The world was a blur of fading lights and muffled sounds. The cold bite of concrete against his back was nothing new—he'd felt worse. The rhythmic pounding in his skull was a result of too many drinks, and that much he could remember. Everything else, though, was a haze.
Footsteps echoed, slow at first, then growing nearer. Two men, laughing. The smell of sweat and cheap alcohol hung thick in the air, a stench he could easily ignore. They were talking about something—probably a robbery, or a deal gone wrong—but their words didn't matter. Not yet.
Then, a boot slammed into his side.
Kick me again, he thought. Just once more.
The pain was sharp, cutting through the fog in his head like a knife, but it didn't bother him. In fact, he welcomed it. There was clarity in pain, something he could hold onto.
"Get up, you fucking bum," one of the men muttered, their voice slurred. "Think he's homeless?"
The second man chuckled. "Yeah, looks like it. But let's see if he's got anything worth stealing."
Number Nine didn't respond. Didn't move. Didn't flinch. He didn't need to. They would learn soon enough.
A second kick landed, harder this time. A grunt of amusement from the man who struck him. Number Nine let his body relax, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. The cold of the alley was nothing compared to the fire in his veins.
As they loomed over him, the sounds of their boots scraping against the concrete, he opened his eyes. Slowly.
His gaze was empty, devoid of any empathy, any remorse. There was nothing human left in him, not after everything he had done. He was a weapon, and weapons didn't need to explain themselves.
Without a word, he moved.
The first man reached down, his fingers stretching for Number Nine's jacket, ready to go through his pockets. He never saw it coming.
In a flash, Number Nine's hand shot up, gripping the man's wrist with an iron vice. He yanked, twisted, and the man's face contorted in pain as he lost control of his own body. The gun pressed to the man's temple was a mere formality—an inevitable conclusion to a conversation that didn't require words.
Number Nine stood, his movements unnervingly calm as he dropped the gun from his side, feeling its weight shift before grabbing it again. In one fluid motion, he slammed the butt of the gun into the man's nose, the sickening crack of bone loud in the alley.
The man crumpled to the ground, hands clutching his ruined face.
The second man froze, staring in shock, his hands shaking as he fumbled for a weapon. Number Nine didn't even acknowledge him, stepping over the fallen man and advancing on the one still standing.
In one swift motion, Number Nine grabbed the second man's phone from his pocket, unlocked it with a practiced swipe, and held it to his own face. The screen lit up, his cold expression mirrored in the glass as the phone beeped in approval.
He tapped the screen, making a quick call. The phone rang once, twice—then a voice answered.
"Molly, pick me up. Now."
He didn't wait for a response. The call ended, and the phone fell from his hand, clattering against the cold pavement.
The silence that followed was deafening. The second man could only watch as Number Nine turned his back, leaving the alley behind him.
The world might have been burning around him, but for Number Nine, it was just another day in hell.