Seoul – 8 Years Ago
Sonya sat in the passenger seat, watching the Yongsan District come alive under neon lights and the muffled thump of nightclub basslines. The car was parked at the curb.
The driver's door opened. A man slid in — full-blood Korean, street-raised, broad-shouldered. Baek Do-hyun.
Without looking at her, he placed his coffee cup in the holder and handed the other over.
"Here you go."
Sonya took it.
"Is this decaf?"
"No."
"Good."
They sipped in silence for a moment.
Do-hyun glanced at the entrance to the club across the street.
"Boss is taking his time with these lowlifes again. I don't get it. He could just send us to talk."
"He's a control freak," Sonya replied. "Clean or dirty — he likes to handle business himself."
"Yeah, but a man at his level? Too easy to spot at places like these."
"I don't think it matters anymore. You're underestimating him. He can erase any trace of himself from a crime scene. Hell, from history."
Do-hyun gave a slow nod.
"You're right."
The back door opened.
Han Jae-sung stepped in, expression blank, wiping blood from his hands with a white towel.
Do-hyun turned slightly.
"Everything okay, boss?"
Jae-sung didn't look up.
"Handled. Drive me to the office. Then home."
"Yes, sir."
Do-hyun started the car. They pulled into traffic, heading for Daehan Global Holdings HQ.
15 minutes later
They pulled into the underground garage of the skyscraper. Jae-sung spoke without looking up:
"Do-hyun, get me a clean set of clothes. Sonya — with me."
Both answered in sync:
"Yes, sir."
Jae-sung and Sonya stepped into the private elevator.
It rose silently to the top floor.
The doors opened into the penthouse-level CEO office — glass walls, deep leather chairs, silent screens running news feeds.
Jae-sung walked to his desk and sat. Gestured for her to sit opposite.
She did.
He studied her.
"There's nothing I can say to make you stay?"
Sonya shook her head.
"Sorry, sir."
"You were good. Loyal. Not many like you left. What's next for you?"
"I want to open a bar. Don't know where yet."
"Why?"
"I'm tired, sir. I've been tired for a long time."
Jae-sung sat in silence for a beat. Then:
"I'll make sure your retirement account is taken care of."
He reached for a drawer, pulled out a folder, scribbled something.
"You're dismissed."
Sonya stood.
"Thank you, sir."
She turned and walked out without another word.
Detroit – Present Day
Jack sat in the farthest booth of a grimy internet café — back against the wall, monitor facing no one.
The place buzzed with white noise — gaming chatter, cheap speakers, and the faint hum of dusty servers pushing their limits.
He slid in a worn USB.
Custom VPN booted instantly. Proxy chains routed through Istanbul, Jakarta, then Helsinki.
The screen dimmed.
He opened the encrypted access portal he hadn't touched in a year.
access://zero_mirror_network
A blinking cursor. Then a password prompt.
He typed the old cipher Gantz taught him. Obscure. Geometric. A string no normal person could ever guess.
Click.
The underlayer opened.
No logos. No UI. Just lines. Markets. Data streams. Requests. The bones of the dark web — stripped of flash, coded for ghosts.
Jack knew what to look for.
He searched: LENA
One result.
CONTRACT ID: #B-71254-KX
STATUS: OPEN – VERIFIED
TARGET: HAN, LENA
AGE: 17
NATIONALITY: KOREAN
LAST VERIFIED LOCATION: DETROIT / DEXTER-LINWOOD (ZONE FLAGGED)
PAYMENT OFFERED: 5,000,000 (ALIVE) / 3,000,000 (DEAD)
CLIENT: ENCRYPTED / ORIGIN: UNVERIFIED
UPLOAD TIMESTAMP: TWO WEEKS AGO
He stared at the screen.
No image. Just a low-res street cam still — the back of a girl slipping into a corner store. Fuzzy. Blurry. But unmistakable.
The posture. The frame. The size.
It was Lena.
He scrolled.
Dozens of comments. Some offering recent sightings. Others disputing location. A few already tried and failed. One claimed Detroit PD had intel but wasn't moving — likely bought off.
Then, in bold at the bottom:
TAGGED: BOARD MATERIAL / CLASS-3 / ACTIVE PRIORITY
Jack clenched his jaw.
Board Material.
Not a hit. Not a bounty.
A signal.
