The smell of blood hung heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of sweat and the musty smell of a dumpster. Dio crouched behind a pile of broken crates in the dim alley, his breathing labored. His shadow slithered up the wall beside him, its senses feeding him fragments of information—footsteps, sounds, the metallic click of a gun being loaded.
"They're closing in," he muttered, gripping the cold steel of the pistol he'd scavenged. His other hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from knowing two of his crew were already dead. 'Damn it! Fighting gangs are really dangerous. But sacrifices are necessary if I want to gain a foothold in this world.' He couldn't help but sigh. Two lives were lost due to him using them as pawns.
It started when one of his crew, Sticks, had caught a bullet in the gut during their frantic escape. Dio had tried to drag him along, but Sticks shoved him away with a grim smile.
"Go, boss," Sticks had rasped, blood pooling around him. "Make it count."
Dio didn't look back.
Now, he moved with calculated precision, weaving through the slum's labyrinth of alleys and crumbling buildings. His shadow scouted ahead, feeding him glimpses of his pursuers. The West Bull wasn't just chasing him—they were hunting him. They're really fucking hot on his heels.
At one point, Dio spotted a pair of them cutting off his route. He ducked into an abandoned shop, his shadow slipping beneath the door. From their senses, he saw the thugs outside arguing. One pointed down the alley; the other hesitated.
Dio moved quickly, sliding through a back window and disappearing into the darkness.
...
They caught up to him in a dead-end courtyard, five of them fanning out like predators cornering prey.
"Thought you could wipe out the Brigade and get away with it, huh?" their leader sneered, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a cocky smirk.
Dio's grip on the pistol tightened. He'd practiced with it in secret, but aiming under pressure was a different beast. His shadow darted between the men, their outlines clear in his mind.
"Maybe I didn't want to get away," Dio said, raising the gun.
He fired. The first shot missed, but the second caught a thug in the chest, sending him sprawling. The others scattered for cover, yelling curses.
Dio kept moving, using his shadow to track their positions. He popped out from behind a rusted barrel, taking another shot. This one clipped a man's shoulder, making him drop his weapon.
The wiry leader charged, a knife glinting in the moonlight. Dio ducked, slamming the butt of the pistol into the man's ribs before retreating into the shadows.
...
The fight became a brutal game of cat and mouse. Dio's shadow was his lifeline, giving him eyes where his enemies couldn't see.
When one thug tried to flank him, Dio anticipated the move, spinning around and firing point-blank. The shot missed, but the man hesitated long enough for Dio to close the distance, slamming his fist into the thug's jaw.
His strength passive made the blow devastating. The thug crumpled, unconscious.
Another came at him with a crowbar. Dio barely dodged, the swing grazing his shoulder. His shadow alerted him to the third thug behind him, and he pivoted, using his opponent's momentum to shove the crowbar wielder into the other attacker.
The wiry leader was the last one standing.
"You're out of bullets," the man taunted, holding his knife steady.
Dio tossed the empty pistol aside, rolling his shoulders. "Who needs bullets?"
They clashed in a frenzy of strikes and dodges. Dio's shadow gave him the edge, allowing him to sense the man's feints and counter with brutal efficiency. A kick to the knee, an elbow to the ribs, a final blow to the temple—the leader went down hard, groaning.
Dio stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek.
"Stay down," Dio growled, his voice cold.
...
The outcome was chaos. Dio used his shadow to confirm no reinforcements were approaching, sweeping the surrounding area for signs of movement. It gave him a precious few moments to regroup and assess his injuries.
The fight had been a lesson—on tactics, on survival, on the sheer unpredictability of combat.
"Two down," he murmured, thinking of Sticks and Quick. "But I'm still standing."
Now, only Bricks, Silver, and Scrap were alive, hiding somewhere. Quick, the young boy and Sticks die from gunshots.
He moved into the night, his shadow his silent companion, and his mind already calculating the next steps. The West Bull might have started this chase, but I'm going to finish it.