspected the weapons more closely.

His voice was low, tinged with familiarity. "Chinese-made… I haven’t seen stars like these since I was in China."

The revelation sent a jolt through Scarface’s mind, his thoughts racing. "So this… this isn’t a demon. This is… human?"

The old man nodded slowly, unease growing. "It seems that way."

Scarface’s gaze dropped to the note left on his car, fingers curling around it as a realization dawned. "So you wrote, ‘Sorry, this is just business,’ huh?" He raised his voice to the darkened room. "If you’re human, whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it!"

As if summoned by his words, the figure materialized before them—a teenage boy, his face barely visible beneath a traditional Ninja-yoroi, the armor blending him seamlessly with the darkness.

The woman stared, shock mingling with dread. "He’s so… young."

Scarface’s incredulous brow furrowed. "Just a kid…"

In a swift, seamless motion, the ninja boy hurled three kunais, each one finding its mark with deadly precision, claiming the lives of the gangsters behind Scarface in an instant.

Scarface raised his gun, firing wildly, but the boy moved like a shadow, unsheathing a short Ninjatō and slicing through the bullets as they flew toward him.

Scarface’s heart pounded, disbelief flooding his voice. "Oh, oh… nah… he can cut bullets!"

The old man’s voice was hushed, quivering. "This… this is no ordinary child."

The woman whispered, horror dawning. "Oh god almighty…"

The boy stepped forward, each step measured, the glint of his blade catching the faintest light.

Scarface, now gripped by fear and desperation, fired again, each shot expertly deflected as the boy advanced steadily, unfazed.

Realizing his gun was empty, Scarface threw it in a final act of defiance, but the boy sidestepped the weapon effortlessly, his focus never wavering.

With a calm, chilling gaze, the boy raised his Ninjatō, the blade hovering mere inches from Scarface’s throat, the razor edge gleaming menacingly.

Scarface’s desperate pleas hung in the air, but the ninja boy was unmoved.

With a deadly, practiced motion, he swung his blade, separating Scarface’s head from his body in one swift cut.

The head fell to the floor with a dull thud, and silence swallowed the room as the gravity of what had just happened settled over them.

The remaining gangsters scrambled, terror sparking in their eyes as they frantically regrouped.

But the boy, calm as still water, moved toward Scarface's head, lifting it and staring into the fading light of his eyes, watching as the last flicker of life vanished.

The old man’s voice shook with certainty. "He’s not human."

The ninja boy sheathed his Ninjatō and turned toward the old man and the young woman.

They stiffened, unsure if they would be next.

But instead, he took out a small device, pressing a series of buttons, and the sound of doors unlocking echoed around them.

Relief mingled with confusion in their eyes.

"Blackjack 'Scarface' Moran is dead; he was my intended target," the ninja boy stated, pausing, meeting their eyes with an unreadable expression. "You can go now."

The old man and the woman stood rooted in place, both stunned and terrified.

The woman’s thoughts raced, disbelief mingling with awe. "My god, he’s so young. Did this kid really… do all this?"

The boy approached her, reaching into his Ninja-yoroi and handing her something—a token, a gesture of mystery.

She grabbed it and quickly fled, her footsteps echoing through the room as she left.

As the old man’s knees buckled, he fell before the ninja boy, memories and horror filling his eyes.

He stammered as he looked up, voice trembling. "It’s you… Do you remember me?"

The boy crouched to meet his gaze, a flicker of recognition in his steely eyes. "Of course. You’re the guy whose shop was wrecked a year ago."

Silence settled as a shared memory surfaced between them.

"You stabbed me in the lung. Missed my heart by a hair," the ninja boy noted with a hint of admiration.

The old man’s eyes filled with a mix of guilt and astonishment, but he swallowed, trying to maintain his composure. "Well, lucky you, then."

Without another word, the ninja boy reached into his pocket.

The old man tensed, uncertain of what might come next, but instead, the boy produced a gleaming gold coin. "Here. You can have one."

Stammering, confusion painted across his face, the old man asked, "W-What… what’s this even for?"

"Gold coins are currency in the underworld; they work anywhere. You can buy almost anything with them. Or exchange them for cash. There’s an ATM named 'International ATM' a few blocks from here," the ninja boy explained, tossing the coin to him. "Put the coin in, and it’ll give you the cash it’s worth."

The old man looked up to respond, but the boy had already vanished, leaving him alone amid the grim silence.

Slumping to the floor, he muttered bitterly to himself, "Damn it, why does the world have to be such a scary place?"

Taking one last look at the bodies scattered across his shop, he collected himself, silently leaving.

One American Place

Meanwhile, the ninja boy, still dressed in his Shinobi's Shozoku, walked confidently into an office building, carrying a duffle bag.

He approached the receptionist with a direct question. "I need to talk to Mr. King."

The receptionist blinked, taken aback.

At first, she thought it was a joke, but something in his gaze convinced her otherwise.

She pressed a button, and moments later, a door opened, revealing an older man with a warm smile.

"Ah! Leo, my boy, it’s good to see you. Come on in," Mr. Benjamin King beamed, his voice a mix of warmth and anticipation.

Leo stepped into the office, the air thick with tension and unspoken history.

He dropped the duffle bag onto Benjamin's desk, the weight of his actions palpable in the room. "I’ve done what you asked."

Benjamin leaned closer, unzipping the bag with cautious curiosity.

The sight that met his eyes was horrifying—severed heads, all neatly arranged. "Holy shit, you really did it," Benjamin whispered, shock coloring his voice.

