I never thought I’d find myself standing in an alley soaked in the kind of darkness that feels like it could swallow you whole. The neon lights of the city flickered above me, casting distorted shadows that danced across the wet concrete. My name is Damien, and if you’re reading this thinking I’m some kind of hero, think again. I don’t do capes, and I don’t save cats from trees. I’m the guy you call when you want something done—quietly and without questions.

Tonight, though, things were different.

It started with a phone call—an old number I hadn’t seen in years flashing on my screen. The kind of number that brings back memories you’ve tried to bury. I let it ring twice before answering, my voice rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.

"Damien," the voice on the other end rasped, low and urgent. It was Marcus—a name I hadn’t heard since the last job we pulled together went sideways. Since he disappeared off the grid, presumed dead.

"Marcus?" I asked, more to myself than him, because my gut already knew it was him. "Where the hell have you been?"

He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he said, "I need you. They're coming for me, and if they find me, they’ll come for you too."

Static crackled over the line, but I heard him well enough. My pulse quickened, but my voice stayed cold. "What do you mean, 'they'? You’re supposed to be dead, Marcus."

A bitter laugh came through the phone. "Yeah, well, I should be. But something bigger is going on, Damien. You were always good at figuring things out. I’m sending you something—check your email. If I don't make it through the night, you need to finish what I started."

Then the line went dead. Just like that.

For a moment, I stood there staring at my phone like it would start talking again. The city’s noise faded, and all I could hear was the echo of Marcus’s voice in my head. I had no idea what kind of mess he was tangled in, but if Marcus was scared, it had to be something bigger than anything we’d dealt with before.

I turned and walked back to my apartment, an old building that smelled like mold and regret. The kind of place no one asked questions if you paid cash. I locked the door behind me, double-checking the bolts. Something about Marcus’s call had me on edge.

I powered up my laptop, watching as it flickered to life. True to his word, there was an email waiting for me. No subject line, no words—just a file attached. I hesitated for a second, fingers hovering over the trackpad, before clicking on it.

The file opened to a set of documents—names, bank transactions, photos. At first glance, it looked like nothing. But as I dug deeper, I realized what I was seeing. Someone—no, a group—was moving money through shell companies, connected to high-ranking officials, arms deals, and worse. A web of corruption that stretched wider than I could have imagined.

Then there was a list of names. People I knew. People who were already dead. And at the very end—my name.

"Damien Wolfe," it read in bold. "Next target."

I leaned back, my mind racing. This wasn’t just a mess Marcus had stumbled into—this was something that could get both of us killed. And if Marcus was running, hiding, then whoever these people were, they meant business.

A knock at my door made me jump. Three sharp raps, evenly spaced. Not the kind of knock neighbors used. I slid my hand under the couch cushion, fingers wrapping around the cold steel of my pistol. Slowly, I moved toward the door.

"Who is it?" I asked, my voice calm but ready.

Silence.

Another knock, this time harder.

I looked through the peephole, but all I could see was the hallway—empty. My instincts screamed at me to leave. So I grabbed my jacket, stuffed the gun into the holster under my arm, and slipped out the back way, down the fire escape.

The city was alive, but I was a ghost moving through it. I knew better than to go back home. If Marcus’s file was right, they were already watching me. I needed a place to think, to plan.

I headed to the one place I knew I could trust—an old bar downtown, run by a guy named Rick. He owed me favors. A lot of favors. When I walked in, the smell of stale beer and smoke hit me like a punch, but I didn’t care. It was safe, for now.

Rick looked up from behind the counter, raising an eyebrow. "Well, well, if it isn’t Damien. Didn’t think I’d see you tonight."

"Yeah," I muttered, sliding onto a stool. "Neither did I."

He poured me a glass without asking. "What’s got you running like the devil’s on your tail?"

I took a long sip before answering. "An old ghost came back to haunt me. And now I’ve got people looking to put me in the ground."

Rick didn’t flinch. He’d seen his share of trouble. "You gonna run, or fight?"

I looked at the glass in my hand, watching the way the light caught the liquid inside. The thing about being me? Running was never really an option.

"I guess I’m gonna fight."

Rick nodded, sliding a burner phone across the counter. "Thought you might say that. You’ll need this."

