Chapter 1: The Dead Man's Call

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.

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