Leo stood unmoved, the emotion stripped from his face like the skin from a carcass. "Twenty heads. Every lieutenant from every gang in Baton Rouge. Took me two hours."

Benjamin marveled at Leo’s efficiency, the mix of shock and admiration playing across his features.

"You made it sound impossible, but you pulled it off in two hours? How?"

Leo shrugged, his mind already shifting to the next task. "Yeah, I know. Now pull out the marker so I can go."

Benjamin nodded, retrieving a black marker from his pocket, his hands trembling slightly as he handed it over.

Leo took the marker, swiftly cutting his thumb with his kunai and leaving a bloody thumbprint on it.

He tossed it back to Benjamin, the transaction complete. "That’s it. I’m done."

His words hung heavy in the air, a stark declaration of his resolve.

"Leo, wait! Before you go, can I ask you something?" Benjamin’s voice was urgent, seeking understanding.

Leo paused, turning back to meet Benjamin’s gaze, his expression unreadable. "What?"

"You’ve been my number one killer for four years. Why the sudden desire for a normal life?" Benjamin asked, curiosity laced with a hint of disbelief.

Leo's cold demeanor remained unchanged as he spoke. "Because I’m done killing people. It’s not for me anymore."

Benjamin leaned back, disbelief etched on his face. "You’re a walking, talking killing machine. Why turn your back on that? It’s all you’ve ever known."

Leo leveled a steady gaze at him, frustration barely concealed beneath his calm exterior. "Do you think I enjoy this? I don’t. I’m fourteen, and for once, I want an ordinary life."

"But if you leave, I can’t guarantee my boys won’t come after you," Benjamin warned, his voice tinged with foreboding.

Leo’s expression hardened, the chill in his voice unmistakable. "Tell them if they try to stop me, I’ll take their lives without hesitation."

With that, Leo turned on his heel, leaving Benjamin stunned in the silence that followed.

Four Years Later

An alarm clock blared, piercing through the quiet of the morning.

A young boy stirred, yawning as he switched it off. "Where did I leave my slippers?" he murmured to himself, still groggy.

He spotted them by the door, slipped them on, and trudged downstairs, greeted by the familiar scene of his “parents” in the kitchen.

Mr. Hughes brightened up. "Oh hey, good morning, Leores! How did you sleep?"

"Good, thanks for asking," Leores replied flatly.

Mrs. Hughes, cheerfully, said, "Sorry to keep you waiting, dear. Have a seat."

As he settled down, the aroma of breakfast filled the air, and Mrs. Hughes began preparing a meal. "So, how does it feel to start your first day of college? Feels like high school went by so fast, huh?"

"Yeah, it really does," Leores replied, lacking enthusiasm.

Mrs. Hughes inquired, "So, what do you plan to be when you graduate?"

With indifference, Leores answered, "I don’t know yet; maybe a doctor.”

Leores paused for a moment, taking in Mr. Hughes' light-hearted chuckle. "What’s wrong, you two?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Mr. Hughes chuckled again, shaking his head. "Nothing at all, Leores; we just thought it would be amusing to see you become a famous surgeon, considering how skilled you are with your hands."

Leores responded with a monotone voice. "Given my 'experience,' I’m sure I’ll be a top-notch surgeon."

Mrs. Hughes, ever the practical one, chimed in, "Speaking of which, you should get going soon; you only have two hours to get dressed and walk there."

"Alright, Mrs. Hughes, I’ll go get dressed now," Leores replied obediently, making his way to his room.

He dressed in his college attire with the precision of someone who had long since settled into a routine: a crisp white shirt, black trousers, polished shoes, a loose tie, and a gray pullover adorned with the school’s badge.

Each motion was methodical, devoid of the usual excitement that accompanied such a significant milestone.

Before leaving, he entered the bathroom to take his medication, his actions mechanical and detached.

Stepping out the door, he pondered what lay ahead of him, the uncertainty gnawing at his insides.

"I wonder…" he whispered to himself, the words barely audible as he wandered toward the bus stop.

As he walked, his gaze fell upon a girl dressed in black thigh-high socks, a dark gray skirt, and the same school badge adorning her shirt.

Her presence was a splash of color in an otherwise monochrome world.

"Oh, hey, Leores!" Lishcelle exclaimed, her excitement palpable. "Wow, you got into Clearwater Private University too!"

Leores nodded, his tone steady. "Nice to see you too, Lishcelle. Yeah, I got in; it was kind of hard for me."

Lishcelle's eyes widened in astonishment. "Wow, really? Didn’t you have the highest SAT score of 1600? Why was it hard?"

"I don’t know," Leores replied, his voice reflective. "I was on the honor roll in middle and high school. Maybe it’s because I don’t come from a working-class family. Clearwater is filled with nothing but rich kids."

Lishcelle's frustration was evident as she spoke. "But that’s not fair! You worked your ass off to get there; you’re the smartest guy I know!"

"I guess…" Leores said with resignation, trailing off as he looked away.

As they continued talking, Leores felt a strange mix of comfort and anxiety swirling within him.

This was a new chapter, a chance to redefine himself, but could he truly escape the shadows of his past?

The question loomed over him like a specter, haunting him even as he tried to focus on the present.

Yet, in Lishcelle's presence, there was a glimmer of hope—a reminder that perhaps, amid the uncertainty and the echoes of his former life, there was room for change, for something new and untainted.

As they walked together toward the bus stop, Leores couldn't help but wonder if this was the beginning of something more than just a college education.