New Orleans, 195X
The bar opened at dawn, unusual for a bar, some might say, but this was no ordinary morning. No gentle sunrise spilling gold through clean windows.
The Red Lantern, as the faded sign stubbornly insisted, stood like a forgotten wound between an abandoned textile factory and a rail station that time and men had long condemned to silence. The windows were nailed shut, the neon sign sputtered with a grudging pulse as if reluctant to witness another day, and the liquor tasted like shit.
To the untrained eye, it was just another dive where the city's forgotten ghosts came to hide. But those who knew the secret rhythm, the coded knock of three slow, two fast, understood this was no watering hole. You didn't come here for solace or laughter. You came to kill. Or to watch someone else die.
Sylas sat in the back booth, his silhouette bleeding into the amber haze of cigarette smoke and low-hung light. The air was thick with the scent of rust, stale dust, and whispered betrayals, a perfume of things long buried but never forgotten. His fingers drummed a slow, precise tattoo against the scarred mahogany, the rhythm halting abruptly, as if impatient with wasted time. He despised delays. Loathed empty words. And above all, he despised the sloppy execution of a plan.
Tonight, the evening already promised all three.
Across from him, the rookie named Cole, trembled, clutching a manila folder as if it were a lifeline rather than a death warrant. Sweat pearled at his temples despite the chill, betraying nerves that ran too close to fear. His voice cracked, brittle as dry twigs underfoot, but before he could speak again, a gravelly, low voice sliced through the smoke-drenched air.
Marcel, the burly enforcer marked by a jagged scar like a history of violence inked in flesh, paused his rifle cleaning and fixed the rookie with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Hey, rookie, you planning to fight the job or faint? This ain't no nursery."
Sylas's voice was colder than the dawn. "You're late." Not anger, just fact. But the words hit the kid like a punch, making him flinch.
"Sorry, sir… there was a tail. I had to loop around-"
Sylas raised a hand, the gesture halting excuses before they could breed weakness. "I don't want excuses. I want intel."
The rookie slid the folder across the table, hands shaking like a leaf in a storm. Inside were surveillance shots-grainy black-and-whites snapped in the shadows of alleyways and rooftops. Sleek black cars prowled like predators, faces unknown and eyes too cold, men in tailored suits whose calm didn't belong on city streets.
Sylas's jaw clenched as he sifted through the images without a single word. His eyes, dark and sharp beneath a fringe of closely cropped black hair, saw everything and missed nothing. His coat, worn and weathered at the cuffs, hung on him like armor. Scars mapped his knuckles in cracked, twisting lines, each one a story, a memory etched in pain and survival.
"They're scouting again." the rookie's voice trembled, too high, betraying his attempt to sound steady. "Same cars as last week. Same time, different street."
Sylas nodded once, a grim acknowledgment. "Then it's not a coincidence."
"No, sir. And…" The kid hesitated, like the words might poison the air. "They asked about a certain…Raven."
Sylas's gaze sharpened, piercing through the cigarette haze and drifting jazz notes crackling from an old record player in the corner. The bar's usual background noise, the clink of glasses, murmured conversations dropped to a low murmur, a silent respect that spoke louder than words.
Across the table, Lana leaned forward, her lithe figure outlined by the faint glow. Her eyes were knives, and her smile razor-thin and knowing. She flicked ash from her cigarette with deliberate grace. "Mafia," she said softly, amused yet deadly serious.
Sylas closed the folder with a snap that echoed like a gunshot. "Burn it."
"Yes, sir."
Without waiting, he rose and moved toward the back hallway, where a reinforced steel door concealed the real heartbeat of the operation. Beneath the bar lay a network of subterranean tunnels, dark veins left from Prohibition days-threading through the city's underbelly like secrets whispered in the dark.
As Sylas passed, the conversations in the bar dipped into silence, not out of fear, but reverence. Because Sylas D. Rook didn't run The Red Lantern for profit or power. He ran it because it was his shield, his sanctuary. Because it kept him breathing when the world wanted him dead. Because control was a currency more precious than cash or bullets.
At the doorway, hand on the cold steel knob, he paused, then glanced back at the bouncer stationed nearby. "If anyone asks for me today," Sylas said quietly, "tell them I'm dead."
The man blinked, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "Boss?"
Sylas said nothing. The door clicked shut behind him, swallowing the sound, and he vanished into darkness.
From the far corner, Lana's voice murmured with a smirk, "That was one hell of a dramatic exit, even for him."
Marcel swirled amber liquid in his glass and watched Sylas's retreating figure, his voice low and wary. "Boss has been in a foul mood all night. Not a word. Barely a blink. When he's like that, you know trouble's grinding just beneath the surface."
Lana exhaled smoke, the tendrils curling like whispered threats. "Yeah, when he's tight-lipped and cold, trouble's never far. Probably a new bounty or heat from the mafia breathing down our necks."
The rookie, still clutching his glass, swallowed hard and dared to ask, "So... what kind of bounty? And why's the mafia sniffing around us like bloodhounds?"