She wasn't just wanted. She was a currency-bearing asset now. The kind of person who drew predators — not just thugs, but freelancers, syndicate hounds, ex-military hunters.
He leaned back.
"Jesus…"
New comments flooded the thread.
One caught Jack's eye — bold font, fresh timestamp.
User: MONDAY
"I've arrived in Detroit. Anyone interferes, they suffer. No second warnings."
A pause. Then another name popped up.
User: DRAGON
"I'm pulling my men back immediately."
More followed.
"We won't interfere."
"You won't see us."
"Understood."
Jack stared at the screen. Brow furrowed.
"Who the hell is Monday?" he thought.
"These guys are eating out of his palm. Must be serious. Too serious. Do I stay quiet… or pull the heat onto me instead?"
He clicked the reply box. Typed under his alias:
User: STRAY
"I will interfere. Let's meet in person."
Somewhere in a dim hotel room across town, a man smiled at the glowing screen.
He typed:
MONDAY:
"I'm told I'm special. I see ghosts. Not surprised you're here, Stray — risking your neck for a girl you barely know."
Jack's reply came fast:
STRAY:
"Didn't know I was famous. You got my posters on the wall too?"
Then a red-highlighted warning flashed across the thread. Different font. System-generated:
Board Notification:
Doxxing or intentional personal leaks will not be tolerated.
The Board recommends a one-on-one engagement to resolve conflict.
Both men paused.
Then came Monday's next message.
MONDAY:
"Let's take this outside, Stray."
Jack cracked his knuckles.
STRAY:
"Agreed. Let's talk outside, Monday."
Jack paid and left the café. Cool air hit his face like a slap. The city still buzzed.
He raised a hand, flagged down a passing taxi, and slipped inside.
Twenty minutes later
He stood outside a scrapyard, chain-link fence rusted, gate ajar.
Jack paid the driver. Walked through.
Past heaps of twisted metal and stacked car carcasses, he kept going until he reached a small, rust-stained cabin tucked behind a wall of crushed sedans.
The door creaked open before he knocked.
A rough-looking man stared out.
"Who are you?"
Jack kept his voice flat.
"Stray. My handler will cover the tab."
The man's posture shifted. Less suspicion now. More calculation.
"You're the kid from El Paso?"
Jack didn't answer. Just stared.
The man nodded to himself. "Heard about you. Thought you were older."
He stepped back and opened the door wider.
"Come on. Let's see what ghosts like you shop for."
He led Jack deeper into the yard.
Around a corner. Past a dismantled school bus. Through a curtain of hanging chains.
Then he stopped.
Swept aside a pile of dead branches covering a steel hatch half-buried in the dirt.
He yanked it open. A shaft leading down. Ladder welded to the wall.
They descended.
Total dark.
Click.
Light blinked on.
Jack blinked too — eyes adjusting.
It wasn't just a bunker. It was an armory.
A real one.
Metal racks lined the walls — pistols, rifles, SMGs. Explosives sorted by category. Blades in foam cases. There was even a medieval broadsword mounted like a trophy.
A metal table sat in the center, scratched and stained.
The man walked around and stood behind it, arms folded.
"You don't need to flash a sigil or code or anything. Anyone vouched by Gantz — we don't question."
Jack said nothing.
The man gestured to the racks.
"So… what do you need?"
Jack ran a hand across the cold steel. He thought:
'I'll pin the bill on Gantz — that bastard can at least pay for something.'
He looked up, eyes sharp.
"Let's start with a rifle."
The man's eyes lit up — like a kid being asked to show off his first drawing.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
"Something reliable. Long-term use. Compact enough to move fast. Silent, but deadly."
The man stroked his chin, then turned toward the wall of rifles. He pulled one down and set it on the table.
"Sig MCX Virtus. Threaded barrel — suppressor already mounted. Rock-solid. Runs 5.56 NATO, so stopping power's handled. Holo sight, foregrip for close quarters. Won't slip. I'll toss in a sling too."
"Perfect. Next — a pistol. Something quick, concealable, suppressed if needed. Night-ready."
The man grabbed one from the pistol wall.
"Glock 19 Gen 5. Threaded barrel, suppressor included. Universal parts. Light frame. Factory night sights. 9mm hollow points. And a spare suppressor — because those things burn faster than patience."
Jack pulled his Glock 17 from his waistband and laid it on the table.
