The hearse pulled over to a deserted cross-section, the skeletal remains of old factories looming in the distance. A highway ran above them, its concrete pillars holding up the endless stream of trucks and vehicles that rumbled through the industrial sector. The sound of engines and exhaust echoed faintly, but down here, beneath the junction, everything felt still. Too still.
Zughaib stepped out of the hearse, his black bomber jacket pulled tight around him to ward off the early morning chill. His beige camo pants blended into the dusty, worn landscape, and his black sneakers moved soundlessly across the cracked pavement. The Cleaner didn't say a word, just gave a nod, his gloved hands resting on the steering wheel as he sipped his slushie. Zughaib didn't need instructions—he knew what the job was.
He ventured beneath the highway junction, the shadows growing longer as he moved away from the hearse and deeper into the abandoned industrial area. The city above felt like a distant world, its noise fading as Zughaib descended into the desolation. It was a graveyard of machinery and broken structures, the skeletons of a once-thriving part of the city, now forgotten.
As he moved further into the ruins, he heard something—a faint murmur of voices carried by the wind. Instinct kicked in immediately, and he ducked behind a chunk of broken concrete, his muscles tense as he crouched low. Peering through a gap in the rubble, he saw them: three men, gathered around a fire barrel in the distance, their dark forms illuminated by the flickering flames.
Zughaib's eyes narrowed as he took in the details. The three men wore black tactical vests with a familiar symbol stitched on the back—Anarchy Insignia. It was the same emblem he'd seen on Lost Island, the same group that had taken out his team, the ones who had left their mark on him in more ways than one. This wasn't just another errand from the Cleaner. This was personal.
Next to the broken structure where the crooks huddled, a black van sat idle, its windows darkened. Zughaib's mind raced, piecing together the scenario. This was a handoff or meeting of some kind. Whatever it was, these men were part of something larger, something tied to the threads of his past.
He silently drew the knife from his boot, the cold steel glinting faintly in the dim light. The grip felt familiar, comforting. He had taken lives with this blade before, and tonight, he would do it again.
One of the crooks, a scrawny man wearing a head scarf, took a long drag from a blunt, his attention elsewhere. He exhaled the smoke into the cool night air, laughing at something the others had said. Zughaib saw his moment. He moved from cover, silent and deadly, the shadows cloaking his approach.
With a swift, practiced motion, he launched the knife through the air. It struck the man square in the chest, burying itself deep between his ribs. The blunt dropped from the man's lips as he staggered, his eyes wide with shock. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, blood pooling around him as his comrades whipped around, suddenly alert.
"Shit!" one of the crooks, a man with a buzzed head and scars across his face—Scornhead—yelled as he reached for his gun.
The third man, a chubby figure with a scruffy beard and a gaunt face—Peachface—moved in a panic, fumbling with his weapon as he realized the attack was already upon them.
But Zughaib was faster. He closed the distance between them in seconds, appearing from the darkness like a ghost. His fist connected with Scornhead's face, the punch solid and devastating. Scornhead stumbled back, dazed, as Zughaib followed up with a brutal elbow strike to Peachface's jaw, sending him reeling.
The first man, the one with the knife in his chest, had managed to scramble to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth as he shakily drew his gun. He raised it, finger trembling on the trigger, but Zughaib was already moving. In one fluid motion, he darted forward, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it hard, the gun clattering to the ground. Before the man could react, Zughaib's switchblade pulled up, slicing through his throat with surgical precision.
The crook let out a wet, gurgling sound, his hands flying to his neck in a futile attempt to stop the blood that poured from the wound. He fell backward, eyes wide with terror as his life drained away in seconds.
Peachface, still reeling from the elbow to the jaw, roared in anger and lunged at Zughaib, grappling him around the waist in a desperate attempt to overpower him. The two struggled, their bodies crashing against the brick structure as Peachface fought with wild, panicked strength.
But Zughaib was no stranger to close combat. He twisted his body, using the momentum to free himself from Peachface's grip, and in a swift, brutal movement, he plunged and sliced his switchblade into Peachface's gut. Once. Twice. The man gasped, his body going limp as Zughaib shoved him to the ground, his eyes vacant as life left him.
Scornhead, now fully recovered from the punch, backed away, his hands trembling as he pulled a knife from his vest. "You—fucking bastard!" he snarled, slashing wildly at the air between them. "I'm gonna gut you like a pig!"
Zughaib didn't respond. His face was a mask of cold focus as he dodged the frantic swings, each strike slower and more desperate than the last. Scornhead's fury was burning out fast, his movements clumsy and wide. Zughaib waited for the opening—then it came.
He sidestepped a wild swing and drove his own blade deep into Scornhead's knee. The man screamed in agony, his leg buckling beneath him as he dropped to the ground. Zughaib followed up with a quick blow to the back of Scornhead's head, knocking him out cold.
The silence that followed was almost deafening. The only sound was the crackling of the fire barrel and the faint hum of the van's engine nearby. Zughaib stood over the bodies, breathing heavily, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The mission was done.
Zughaib wiped his blade clean on one of the dead crook's vests, then reached into his pocket for the pager. He sent a quick memo to the Cleaner on his pager: All done. One still alive.
Minutes later, the familiar low rumble of the hearse's engine echoed through the alley as it pulled up beside the black van. The Cleaner stepped out, his polished shoes crunching over the gravel as he approached, his face as calm as ever. He glanced down at the unconscious Scornhead, then at the two dead men, his expression unchanged.
"Nice work..." the Cleaner said, his voice smooth as he reached into his coat and tossed a bundle of cash to Zughaib.
Zughaib caught the cash without a word, tucking it into his jacket as. He watched as the Cleaner load Scornhead into the back of the hearse. The Cleaner wiped his hands as if brushing away invisible dirt.
"You're better at this." the Cleaner commented, looking over at Zughaib. "Almost makes me think you're starting to enjoy it."
Zughaib didn't respond, his face as stoic as ever. There was no joy in this, only survival. This was what he had to do, and he would do it until he didn't need to anymore.
The Cleaner glanced at his watch, then gave Zughaib a nod. "Well, I'll take it from here. You've earned a break. Go get some rest."
Zughaib turned without another word and began walking away from the desolate industrial zone, the sound of the hearse's engine fading behind him as it drove off into the night. The cash was heavy in his pocket, but the weight of his past, the ghosts of his memories, felt heavier. Zughaib was able to unlock the black van with a key he got from one of the crooks; hot wired it as he drove of to a Roadway connected to the desolate plain.
Back at the morgue, the Cleaner made a quick phone call as he tied up unconscious Scornhead to a strecher. "Yes," he said into the receiver, his voice smooth and businesslike. "Everything's taken care of. Send the next package. Zughaib's ready."
As he hung up, the Cleaner smirked to himself, already thinking ahead. The trail was far from over, and soon enough, Zughaib would find himself deeper in the darkness than ever before.