The streets were quiet tonight, the silence almost unnerving. It was the kind of stillness that told stories—stories of forgotten people, failed lives, and broken dreams. The alleyways Noir prowled had once been filled with life, with the sounds of industry and ambition. Now, they were only filled with shadows, debris, and men like him—people who had lost everything or never had anything to begin with.
Noir had always been quick, sharp, and careful. He had to be, because the city was a living, breathing beast that devoured the weak and naive. As a thief, Noir knew there was no room for mistakes. One wrong step, and it could all come crashing down. And if there was one thing Noir hated, it was the idea of losing control. Control was all he had left in a world where trust was dead and loyalty was a joke. He didn't believe in alliances, not anymore. Not after what had happened.
A sharp gust of wind swept through the alleyway, carrying the scent of damp concrete and oil. Noir tugged the collar of his jacket tighter, pulling himself deeper into the shadows as his boots clicked faintly on the pavement. He had a destination in mind—a place he'd returned to more times than he could count. His hideaway, his sanctuary. The warehouse.
Years ago, the place had been bustling with workers, people who were blind to the rot of the world. But they had moved on, just like everything else in the city. Now, the place was his, or at least that's what he told himself. It was the perfect spot, tucked away in the industrial sector where no one bothered to look. Inside, hidden beneath layers of grime and dust, was everything Noir had taken from the world: money, jewelry, rare artifacts—his trophies. They were all stacked, catalogued, and carefully stored in the back room of the warehouse, a vault of his greatest accomplishments. Yet, every time he walked in, the emptiness hit him harder than ever.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Noir pushed open the rusted door of the warehouse, the creak cutting through the stillness of the night. Inside, the space felt colder than usual, the air heavy with the scent of decay and neglect. His footsteps echoed as he walked deeper, past the old equipment, the crates, and the abandoned machinery. The back room was lit by a single dim bulb that flickered, casting erratic shadows across the room. The shelves were filled with stolen goods, and the floor was covered in dusty crates, some half-opened, revealing stacks of cash and expensive watches, necklaces, and paintings.
For most people, it would be a dream come true—a treasure trove of wealth and luxury. But for Noir, it was nothing more than a hollow victory.
He stood there, staring at the piles of cash, the gold jewelry, the antiques he had risked his life to steal. None of it mattered anymore. He had once believed that the more he stole, the more control he would have over his life. The more he could distance himself from the pain and betrayal he had endured. But standing there, surrounded by his ill-gotten gains, he felt nothing. Just cold emptiness.
He could buy a house, sure. Fill it with everything in this room. But what would it change? Would a house make him forget the betrayals, the partners who had sold him out, the so-called friends who left him to bleed in the gutter while they took the payout and ran?
No. It wouldn't make a damn difference.
He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, feeling the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders. A part of him wanted to just let it all go, to walk away from the life he had built. But what else was there for someone like him? A man who had been betrayed too many times to count, who had learned that the only person you could trust was yourself. Control had been his mantra, his code. Betray them before they betray you. Take before they take from you.
But even control had its limits.
That's when he had heard the whispers. A rival gang, The Iron Wolves, was planning a heist at one of the city's largest banks, Liberty Trust. The Wolves were small-time compared to some of the other criminal outfits in the city, but they were vicious. He had picked up their plans while eavesdropping on a bar conversation—how they would rob the bank's armored cars, take the cash, and disappear into the night.
Noir had decided then and there that this would be his final job. One last score for old times' sake. He wasn't interested in the money, not really. It was about the thrill, about ending things on his terms. Control, once again. He would take from them before they had the chance to pull their heist, make off with a good chunk of their haul, and vanish into the night.
What he didn't realize, though, was that The Iron Wolves had anticipated his every move. They had known he'd been listening. They had laid a trap, and Noir had walked straight into it.
The night of the heist was dark and stormy, the rain falling in sheets as Noir moved through the streets, his eyes sharp and his senses on high alert. He had planned it perfectly, as he always did. Slip in during the Wolves' chaos, grab what he could, and be gone before they even realized they'd been robbed. But the moment he slipped into the shadows near the bank's loading docks, he knew something was wrong.
The silence was too thick, too calculated.
Before Noir could react, the first gunshot rang out, echoing through the alley. Then another, and another. His instincts kicked in, and he darted behind a stack of crates as bullets tore through the air, narrowly missing him. He had been in firefights before, but this was different. This was coordinated, planned.
The Wolves had been waiting for him.
Noir's heart raced as he weaved through the dark, narrow alleys, the Wolves firing from all sides. He dodged a bullet that whizzed past his head, another that grazed his arm. His movements were fluid, but the odds were against him. He could hear them closing in, their footsteps heavy on the wet pavement.
Then it happened.
He was scaling a wall, trying to pull himself up to a fire escape when the bullet hit him. It tore through his abdomen, the pain immediate and blinding. His grip faltered, and he nearly fell. But somehow, he managed to pull himself over the ledge, collapsing onto the rooftop, blood pouring from the wound.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring up at the sky, the rain mixing with his blood as it pooled beneath him. The pain was unbearable, but it was the realization that hit him hardest.
He was going to die here.
Noir pushed himself to his feet, staggering toward the edge of the rooftop, trying to move, trying to get away. But every step felt heavier than the last. His vision blurred, and his legs gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground in the alley below.
He gasped, the cold ground pressing against his back as his blood soaked into the pavement. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving with each labored breath. The world around him felt distant, like it was fading away.
"This is it, then?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. "This is how I go out?"
There was no grand finale, no last-minute escape. Just cold, hard reality sinking in. Noir was dying, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He cursed the world, cursed his choices, cursed the fact that he had let his guard down. He had always known it would end like this, hadn't he? That one day, his luck would run out. He had just hoped it wouldn't be tonight.
His thoughts began to slow, his vision darkening as the numbness spread through his body. The pain was fading now, replaced by a cold, empty void.
He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. Maybe there was something after this. Maybe there wasn't. He didn't care anymore. He was tired, ready to let go.
With one last shaky breath, Noir's body went still.
And the world went dark.