"I've been carrying this. Glock 17. Better or worse?"
"Service piece. Big. Solid. But too loud to hide unless you're wearing body armor and a badge. The 19? Way more discreet. Same round, quicker draw."
Jack nodded. No argument.
"Alright. I need two knives. Primary has to be fast, reliable in tight angles. Secondary should vanish in a boot."
The man didn't even blink. Grabbed two blades and dropped them onto the table.
"This one — SOCP Dagger. Four-inch, skeletonized grip, single edge. Works with reverse grip too. That's your main."
Jack raised a brow.
"Kinda looks like a butt plug."
"Won't act like one unless you have other plans."
Jack smirked, tapped the ringed pommel.
"This rides on the waist?"
"Horizontal carry — just behind the belt buckle. Won't notice it until it's in your hand."
"Perfect."
The man pointed at the smaller knife.
"SOG Instinct Mini. Just under 3 inches. Slim sheath. Clean silhouette. Stashes in a boot, doesn't print."
Jack nodded.
"I'll take both."
"Now gear?"
"Yeah. I need gloves — cut-resistant. Lockpick kit. Compact medkit. Zippo lighter. Something tactical but quiet — urban-friendly, not screaming SWAT."
"Color?"
"Black. Low profile."
The man opened a deep drawer behind the table, pulled out folded clothes.
"This hoodie? Kevlar weave. Not armor, but won't rip. Breathes well. Has a fake brand tag — like something overpriced from downtown."
He laid it beside a flat black tactical vest — minimal, tight, inward-folded pouches.
"This goes under the hoodie. Holds four Glock mags, six rifle, medkit, tools, blade slot. Invisible once worn."
Jack nodded.
"Pants?"
"Cargo — reinforced seams, flex panels in the knees, hidden sheath above the boot line. Nothing shiny. Velcro's silent."
"Good."
Jack tapped the rifle again.
"Four mags for the Glock. Six for the MCX. Subsonic rounds, if you've got them."
"All loaded. Clean brass. I'll throw in an extra box for when things get real."
"And a burner. Fresh IMEI. No GPS, also I need an ID."
The man nodded. Reached into a drawer. Pulled out a plain flip phone and tossed it to Jack.
"Untraceable. Already activated."
Next, he grabbed an old Canon DSLR.
"Now for your ID. Neutral face. Stand over there."
Jack didn't blink. Just stepped into place.
Flash.
The man typed on a battered laptop, hooked to a laminator. The keyboard clicked like it had been dropped once too often.
"Alias?"
"Something plain. Civilian. Doesn't raise flags."
The man tapped. Waited. Then:
"John Keller. Toledo. Driver's license. Utility bill stub, if you need to fake residency."
Printer buzzed. Plastic card popped out. DMV barcode. Jack's face — blank stare, cropped hair, low light.
Looked like someone who worked night shift and never clocked out. It was not a lie.
"Need to change?"
Jack nodded.
The man pointed to the closet.
Jack stepped inside and suited up.
Black hoodie — clean, snug, draped over the low-profile tactical vest beneath.
Black cargo pants with reinforced knees and stitched sheath above the boot line.
Matte black tactical boots — lightweight, silent-soled, reinforced at the toe and heel but flexible through the midfoot. Made for fast pivots and quick takeoffs. Jack could run, climb, or drive a knee through a ribcage without ever feeling the weight.
SOG Instinct Mini tucked into the boot sheath.
SOCP Dagger at the waist — horizontal, hidden behind the belt buckle.
Glock 19 Gen 5 at the waist — holstered tight under the hoodie.
The vest took the rest:
Four Glock mags — left side
Six 5.56 mags — right side
Medkit zipped in chest slot
Lockpick kit in Velcro panel
Zippo in pants pocket.
Gloves — already on, tight fit, great flex
Everything sat flush. Nothing rattled. Nothing visible.
He stepped out, dressed for war.
The man had already packed the rest into a matte black duffel with custom foam partitions. Jack zipped it shut and slung it over his shoulder.
Inside the duffel:
Glock 17 (old sidearm)
MCX Virtus rifle (broken down)
2x suppressors (1 spare for Glock)
Boxes of subsonic 9mm + 5.56
Spare gloves
Weapon cleaning kit
Burner phone
Fake ID + doc bundle
Jack looked at him.
"You got a mask?"
