The night deepened, and with it, the city seemed to breathe—a slow, heavy sigh that carried the weight of countless stories, many of which would never be told. Jack adjusted his coat, the chill in the air seeping into his bones. Marcus tilted his head slightly, listening.
"You hear that?" Marcus asked, his voice low but steady.
Jack nodded, though the sound was faint. A distant rumble, like metal scraping against stone, reverberated through the narrow alleyway. It wasn't just noise; it was a harbinger.
"They're getting closer," Jack muttered.
The two exchanged a glance, the kind that spoke volumes without the need for words. Jack knew Marcus well enough to read the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his hand hovered just a little too close to his sidearm.
"Do you think it's them?" Marcus finally broke the silence, though he already knew the answer.
"Has to be," Jack replied, stepping forward. The faint glow of a neon sign overhead reflected off a puddle, casting an eerie green hue on the alley walls. "The Sons of Ash don't just let people walk away."
Marcus let out a bitter laugh. "Walk away? We didn't walk away, Jack. We burned their stash and left them a message."
Jack smirked despite himself. "And now they're delivering one of their own."
The sound grew louder. This time, it was accompanied by footsteps—steady, deliberate, and far too numerous for comfort. Jack scanned the alley. On one side, the wall of a derelict building rose like a fortress. On the other, a chain-link fence offered no escape.
"Back door's locked," Marcus said, nodding toward the building.
"Figures," Jack said under his breath.
The first figure emerged from the shadows, a hulking silhouette framed by the dim streetlight. Others followed, their faces obscured by masks painted to resemble twisted skulls. The Sons of Ash.
"Well, well," the leader drawled, his voice like gravel. "If it isn't the prodigal sons themselves."
Jack stepped forward, his stance casual but his mind racing. "Didn't think you'd miss us this much, Novak. What's the occasion? Reunion party?"
Novak laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "You torched half a million in product. That's not the kind of thing we let slide."
"Fair," Jack said, his tone betraying none of the adrenaline coursing through him. "But you have to admit, it was a hell of a show."
The laughter stopped. Novak's hand shot up, signaling his crew to advance. Marcus tensed, his hand gripping the hilt of his knife.
"Jack," Marcus whispered, his voice tight.
"I know," Jack replied.
They had faced worse odds before, but this was different. The Sons of Ash weren't just street thugs; they were an empire built on fear and ruthlessness. And now, they wanted blood.
The alley grew silent except for the muffled hum of distant city life. Novak stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Any last words?" he sneered.
Jack smiled. "Just one."
Before Novak could react, Jack flicked his wrist, releasing a small, compact device from his sleeve. He pressed a button, and the alley erupted in blinding light and deafening sound.
"Run!" Jack shouted, grabbing Marcus by the arm and pulling him toward the fence.
The next moments were a blur of chaos—shouts, the crackle of disoriented gunfire, and the acrid smell of smoke. Jack and Marcus scaled the fence, adrenaline giving them strength.
On the other side, they hit the ground running, feet pounding against the pavement. Behind them, the alley was a cacophony of rage and confusion.
"That was close," Marcus panted as they rounded a corner.
Jack didn't slow down. "Too close."
As they disappeared into the labyrinthine streets of the city, Jack couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. The Sons of Ash wouldn't stop until they got what they wanted—or until Jack and Marcus found a way to end it for good.
And in a city that thrived on shadows, there was only one way to fight fire: with a bigger flame.