I took the phone, slipping it into my pocket. "Thanks, Rick."

As I stood to leave, I knew this wasn’t going to be a simple job. If I was on that list, there was no telling who else might be. And if Marcus was still alive, I had to find him—before they did.

The city stretched out before me, full of danger and shadows. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that sometimes you have to walk through the darkness to get to the truth.

And if that means becoming the monster they fear, so be it.

The city has a way of swallowing people whole. You could walk down these streets and never realize how many lives had been erased — quietly, without a sound. Tonight, as I walked through the rain-slick alleys, I realized I might be next on that list.

The burner phone Rick gave me buzzed against my leg, vibrating like a heartbeat I couldn’t ignore. I ducked under the awning of a closed shop and pulled it out. No number, no name — just a single message.

“Warehouse. Pier 47. Midnight. Alone.”

No signature, but I didn’t need one. This had Marcus written all over it. He was never one for pleasantries — only sharp words and sharper edges.

I pocketed the phone and looked at my watch. I had a couple of hours to burn, but waiting wasn’t my style. My mind was already working overtime, pieces of the puzzle grinding in my head like gears needing oil.

Why now? Why come back from the dead only to drag me into this mess? And what had Marcus found that was dangerous enough to make him run?

I lit a cigarette and took a long drag, watching the smoke coil up into the night sky like the ghosts of all the people I’d failed to save. Marcus wasn’t just an old friend — he was the only person who knew the real me. The part of me that I kept locked away, buried beneath the persona I showed the world.

If he was in trouble, I owed him. Even if it got me killed.

I decided to kill time at a place I knew well — an old, rundown motel I used to use as a safe house. The woman at the front desk didn’t even look up when I walked in. Probably used to guys like me. I paid in cash, took the key, and climbed the creaky stairs to room 12.

Inside, the walls were yellowed with age, and the bed sagged in the middle like it had given up on life. But it was quiet, and that’s all I needed. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled out my gun, and checked the chamber. Loaded. Ready.

I kept thinking about that file Marcus sent — the names, the transactions, my own name staring back at me like a death sentence. Whoever these people were, they didn’t leave loose ends. If Marcus was a loose end, and I was connected to him, it wouldn’t be long before they came knocking on my door.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was an unknown number. I hesitated for a second before answering.

"Damien Wolfe?" a voice asked, smooth and professional. The kind of voice that sounded like it belonged to someone in a suit, sitting behind a desk in a skyscraper.

"Who's asking?" I replied, keeping my tone even.

"A concerned party," the voice said. "We know you've been in contact with Marcus Kane. We suggest you walk away from whatever game he's playing."

"And if I don’t?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

There was a pause on the other end — like they were considering how much to say.

"Then you won’t live long enough to regret it," the voice said, cold as ice. And then the line went dead.

I stared at the phone for a long moment. So, they were watching me already. They knew Marcus had reached out. This was worse than I thought.

I stood up and looked out the window, scanning the parking lot. A black SUV sat idling at the far end, windows tinted too dark to see inside. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Or maybe they were already here.

Either way, I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for them to make the first move.

By the time I reached Pier 47, the night had settled into a heavy fog, swallowing the edges of the world and blurring the city lights in the distance. The warehouse loomed like a skeleton against the mist, its metal walls rusted and graffiti-tagged — the perfect place for a secret meeting.

I walked in slow, every sense on high alert. My footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, and somewhere in the shadows, a rat scurried across the floor. But other than that, silence.

"Damien," a voice called from the darkness.

I turned, gun raised before I even realized I had drawn it. "Marcus?" I called out, my voice sharper than I intended.

He stepped out of the shadows, looking like hell. His hair was longer than I remembered, his face hollow, like he hadn’t slept in days. But it was him — alive, breathing. For now.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said, a bitter smirk on his lips.

I lowered the gun, but I didn’t holster it. "You are a ghost. Last I heard, you were dead."

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "I should be. But I found something, Damien. Something they’ll kill for. You saw the file?"

"Yeah," I said. "And now I’ve got people threatening me over the phone. What the hell did you get yourself into?"