The man grinned.
"I was waiting for that. Gantz ordered something weird. Custom piece. Never told me why."
He unlocked a reinforced drawer.
Unrolled something black, folded like a sacred relic.
Jack leaned closer.
No shine. Just structure.
Matte-black carbon weave. Stylized skull silhouette.
Reinforced cheek/jaw brow plates — molded but smooth.
Polarized mesh eyes — mirrored outside, clear inside.
Breath-muffling membrane over the mouth.
Copper thread along the seams — scrambled IR, blurred facial reads.
And across the cheek:
A single diagonal scar, scratched with something sharp
Intentional.
Jack ran his thumb over it.
"The scar?"
"Gantz's idea. I think it was for you, considering the scar on your face. If you ask me it kinda defeats the purpose of wearing a mask."
Jack pulled the mask on.
No snap. No sound.
Breathable. Secure. Invisible.
He looked at the mirror and muttered:
"Fucking Gantz knew I'd be here."
He folded the mask and tucked it next to the burner phone.
He walked.
Out of the room. Up the ladder. Through the graveyard of scrap.
At the scrapyard's gate, the burner buzzed in the duffel.
Jack sighed and picked up.
"Jesus. I just bought this thing."
"Hi, Jack."
He rolled his eyes. "What do you want?"
"While you were out spending my money, I heard you made a new friend."
"So?"
"Monday isn't just a name. He's not someone you bluff."
"I'm not bluffing."
"We'll see. You going to walk that duffel of felony charges straight into your apartment?"
"I was hoping to catch a cab."
"Look left."
Jack turned.
His father's Javelin sat under a streetlamp.
"You fixed it?"
"Wasn't easy."
"I thought you weren't helping me."
"I'm not. I told you I'd fix it. That's all. What you do with it isn't my business."
"Convenient timing."
Gantz hung up.
Jack stepped into the car and turned the key.
Time to go home.
Meanwhile, at Renee's Apartment
Renee stood over the kids.
"Today was... a lot. Still trying to come down from it—"
Lena cut in. "I'm not."
MJ shrugged, trying to match Lena. "Same."
Renee blinked. "Right. Anyway, I've gotta clock in. Second job. Took a day off already. Jack said keep the routine."
MJ gave a nod. "We got it. Be safe."
Renee grabbed her purse. Opened the door—
Jack stood there, hand raised mid-knock.
"Work?" he asked.
"Yeah. You?"
"Better if you don't know."
She eyed the duffel. "What's in the bag?"
"Plushies."
She didn't press. "Keep them safe."
She walked past him and disappeared into the night.
Jack stepped in.
The kids were on the couch. Movie still playing. Calm. Too calm.
"You two seem... unnaturally chill," Jack said.
Lena glanced back. "I'm used to seeing people die."
Jack blinked. "What?"
"I've been hunted for weeks. People got killed. Before that too. My dad didn't hide who he was."
MJ raised a brow. "Who was he?"
"Han Jae-sung."
Jack's eyes narrowed.
"CEO of Daehan Global Holdings,"
Jack dropped the bag. Sat.
"Tell me everything."
"Why?"
"There's a $5 million contract on your head. Three if you're dead. That many eyes on you? We don't get to leave anything out."
MJ chimed in. "Wait—you? You're not just some gas station guy?"
Jack half-smiled. "I am. Just not your average one."
Lena studied him. "You don't move like a civilian. You don't smell like blood—but you don't look normal either."
Jack exhaled.
"Sixteen. I got grabbed by traffickers. Same day my little brother vanished. I broke out. Found him. Two other kids too. We escaped."
His voice tightened.
"Their boss didn't like the noise. So he made an example. Wiped out my family. My girl. Sent a pro after me. I survived. She didn't."
Silence.
"I spent a month fixing it. And when it was done… I felt nothing. Came here to disappear. Didn't work."
MJ looked down. "Shit, man... sorry."
"It's old blood."
Jack looked at Lena.
"Your turn."
She nodded slowly.
"My father... He ran things—business and underground. Politicians in his pocket. I grew up in that world. Targets were normal. I was raised with a target on my back. But now he's gone. They're still coming. Why? There's no one left to threaten."
Jack leaned forward.
"It's not leverage. It's cleanup. You're next in line—money, power, the legacy. They're cutting off the last thread."
Lena frowned. "Makes sense..."
