The square, old TV mounted in the corner of the local diner buzzed to life, its screen flickering as a news report crackled into focus. The scent of greasy breakfast drifted through the air—bacon, eggs, burnt toast—stirring the early risers nursing mugs of cheap coffee.
But one customer stood out.
He wore a dark jacket so precisely tailored it might as well have been grown on him. The collar flared high and wide, lined with faintly glowing LEDs.
The old man behind the counter—owner, cook, and waiter all in one—watched with mild amusement. He didn't get the fashion these days, not one bit.
Still, the kid was polite. Smiled when he came in, held the door for someone, even asked if he could turn on the news.
The news, the old man thought, chuckling as he wiped down the counter. Who the hell under thirty watches the news anymore?
But there he sat—quiet, sharp-eyed, and listening.
"…Last night's tragedy in Hell's Kitchen is still under investigation. Multiple fatalities have been confirmed, with reports suggesting a violent gang-related dispute…Authorities are looking for any leads."
The image flickered on the screen, showing the aftermath of the chaos—a blood-soaked gambling den, police officers trudging through the mess.
The hint of a smirk played at the corner of the young man's lips, but it was gone before anyone could notice, quickly masked by a mouthful of eggs, the kind of casual move that made him look almost like any other patron.
The regulars had no idea, too wrapped up in their own world. The old man behind the counter, though, didn't miss a thing. He caught the subtle shift—the kind of thing only someone who'd seen enough in this damned city could pick up on.
It didn't take a genius to know that the kid wasn't just watching the news. He was waiting for it.
—-
"Are you fucking kidding me?" the man shouted, accent thick, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the edge of his desk.
Across from him sat a scarred man, seemingly calm despite the storm—his leg gone below the knee, replaced by nothing but air and rage.
"You told me you had it under control," Patrick hissed, his voice low and venomous, eyes locked on the scarred man—Connor.
Connor surged to his one foot, balance shaky but fury solid, his quiet rage finally cracking open.
"He's fucking enhanced, Pat! What the fuck are we meant to do?"
Patrick didn't respond. His eyes simply narrowed.
Connor got the message.
He sat back down.
"We've got another six dead from last night, Connor," Patrick said, his tone flat now. Cold. "He's now attackingus"
Connor's jaw clenched. He gave a stiff nod, but didn't speak.
Patrick leaned forward, voice dropping to a hiss. "Why?"
Connor swallowed, eyes flicking down. "We hit his place a couple days back. Thought he'd fold. Instead…"
Patrick's hand slammed onto the desk, making Connor flinch.
"You thought wrong," Patrick spat. "You pushed a dog into a corner, and he came out biting."
A long silence passed, Patrick's breathing audible as he closed his eyes—thinking, he needed to think.
How the hell did he deal with someone enhanced!?
Another silence passed, Patrick's mind spiraling until—"Get out." He suddenly snapped, and Connor, without hesitation, obeyed.
Patrick dropped back into his seat, his fingers gripping the armrest as he picked up his phone.
It rang.
And rang.
Finally, a voice crackled through.
"Mr. Wesley here." The familiar voice was cold, unsettling.
Patrick hummed. "You seen the news?" He asked simply, his breathing calm, though his heart was racing.
The man on the other side of the phone chuckled, Patrick clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to shout down the phone.
"We need to deal with this." Patrick almost hissed.
A short pause.
"We?" Wesley asked, his laughter having ceased.
Patrick let out a deep breath.
"Yes, we. The guy's going after the gambling houses—for the money." Patrick's voice was steady now, though his eyes darkened with the weight of what was coming. "You think he won't hit the Russians or the Japs next?"
"Maybe. But they'll actually be able to deal with this one man." Wesley's tone was dismissive, reprimanding.
Patrick's voice dropped to a growl. "He's enhanced."
Wesley was silent for a moment, the weight of the statement sinking in. Patrick could practically hear the wheels turning on the other end.
"Right," Wesley finally said, his tone shifting to a more serious, calculating one. "That changes things."
Patrick snorted, damn right it changed things.
"I'll let our employer know now, you'll get a call back soon," Wesley said, hanging up the phone with a sharp click.
Patrick sighed, a brief moment of peace washing over him—until the door flew open.
Before Patrick could even get a word out, one of his men burst through, panic evident in his eyes.
"We've been hit again."
—-
The streetlights above flickered intermittently, casting long, ghostly shadows across the cracked pavement. A faint hum of distant traffic buzzed in the background, but here, in this forgotten part of the city, the silence was almost suffocating.
A door slammed shut inside the bar, followed by muffled voices—arguing, angry. Then, a high-pitched scream broke through, followed by a sudden thud.
Silence.
BANG!
A sharp, jarring gunshot that shattered the stillness like glass. It rang out into the night, sending a ripple of unease through the surrounding streets.
The bar door swung open with a creak, the hinges groaning as if reluctant to release what had just transpired within.
A figure stepped out, his silhouette cutting a sharp contrast against the dim glow of the streetlights. He wore a dark jacket, the collar absurdly large, lined with faint LEDs that glowed a dark orange.
In his right hand, a large revolver dangled loosely, its cold steel reflecting the pale streetlight light. In his left, a bag bulged with cash, the weight of it unmistakable.
The man's stride was steady, deliberate, as if he was simply walking out of a bar on any given night—except for the blood that clung to him, dark and thick, staining the edges of his jacket and dripping onto the pavement in slow, deliberate drops.
The bar door behind him shut with a heavy thud, as if he'd left.
—-
Thoughts on this chapter?