He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around like the shadows were listening. "It’s bigger than I thought. Government contracts, private military groups, corporate money laundering — all tied together. They're using shell companies to fund black ops missions off the books. I tried to walk away when I realized what they were doing. But you don’t just walk away from these people."

"And now they want you dead," I said.

Marcus nodded. "Not just me. Anyone who knows. Which means you."

"Great," I muttered. "You always did have a way of dragging me into the fire."

"I didn’t have anyone else," he said, his voice quieter. "You’re the only person I trust."

I looked at him for a long moment, weighing my options. I could walk away, leave Marcus to deal with this on his own. But that’s not who I am. No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.

"What’s the plan?" I asked finally.

Marcus pulled out a flash drive and held it out to me. "Everything’s on here. Names, transactions, locations. But it’s encrypted. I need time to crack it — and I need you to watch my back until then."

I took the drive, slipping it into my pocket. "You got it. But if we’re doing this, we do it my way. No more running blind."

Marcus smiled for the first time that night, a hint of the man I used to know. "Deal."

As we stepped back into the fog, I knew this was only the beginning. Ghosts of the past had returned, and the only way out was through the fire.

And if anyone was going to burn, I’d make damn sure I wasn’t the only one.

I never really believed that ghosts of the past could catch up to you — until that night. The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the neon lights, like veins pulsing with city life. I leaned against my apartment window, the glass cold against my forehead. My hand absentmindedly traced the scar on my arm — a reminder of a job gone sideways, one of many.

I poured myself another glass of whiskey, the burn in my throat doing little to quiet the storm inside me. I kept thinking about that call from Blackwell. Why now? After all these years of staying in the shadows, why drag me back into the game? And more importantly, who the hell was watching me from the rooftops earlier?

A soft knock on my door yanked me out of my thoughts. I turned sharply, instincts kicking in. I never had visitors — not the kind who knocked, anyway.

I moved quietly toward the door, sliding the safety off my gun as I peered through the peephole. A woman, maybe mid-thirties, dark brown hair tucked under a soaked hood, her eyes sharp, scanning the hallway like she expected danger to be lurking in every shadow.

I hesitated. Then, something in her posture told me she wasn’t here for casual conversation. I cracked the door slightly, gun still hidden but ready.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice cold but curious.

She looked at me, unfazed. "You’re Damien Black, right? You don’t know me, but we need to talk. It's about Blackwell — and something he’s gotten himself into."

Her words tightened my grip on the gun.

"Talk," I said, not opening the door further.

She glanced nervously down the hallway. "Not here. They’re watching both of us. You’re already on their list."

"And who’s 'they'?" I pressed.

She sighed. "You know who. The people Blackwell used to work for — and the people he betrayed. If you want to survive, you’ll hear me out."

Something in her voice — a mix of desperation and determination — convinced me to take a risk. I opened the door just enough to let her slip inside, then locked it behind her.

She pulled her hood down, revealing sharp features and tired eyes. "Name’s Evelyn. Evelyn Hart. I used to work with Blackwell, back when we thought we were on the right side."

I poured her a drink — she looked like she needed one.

"So, talk," I said again, sitting across from her.

Evelyn took a sip before answering. "Blackwell's in deeper than you think. Whatever you two used to do — this is bigger. He stole something from them. Something dangerous. And now they want him dead. And anyone connected to him."

My jaw tightened. "Why come to me?"

"Because you're the only one he trusts. And because... you're the only one dangerous enough to keep him alive."

Her words hung in the air. I leaned back, studying her. "What exactly did he steal?"

Evelyn shook her head. "I don’t know. But it’s bad enough that they're sending their best to clean up the mess. People like you — only colder."

I ran a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. "Why does he always drag me into this?"

She gave me a tired smile. "Because you’re the only one who doesn’t run from a fight."

The weight of it settled on me. Blackwell had always been trouble — but he was also family. And family was the one thing I couldn't turn my back on, no matter how many scars it left me with.

"Fine," I said finally. "Where is he?"

Her eyes darkened. "Missing. And if we don’t find him first, they will."

I stood, grabbing my jacket and gun. "Then let’s go hunting."

As we stepped out into the night, I knew one thing for sure — whatever storm was coming, I was already in the center of it.