Jack asked, "Anyone to call? Family? Old allies?"
"I don't know numbers. My phone's gone. Left it back in Chicago."
"If we get you to Korea, would someone protect you?"
"Yeah. I'd be safe."
"What about online? Can't we find someone?"
She scoffed. "Daehan Group men don't post selfies. They're ghosts."
Beat.
"I wish I could reach Sang-hoon. Or Hyun-woo. Even Do-hyun."
"Who are they?"
"Ryu Sang-hoon. Baek Hyun-woo. My father's left and right hands. Do-hyun's Hyun-woo's younger brother. All loyal."
"You're saying this now?"
"I didn't think you cared."
"That changes everything. If they're alive, they're probably here—looking. We need to find them. Or get loud enough to be found."
MJ turned, pointing at the door.
"Jack… I don't think you'll need to."
Jack turned.
Two men stood in the doorway. No sound. No footsteps.
One was lean, face like carved stone, black suit. Eyebags black as ash. Late thirties.
The other was massive. Buzz cut. Cauliflower ears. Wide as a fridge. Mid-forties. Too big to look Korean.
Jack's stomach shifted.
''How the hell did they get in?''
Lena leapt up. Shouted in Korean. Rushed to the big man and wrapped her arms around him.
Quick exchange. Low, calm. Then she turned.
"This is Jack," she said. "He saved me. Twice."
Jack nodded stiffly.
The big man stepped forward. Jack stood. The man offered a handshake.
"Thank you."
Jack took it.
"Don't mention it."
"You're Stray?" the man asked.
"I am."
"I'm Baek Hyun-woo. This is Ryu Sang-hoon."
He continued;
"We're taking her home."
"That won't be easy. How many you bring?"
Hyun-woo didn't blink.
"Just us."
Jack's voice dropped.
"Your boss gets assassinated, and you fly solo?"
"We're enough."
Rooftop — Opposite Building
A man crouched behind a chimney. Rifle in hand. Binoculars up.
"Well, well... that's Stray."
He grinned.
"The girl's there. Some kid too. And those two?"
He zoomed in.
"That guy doesn't even look Korean. What the hell do they feed these people?"
He set the binoculars down. Chambered a round. Adjusted scope.
"Let's say hello."
Back in the apartment:
Sang-hoon's voice cut low.
"Sniper."
Jack turned fast.
A flicker in the window. A single glint off the lens.
CRACK.
The living room exploded with glass.
Jack dove, pulling MJ with him. Hyun-woo already had Lena pinned behind cover.
Sang-hoon had vanished—then reappeared near the kitchen. Rifle already in hand.
"I've got your rifle."
Jack blinked.
When the hell did he—
"Go when I fire," Sang-hoon said.
Then let it rip.
Jack grabbed MJ. All got outside the apartment. Jack took the MCX from Sang-hoon's hand.
"Take the kids," Jack said. "Go to the bar. Lena knows where."
MJ looked pale. "What about you?"
"He wants me. He won't come after you until I'm dead."
They didn't argue. Just moved.
Out the door. Down the fire escape.
Jack turned. Took position by the broken window.
Put the mask on.
Rifle up.
Heartbeat steady.
Ready.
He glanced toward the rooftop.
No scope glint.
"He's coming to me. Good."
Jack moved — fast — sprinted down the hallway to the opposite side, line of sight locked on the stairwell.
Then — a cold blade at his neck.
A voice behind him, calm and close:
"Good position, Stray."
Jack thought:
"Am I going deaf today?"
He snatched the wrist near his throat and yanked — hard.
The figure flipped clean over his shoulder, landed like a feather, and rose in one fluid motion. A woman. Early twenties. Full white outfit. Two curved karambits catching the dim light.
A slow drip fell from the tips.
Poison.
Familiar sight.
Jack stepped back, rifle still hanging by the sling.
"Monday?"
She smiled — thin and cruel.
"You really think there's only one day in the week?"
She twirled the blades once. "I'm Wednesday."
Then she lunged.
Jack snapped the MCX rifle up — crosshairs dead on her forehead.
He fired.
But she deflected the barrel at the last second — the shot buried into the drywall behind her.
Jack didn't waste time. Let the rifle drop — the sling caught it across his chest.
She slashed again — toward his throat.
He twisted, dodged, caught her wrist, and yanked — tried to drive her into the wall — but she was already spinning.