Marcel's smirk was a blade's edge. "Fresh job out there. Serious money for a clean kill. Whoever pulls it off gets rich enough to vanish. Mafia? They're scouting us, testing for loyalty, sniffing for weakness."
Lana rolled her eyes with a pointed glare at the newbie. "Honestly, I still don't get why the boss even took you in. You're green as spring grass. This world chews amateurs like you for breakfast."
The rookie swallowed but stayed. Marcel's voice lowered, gravel-heavy. "If they find out who did that last hit, we're all marked. No second chances."
Lana clinked her glass against Marcel's with the finality of a gunshot. "So we keep low, watch each other's backs, and stay sharp. Like always."
"To surviving the dawn." Marcel toasted quietly.
"To surviving another dawn." Lana echoed fiercely.
Far from The Red Lantern's shadowed glow, Sylas zipped his worn black biker coat against the cold that tasted like oil and steel. His matte-black motorcycle waited like a specter under a battered tarp near the back exit.
He mounted without hesitation, no helmet, no hesitation, just cold muscle memory and the roar of an engine that growled like a beast disturbed.
He didn't need a destination tonight. But he knew he had company.
That black car had stalked him for a month, never close enough to strike, never distant enough to ignore. At first, he'd let it be, assuming mafia scouts or unlucky bounty hunters playing a dangerous game.
Tonight, his patience snapped.
The bike's engine rumbled low as he pulled onto the wet, cracked street. The black car shadowed him, silent and precise, blending into dawn's sparse traffic.
Two turns later, Sylas cut into a narrow alley, wet asphalt shining with the ghosts of rain, flanked by crumbling buildings where the streetlights died like fading stars. He stopped by a rusted dumpster, cut the engine, and listened. Tires whispered on gravel behind him, right on cue.
He slipped off the bike, peeling gloves from fingers one by one, boots clicking softly on pavement. One hand slid into his coat; the other curled into a slow, quiet fist.
He knocked on the car window. Three taps, measured, cold. The glass didn't budge.
Leaning in, Sylas's face was a mask of calm, nothing betraying the simmering fire beneath. Inside, two men in clean suits froze. One gripped a phone; the other's knuckles whitened on the wheel.
Sylas smiled faintly, not warmth, but a promise.
His lips moved silently: You lost?
The driver blinked. Sylas's boot cracked hard against the car's side. The metal dented with a heavy thud that shook the vehicle. The passenger jumped, and the window rolled down two inches, just enough.
"You've been tailing me," Sylas said, voice like cracked gravel. "Either you're fool... or you want to die."
The passenger cleared his throat, trying to hold his cool.
"We just want to talk."
Sylas cocked his head, amusement cold and sharp. "That's why you've been skulking for a month?"
A pause.
"We were told you're the only one worth contacting."
Another pause.
"We have an offer."
Sylas's smile vanished. He stepped back, voice a knife. "You're a day too late. I don't take bounties at dawn."
He turned, leaving them to taste their panic and confusion in the cold morning air.
But the car door clicked open.
Sylas stopped mid-step as the passenger climbed out, hands raised like a truce. The driver stayed put, less brave or wiser.
"We wouldn't risk following you this long if it wasn't important," the man said, voice steady but tight. "You don't have to accept. Just listen."
Sylas tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a blade drawn slow. He said nothing.
"We're not here to start a war," the man went on. "But one's coming, whether we want it or not."
Still no answer.
"The bounty isn't public. Not yet. It's sensitive. We've lost five teams. Two disappeared. One sent back in parts."
Sylas faced him fully at last.
"Then send more," he said, cold and final. "I'm no janitor."
"It's not cleanup," the man pressed. "Containment. The target's ex-mafia deep files, old blood, high clearance. He's gone rogue, leaking names, families, accounts... half the southern syndicates are exposed."
Sylas murmured, "And you're worried he'll sell it?"
"No. He's giving it away. Free to anyone who listens."
That caught Sylas's attention.
He stepped closer. The man flinched.
"Who's the target?"
The passenger swallowed. "Classified. You get the file once you're in. But he's no rookie's job. They said you're the best."
Sylas's lip curled, bitter and dry. "'They' don't know me."
"Your reputation says otherwise."
A silence stretched thin as spider silk, fragile and threatening.
Sylas's gaze locked on the man's. "If I'm your weapon, then sharpen me. Otherwise, stay out of my way."
The passenger nodded slowly. "We don't want your loyalty. Just your discretion and your skill."
Sylas turned away, cold as the dawn breaking above the city's cracked skyline. His hands clenched into fists again.
Because sometimes, the darkest night is only the beginning.
Sylas didn't answer immediately. The first pale light of dawn stretched slow fingers across the cracked pavement, but the chill in the alley held fast. The man's words hung between them like smoke, thick, clinging, impossible to ignore.
He finally spoke, voice low and rough like gravel pulled from a tomb. "You don't get to pick your wars. They pick you."
