Chapter 4
The sun hung lazily in the late afternoon sky, casting a golden hue over the quiet suburban neighborhood. Soren’s shoes tapped steadily against the sidewalk, his arms occupied with brown paper bags filled with groceries. Milk, eggs, a bottle of Dominic’s favorite wine, fresh herbs—all the ingredients for a meal he planned to cook alone tonight. Yet, somehow, this small weight felt like the lightest burden he’d carried in years.
A faint breeze ruffled his dark hair as he adjusted the bags, shifting them to one arm. Birds chirped softly in nearby trees. Lawnmowers hummed in the distance. Children’s laughter drifted from down the street. The world around him breathed calm and peace.
But Soren was far from peaceful.
His eyes flicked briefly to the end of the street. There, parked just beyond the park’s edge, tucked behind a thicket of trees, sat the familiar black car.
The same car from yesterday.
Twin-headed serpent. Its subtle design hidden to anyone else—but to him, it screamed.
His pace did not falter. He walked steadily, like any other man carrying groceries home, humming quiet domestic thoughts. But inside, his mind was razor-sharp, slicing through every shadow, every movement in the periphery.
His heart beat steady, controlled, yet every muscle remained coiled, ready.
Then, from the corner of his eye, they appeared.
Three of them. Men dressed in business casual—unassuming, forgettable. They stepped out from a side street and blocked the sidewalk casually, as though they were simply chatting near a mailbox.
The leader was tall. Bald. The kind of face that had been punched a hundred times but never learned to flinch.
Bald Man
Your father requests your presence.
Soren
(coldly) You’re in my way.
Bald Man
He said it’s time.
Soren
He always did have terrible timing.
Bald Man
You’re coming with us.
Soren
I really don’t want to ruin my dinner.
Bald Man
You won’t need dinner where you’re going.
The grocery bags dropped.
A flash of motion. Eggs cracked against the pavement.
In the same breath, Soren twisted, ducked, and slammed an elbow into the bald man's throat. The crunch echoed like a bat hitting bone. One attacker crumpled immediately.
The second man lunged—Soren spun low, swept his legs from under him, then kicked him in the chest as he hit the ground. The third tried to grab him from behind.
Soren’s body twisted like liquid. He slammed his heel into the man’s knee, reversed the hold, and sent him flying into a mailbox. The impact dented the steel and knocked the man unconscious.
Soren stood over them, panting softly.
His expression hadn’t changed. Still cool. Still sharp.
The sound of a car door opening pulled his attention. The black car at the distance. Another group of his father's men. Waiting. Watching.
Soren’s fists clenched. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the mess behind.
Later that night, just right before Dominic arrive, Soren stood in the garage.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above him. He stood over the old tool bench, opening a hidden drawer. Inside: an arsenal of carefully maintained weapons. Knives, throwing blades, garrotes, smoke bombs, a compact collapsible baton.
He pulled on a black coat, slick and quiet, with built-in sheaths. He moved his hands with the expertise of someone who had done this thousands of times. There was no hesitation.
No more pretending. He needs to be prepared for what's coming.
The warehouse on the outskirts of town was an old recon outpost—a place his father had once used for training. The perfect spot to send a message.
Soren slipped through the shadows, past guards who didn’t even know they were being watched. He mapped their patrols in seconds. He wasn’t just good.
Two guards. Southeast corner.
Soren dropped from the rooftop silently, landing like a whisper.
The bored one looked up—only for a split second—before Soren’s blade flicked through the air, embedding in his neck. The other turned, panicked. Soren was already there.
A single punch. Then silence.
He reclaimed his blade, wiped it clean, and slipped inside.
Motion sensors. Hidden cameras.
He moved around them all.
They hadn’t changed the layout.
He moved like he was made of smoke. Like he’d never left.
At the core of the building—five more men. All armed. All elite.
Soren stepped into the open hallway.
Soren
(softly) You were always too loud.
One guard choked on blood, reaching for his radio. Soren kicked the radio across the hall and drove a blade into his shoulder, pinning him to the floor.
He looked down at the last man alive.
Soren
Tell him I’m not coming.
Soren
And if he sends another dog, I’ll send back a ghost.
Just like the stories said.
In a dark office somewhere far away, security footage replayed.
A man in a military coat watched the screen.
Military Man
(muttering) That’s not a man.
He pressed a button on the console. A file opened.
NAME: The Wraith
STATUS: Presumed inactive
KILLS: Classified
TRAITS: Silent. Lethal. Untraceable.
Rumors whispered through the halls:
“He walked through a compound of thirty men and left no survivors.”
“They say he was trained by someone who doesn’t exist.”
“He died once. And came back with no soul.”
Soren came home just at the right time that night. Dominic came back later on from work after a few moments.
Soren stood at the stove, cooking. Quiet. Peaceful.
But his eyes were distant.
Dominic entered, kissed him on the cheek.
Soren
What I’d do if someone tried to ruin our dinner..
Dominic
Hopefully, not bury them in the backyard again.
But Soren’s fingers were still tense.
His father would send more.
And next time, he wouldn’t just be watching.
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