The second blade came fast. Jack ducked under it.
She pressed — relentless. Slashes buried inside cartwheel feints, rebounding off the wall, the floor, the air itself.
A dancer made of blades.
Jack backpedaled. Measured his breath. She was more than fast — she was rhythm.
He watched. Waited. Walked her into a choke point in the hallway.
Then — a gap.
He drew his SOCP dagger, reverse grip. Blade low, thumb braced.
Wednesday laughed mid-swing.
"There we go. That's a language I understand."
She kicked — high, aimed at his face.
Jack caught it on his left forearm. Didn't flinch.
The slash came under the kick — arcing for his gut.
Jack twisted. Barely missed.
He countered — stabbed for her ribs — but she caught his wrist, rolled over his back, and landed behind him.
Jack spun, blade raised—
CRASH.
Someone dropped from the stairwell above — landed between them.
Heavy boots. Black coat. Full mask.
A man this time.
"Hey, Wedsy."
Jack and Wednesday split instinctively.
Jack raised the blade, breath caught in his throat.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man answered flatly:
"Friday."
Jack's eyes narrowed.
"One of you was already a problem."
Friday chuckled.
"Oh, don't be like that, Stray. There's seven days in a week."
He cracked his neck. Unzipped his coat.
Underneath: metal. Bracers. Plated knuckles. Weighted vest.
His frame was dense — like a pressure plate waiting to go off.
Jack thought:
"Speed and power. Shit. I could shoot them both, but even if I drop Friday, Wednesday's fast enough to cut me open. One touch from those blades is a death sentence. If I go for her, she might use my rifle against me. And I don't know what Friday would do. I have to get close. Personal."
Friday stepped forward.
"One rule, Stray. No guns."
Jack unhooked the sling, placed the rifle against the wall.
"Fine by me."
Then they charged.
Mid-hall — it exploded.
Friday came first — fists like hammers, low and fast. Jack ducked a wild right, slammed a knee into his ribs — solid hit. Friday barely grunted.
Too damn dense.
Then came Wednesday.
A blur of white.
Blade grazed Jack's cheek — air only.
He twisted, parried her forearm, shoved her off — and Friday's jab clipped his jaw.
Jack staggered — back two steps — then reset his footing.
"They're coordinated. She presses. He finishes."
He dropped low, swept at Wednesday's leg.
She leapt — planted a foot on the wall and flipped.
Jack raised his dagger — deflected both karambits mid-air.
She grinned. Effortless.
Jack rolled under her landing and kicked Friday in the thigh — create space. It worked.
Tight hallway. Small angles. That was his edge.
Jack lunged at Friday, faked right — spun left and cracked his elbow into the back of Wednesday's skull.
She grunted — dropped low — slashed upward.
Jack arched back. Blade missed by inches.
Still clean.
He pivoted, grabbed her wrist — tried to disarm.
She dropped the blade willingly — flicked the other toward his ribs.
Jack twisted, let go, shoved her shoulder-first into the wall.
Friday hit next.
Boom.
Punch like a battering ram. Jack blocked with both arms — still skidded three feet.
Ribs lit up.
He dove — wrapped Friday's elbow, spun him, slammed him into the drywall.
Crack.
Before he could breathe—
SLICE.
Wednesday again. Knife low — aimed for his thigh.
Jack jumped back — bounced off the wall — drop-kicked her across the hall.
She hit hard — rolled — stood like nothing happened.
"You're fun," she panted.
"You're insane," Jack snapped.
Friday stepped beside her again.
Jack glanced at his Glock. Still holstered. Rifle against the wall.
Too far. Too slow. Too risky.
He drew the Glock. Held it low. Didn't aim.
Friday raised a brow. "Breaking the rule?"
Jack exhaled. "Thinking about it."
Then — a buzz.
Friday reached into his coat. Calm. Eyes never leaving Jack.
He checked the screen.
"Change of plans," he muttered.
He looked at Wednesday.
"Next time."
She scowled — but backed off.
Then — they were gone.
Vanished into the stairwell.
Jack stood in silence.
Breath ragged. Forearms trembling.
No cuts. No blood. No poison.
He survived.
But just barely.
Jack leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Sweat stung his eyes. His ribs ached. Arms shaking from repeated blocks and blows.
But he was alive.
