The night was unusually quiet. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just... still. Like the city was holding its breath, waiting for something to snap. Dre stood near the edge of the rooftop, the wind tugging gently at his hoodie, his fists clenched as he looked down at the streets that raised him and nearly killed him. From this height, everything looked small—cars, lights, people, their lives—but he knew too well how big the pain could feel when you were trapped down there, at ground level, with nothing but anger and a broken name to carry.
His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. It wasn't the cold that made his jaw tight. It was the memory of Elric's laugh, echoing in his head. That smug, snake-like laugh when Dre found the hidden documents—Elric's gang ties, the bribes, the names. The betrayal. The silence that followed. And the fact that Elric didn't deny any of it.
Elric knew Dre wouldn't let it go.
And Dre knew that meant war.
But he wasn't rushing in. Not this time. That's what they expected. The Dre who ran wild, fists swinging, shouting threats. No. This Dre was still, focused, carved from the pain they'd tried to drown him in. He had a plan. And tonight was the beginning of it.
A soft creak behind him. Dre didn't turn.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low.
Mira stepped out from the shadows, arms crossed tightly, her eyes a storm of confusion and fear. "Neither should you."
He glanced at her finally. "I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice, Dre. You can walk away from this."
"No, I can't. Because walking away means letting him win. Letting them forget what they did."
Her voice cracked. "And if you die? If this ends with your blood on the street like the others?"
He didn't answer. He looked at her—really looked at her. Her hair loose, her lips trembling slightly, her eyes wet but furious.
She cared. She always had.
He stepped closer, his voice softer. "I'm not trying to be a hero. I'm trying to finish what they started. For Desmond. For my mom. For everyone who never got justice."
Tears finally slipped down her cheek. "And what about me?"
He hesitated.
"I can't protect you and fight them at the same time," he said. "But I need to know you'll be safe. Away from this."
"I'm not leaving."
"Mira—"
"No. You left once. I survived. I waited. Don't ask me to do it again. If you're going to walk into fire, then let me stand near it with you."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was sacred.
He reached out, brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand. "You don't know what I've become."
"I do. I've seen the darkness in your eyes. But I've also seen you fight it. You're not a monster, Dre."
He wanted to believe her. Wanted to hold on to that version of himself that still had light left in him. But the streets didn't allow light. They swallowed it.
He stepped back, jaw tightening. "Then promise me this: if I fall… don't come looking. Burn the name. Forget the war."
She nodded slowly, but the lie in her eyes was clear. She would never forget. And she would never walk away.
Hours later, Dre was back in the underground. The supermarket's hidden basement wasn't just a meeting place anymore. It was a war room. Maps. Screens. Names.
His team sat in a semi-circle—tight, silent, loyal. Not just gang members anymore. Brothers. Fighters. Survivors. Desmond's memory lived in every plan they made.
"We hit the warehouse first," Dre said, pointing at the blueprint. "They've got weapons, files, cash drops—proof of everything Elric's been hiding."
"What about the guards?" Lasko asked.
"We move quiet. Smoke and flash, no blood unless necessary. We take everything. We leave a message."
"What kind of message?"
Dre looked up, his eyes like steel. "That the ghost is real. And he's not hiding anymore."
The room fell silent again. But this time, it wasn't fear. It was respect.
Midnight came fast.
Black hood pulled over his head, Dre moved with the shadows. The city lights blurred beneath him as he climbed from rooftop to alley, every footstep calculated. At the warehouse fence, he crouched.
One hand signal. Two. Then three.
They moved in.
The fight wasn't flashy. It was swift. Brutal. Controlled. Like chess played with fists and blades. And when they left, the building was still standing—but its soul was torn out. Files gone. Locks broken. Cameras dead.
Spray-painted on the main wall: VENGEANCE LIVES.
By morning, the city would wake to whispers. The syndicate would panic.
And Dre?
Dre would be ready.
This time, he wasn't coming to prove something.
He was coming to end it all.