The storm didn't come with thunder. It came with a knock on the door.
Ghost was loading a crate with ammo when he heard it—three slow knocks. Not loud, not rushed. Calm. Confident. Wrong.
He exchanged a look with Tomi and reached for his gun.
"Open it," Dre's voice came from the back room.
Ghost nodded, moved cautiously toward the door, and yanked it open.
No one.
Just a small envelope on the ground. Black. Sealed with blood-red wax shaped like a serpent.
Tomi picked it up with a shaky hand. "Is this a trap?"
"It's worse," Dre said, already moving toward it. "It's an invitation."
He took it, cracked the seal, and read the note inside aloud.
"You took one of ours. It's time we even the scale.
Meet me where this all began. Midnight. Come alone.
Or the girl dies. — E."
Silence hit the room like a hammer.
"No way," Ghost snapped. "We just left Miracle. She was safe!"
Dre's eyes were already dead with rage. "Elric got to her."
Tomi's voice was cracking. "The cameras. He must've had someone watching the clinic."
Dre didn't respond.
He was already strapping his gun to his thigh.
"You're not going alone," Ghost said.
"I am."
"Like hell."
Dre turned, face cold and locked. "He wants me. Just me. If I bring anyone else, she's dead before I even step in the room."
"But what if he kills you?"
Dre's voice dropped. "Then tell the streets I died standing."
By midnight, Dre was on foot, walking toward the burned-out church where his mother used to pray.
Where he first saw Elric.
Where all of this began.
The wind whipped harder the closer he got. Rusted gates groaned. The church doors were still black from the fire Elric had started ten years ago to "send a message."
Dre had been a boy then.
Now, he was the message.
He pushed the door open.
It wasn't empty.
Miracle was there. Tied to a chair, blood on her cheek, but alive.
And Elric.
Dressed in all black. No guards. No guns.
Just him and a blade.
"I knew you'd come," he said, stepping from the shadows. "You always were loyal to your pain."
"You always were a coward," Dre answered.
Elric smiled. "We don't have to do this."
Dre stepped forward. "But I want to."
Elric tossed the blade to the ground between them. "Then let's make it holy."
Dre didn't hesitate.
He dropped his gun.
Stepped onto the ashes.
And swung.
The fight was ugly. No honor. No rules. Just blood and history.
Elric was faster than Dre remembered. But Dre was stronger. Meaner. Tired of losing.
Punches landed like thunder.
Bones cracked like lightning.
They fought across the ruined altar, over broken pews, through ghost memories of prayers never answered.
Elric tried to choke him with a rope from the chair.
Dre slammed him into the wall hard enough to shake dust from the rafters.
They both fell.
Dre rolled away, gasping.
Elric crawled toward the blade.
Dre saw it. So did Miracle.
"Dre!" she screamed.
Too late.
The knife dug into Dre's side.
Pain burned through him like fire, but he didn't fall.
He caught Elric's wrist.
Twisted.
And drove the blade into Elric's stomach.
"Remember my mother?" he whispered.
Elric's mouth opened, but no words came.
Dre pulled the knife out and shoved him back.
He hit the floor hard.
And didn't get up.
Dre staggered to Miracle and untied her. She was crying, hands on his face, holding him like he'd slip away if she let go.
"You're bleeding—bad," she said.
"Not enough to die," Dre muttered. "Not tonight."
They limped out together, the fire in the church burning behind them. Someone had lit it.
Maybe Elric. Maybe fate.
Didn't matter.
The past was ash now.
Dre had one name left.
The one behind Elric.
The one who had fed the streets blood like it was business.
Dre looked up at the sky and smiled.
Let the shadows come.
He'd be waiting.