He stepped over to the rifle, scooped it up. Reload it, dropped the empty mag on the ground.
Then—
He felt it.
Stillness.
Too quiet.
Like the building itself held its breath.
Jack turned, moved down the hall slow — checking corners, eyes sharp. His boots whispered over the old tile. His back pressed tight to the wall.
A stairwell door creaked somewhere below.
Not running.
Stalking.
Jack kept low. MCX raised. The hallway angled left — a line of open apartment doors, most cracked just enough to make you doubt.
Then — a window shattered.
Another.
And another.
"They're coming in."
Jack spun around. Kicked open the nearest apartment door.
Inside — two junkies slumped on a stained couch, nodding through static on a broken TV.
"You real?" one slurred, pupils swimming.
Jack ignored him. Eyes locked on the open bathroom. Bleach. Ammonia. Acetone.
Perfect.
He moved fast. Grabbed an old shirt from the floor, tore it into strips. Soaked them in acetone. Stuffed them into a rusted coffee can. Set it by the door.
In the bathroom — bleach and ammonia into the toilet tank. Lid closed.
He smashed a ceramic plate, took one jagged shard, wedged it shoulder-high into the frame — invisible unless you were looking for it.
He turned to the junkies. Held up the zippo.
"When someone enters, light the rag. Throw the can. Then run."
Blank stares.
He stepped forward, eyes cold.
"Do it — or they'll gut you."
One nodded, barely conscious.
Jack left. Door closed behind him.
Back into the hall.
Three floors up. Eight total.
He climbed one more. Fifth floor.
Spotted a maintenance closet — cracked open. Drain cleaner. Zip ties. Broken PVC pipe. He took a bottle, stashed it behind a hinge two floors down. Rigged a spare fire extinguisher in a laundry pile. Pin out, nozzle aimed at the stairwell — pressure ready to go.
Final touch — mirror shard angled just right behind the stair corner. Line of sight to any flankers.
He backed off.
Breathed slow.
Waited.
Then—glint. Movement.
Footsteps.
Jack flipped his safety off.
Blue bled into his vision — that sharpened hue he knew too well.
Adrenaline. Focus.
Time slowed.
The first one came through.
Skinny frame. Suppressed pistol. Tight steps. Black hoodie.
Tuesday.
Jack didn't wait.
Two shots — chest.
One more — head.
Dropped instantly.
Jack lunged forward, grabbed the body, dragged it into a vacant apartment.
Another shape crept in from the opposite end.
Short hair. Twin pistols. Moved like she'd done this a hundred times.
Thursday.
Jack slipped into cover behind the doorframe.
She entered low — scanning, crisp angles.
Jack swung the rifle butt hard — connected with her temple. She staggered. He stepped behind and put two rounds through her spine before she hit the ground.
That's two.
He kept moving.
Then — a clink.
A grenade bounced down the stairwell.
Flashbang.
Jack dove behind a wall.
BOOM.
His ears rang but his instincts cut through it.
He popped up. Fired blind around the corner.
Scream.
Cut short.
Then silence.
Next came a man charging out of a dark apartment — machete in hand, body tight with aggression.
This one was Saturday.
Jack sidestepped, shot him in the thigh.
The man stumbled.
One more to the chest.
One more to the eye.
Dropped.
Jack thought ''This is too easy, Friday and Wednesday were extremelly deadly. These guys are just bandits.''
Three down.
Smoke curled from behind.
Back to the junkie room.
The door burst open.
One of them — wide-eyed — dropped the lighter.
WHOOMPH.
Fire bloomed. Glass shattered. Smoke poured out like fog under pressure.
A figure stumbled through — choking, eyes streaming.
Friday.
Jack didn't hesitate.
One shot to the head.
Dropped.
Four.
Footsteps — slower now. Heavier. Measured.
Jack turned. Headed up.
Sixth floor.
Then—
The click of a shotgun slide.
Down the hall.
Massive frame. Buzzcut. No sleeves. Steady aim.
Sunday.
Jack dropped to one knee — fired first.
Hit the shoulder. Sunday grunted. Stumbled.
The shotgun roared back — wide spread.
Pellets shredded Jack's left sleeve. Shallow graze.
He gritted his teeth, pivoted right — pushed up along the corner.
Another shot — missed.
Jack countered — aimed low.
One shot.
Center mass.