The passenger's eyes flickered with a cautious hope. "We need someone with your… discretion. Your ruthlessness."
Sylas's laugh was dry, a bitter rasp. "Ruthless? Maybe. Discreet? That depends on the price."
The man nodded. "We can pay. More than enough to keep you, and those who matter to you, safe."
Sylas's gaze dropped to the ground. Safe. That word was a lie wrapped in gold foil. He'd long ago learned safety was a ghost, fleeting and mocking. But the promise of protection, of leverage, that could buy more than bullets.
"I'll take your file." Sylas said at last, voice steady but cold.
The passenger produced a slim envelope, sealed with a black wax stamp embossed with a raven in flight, their calling card, or perhaps a warning.
Sylas accepted it without a word, fingers brushing the paper like it was a live wire.
"Read it carefully." the man warned. "You're not just hunting a target. You're entering a war that's already bleeding into the streets."
Sylas pocketed the envelope, stepping back into the shadow of the alley. The motorcycle waited, a beast coiled for the ride.
"Keep your men in check." Sylas said without turning. "And keep your distance."
The passenger inclined his head, eyes sharp but wary. "Good hunting, Raven."
Sylas fired the engine. The roar shattered the dawn's fragile calm as he vanished into the awakening city, the weight of secrets heavier than the morning fog.
Back at The Red Lantern, the lock clicked softly, sealing the room from the rest of the world. Sylas stepped into the dim-lit office tucked beneath layers of reinforced concrete. A faint hum from the old industrial vents echoed through the silence. He shed his coat, draping it over the back of his chair, and sat with a slow exhale.
The sealed file lay before him like a wound waiting to reopen. He slit the wax seal with a flick of his blade and unfolded the stiff documents inside. A familiar crest stared back at him from the top page, clean, sharp, and unmistakable.
The D'Verna syndicate. A well-known family, natural enemies of The Rave. His heartbeat slowed. Then picked up again.
Below it: surveillance photos. Data. Names. And one of them, bold, typed cleanly in black ink, was like a curse etched into paper.
Elias Rave.
Sylas didn't move. Not for a long while. He just stared. His fingers hovered over the name. His breath was calm, but his jaw clenched hard. A muscle ticked beneath his eye.
He'd told himself he was done with the past. That vengeance was a luxury for the weak, and survival required surrender. He had lived thirty-five years by that rule. Lived by the blade, not for blood.
But this...
He had buried the pain. The guilt. The rage. He had buried the memories of him, of the man who haunted every chapter of his youth.
Elias's father. The man who tore his world apart. The one whose shadow he once swore to destroy.
He was dead now. Long gone. Sylas had let go of that ghost.
But Elias? Elias was his blood. The Rave name carried everything Sylas had wanted to erase. And now, fate had laid that name before him again. His hands trembled slightly, just for a moment, before he balled them into fists.
"Why now…" he whispered into the silence.
The flame he'd snuffed out years ago was flickering back to life. And this time, it wasn't just survival he wanted. It was reckoning. Sylas stared down at the grainy colored photograph once more, and that's when he saw it—barely visible beneath Elias's black trench coat, wrapped loosely around his neck.
The scarf.
Muted blue. Frayed at the edges. Worn soft by time. His breath caught. Not from the color, not from the cut, but from the way it was tied. A simple knot. Tucked the way she always wore it. Not stylish. Not even masculine. Just comforting. Familiar. Like something sacred worn out of habit, not fashion. It didn't suit Elias at all. But it suited her.
He knew that scarf. He'd hidden in it as a child when the cold walls of their hideaway clawed too close. He'd bled into it once after his first failed job. She had wrapped it around his hand while she scolded him and kissed his forehead. She hadn't worn perfume. Just soap and smoke and old paper.
And now he had it, wore it like some kind of legacy. A souvenir.
Sylas's stare turned sharp as glass.
The audacity.
He could lie to himself all he wanted. Pretend he wasn't drawn back. Pretend the pain hadn't reopened. But this wasn't coincidence. This was a thread being pulled. A chain dragging him back to everything he swore to escape.
He wanted answers. He wanted the truth no file could give.
And if Elias Rave thought he could wear her memory, parade around with a ghost Sylas had bled to bury, then Sylas would tear the truth out of him. Even if it destroyed them both.
He reached for the sealed envelope again. Inside, a bounty contract. Official. Untraceable. Clean kill, high reward.
More than enough money to disappear again. More than most would ever see in their lives.
But that wasn't why Sylas signed it.
Killers didn't keep their words. Honor was a myth in their world.
Still, Sylas pressed the pen down, letting the ink carve his name into the paper with slow, brutal finality.
He would take the job. Follow the trail. And if Elias was just a step on the path, so be it. But if he was more, if this was about more, then the bounty was never about money. It was about truth. Even if it was a trap. Even if it damned him.
Sylas stood, pulled his coat tight, and stepped toward the door. The storm inside had already begun to rise.