Found the gap in the armor.
Sunday dropped. Didn't move.
Jack exhaled — bleeding, but moving.
He kept going.
But halfway down the corridor—
A whisper of motion.
A blade hissed past his neck.
Jack snapped around—
Wednesday.
She was back.
White sleeves torn. One blade gone. Blood crusted on her temple. But that grin stayed.
"You didn't think I'd miss the finale, did you?"
Jack started to raise the MCX—
Too close.
She closed the distance like a whisper.
He let the rifle drop — sling caught it mid-fall.
Her blade flashed.
Horizontal slash.
He pivoted — felt it drag across the hoodie's fabric, Kevlar held. Barely.
Jack snapped his SOCP dagger free.
She lunged again — curved the karambit upward, sharp arc toward his ribs.
He sidestepped. Tight. Close. No wasted motion. Jack thought:
"No scratches. Not even one. Touch the blade, you're dead."
She came again — blade dancing, slipping in feints, rebounding off her own momentum. A blur of white and steel.
Jack kept his forearms tight. Guard high. Movement minimal. He wasn't trying to win yet — just not die.
One step wrong, he's in a morgue.
She went high — overhead slash.
He ducked.
Countered — punch to her stomach.
She recoiled. Hissed.
He pressed. Dagger arced in — clean strike for her side — but she backflipped away mid-swing.
No contact.
Back to rhythm.
She kicked for his knee. Jack dropped into a squat, let it pass, lunged in — aimed to tackle.
But she flipped again — used his shoulder for leverage, rebounded off the wall. Landed.
Mid-air, she threw a wild spinning slash — right at his neck.
Jack ducked. Barely.
The tip nicked his hood.
That was all he needed to get close.
He slammed into her — body to body — crushed her against the wall with full weight.
The karambit came up between them — Jack trapped her wrist with both forearms, hoodie absorbing the scraping blade.
She struggled. Fought. Thrashed.
Jack didn't care.
He ripped her arm sideways. Twisted hard.
Her fingers opened from the pain. The karambit dropped.
Jack shoved her off. Boot to her chest. She flew back, skidded along the hallway.
Now she was in his turf.[1]
She still had movement — flexibility. But no blade. No poison.
Just rage.
She spun. Kicked.
Jack blocked with his forearm — the impact jolted through bone.
He stepped in hard — slammed his knee into her ribs.
She folded with a sharp gasp, breath cut short.
He grabbed her shirt — slammed her against the wall again.
She headbutted him.
Crack. His nose bled.
But he didn't flinch. Just grabbed the back of her neck — slammed her into the wall again.
She staggered. Dazed.
He turned her, drove his knee into the back of her leg.
She collapsed.
Jack knelt — mounted.
She screamed.
He headbutted her. Once. Twice.
Her movements slowed. Blood pooling.
But she reached for her boot—one last move.
He caught the motion. Saw the hidden needle she almost freed from her ankle wrap.
He grabbed her wrist. Yanked it upward.
Snap.
She screamed.
Jack shoved her down flat.
Panting.
She was done.
Still breathing.
Jack pulled his sidearm, aimed down.
Calm.
"The woman in precinct moved like silk. You? You're a watered-down echo."
One shot.
Back of the skull.
She didn't twitch.
Jack stood. Breathing hard. Ribs screaming. Forearms numb from impact.
Checked his arms.
No scratches.
No tears in the hoodie.
Still alive.
He looked at her body once more.
"That was too damn close."
He turned.
Backtracked down the hall, past the bodies, the broken doors, the flames rising below.
Found the dropped duffel. Slung it over his shoulder.
Stairwell gone. Back exit buried in smoke.
Only one route left.
Laundry chute.
He kicked the door open. Didn't think.
Just dropped in.
Metal walls. Heat rising.
Slide.
Crash.
Dumpster.
Jack rolled off the lid and hit pavement, coughing.
Steam curled from grates. Rats vanished into shadows.
He pressed his back to the brick wall, hand at his ribs.
Breathing ragged.
Still here.
Still him.
Across the street, on a rooftop:
A figure stood in shadow.
Binoculars glinted.
Monday.
Watching.
He tracked Jack vanish down the alley.
"...El Paso wasn't bullshit after all, huh, Stray."
He turned.
And disappeared into the fog.
End Of Chapter III: Seven Days
[1] IFYKY