The rain fell in sheets, turning the dark alley into a grimy labyrinth of shadows and cold concrete. Alexander's fingers trembled as he clenched the phone, the sound of the storm masking his rapid breaths. The distant rumble of thunder echoed in the air, matching the storm within him. His eyes were clouded with anger, but there was also a deep sense of betrayal. The words had already been spoken, but the weight of them hung heavy, pressing down on his chest.

"What do you mean by this?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the howling wind and rain, his words drenched in disbelief. His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles were white. "Alexander, do you think I want to be a pawn under you for the rest of my life?"

The voice on the other end of the line was too calm, too amused. "Oh, you're angry? But, Alexander, you've always been a pawn. You just never realized it. You think you control this, but you never did. I've had the strings from the start."

His heart thudded painfully in his chest. Alexander's mind raced, trying to formulate a retort, but in the end, he knew it didn't matter. He was already past the point of no return. His hands shook, not just with rage but with something deeper—a sense of helplessness.

With a roar, he hurled the phone at the nearest brick wall. It smashed against the surface with a sickening crack, sending shards of plastic and glass spiraling in all directions. One of the jagged pieces grazed his cheek, the sting a painful reminder of the futile violence. Blood mixed with the rainwater that trickled down his face, but he barely noticed.

On the other side of the city, Dante stood in his sleek, glass-paneled office, gazing out over the skyline, the storm raging outside matching the cold storm in his heart. He watched the phone in his hand buzz, the name 'Mark' flashing across the screen. With a smirk, he answered.

"Mr. President," Mark's voice came through, strained but efficient. "We found his location. The watchers are tailing him. They're just waiting for the order."

Dante's smile widened, eyes dark and calculating. He let the silence stretch on for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Then, with chilling calmness, he spoke.

"End it."

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a thousand decisions, the cost of a lifetime of manipulation. He hung up, the silence that followed almost deafening. Dante's fingers hovered over the phone, and for a moment, he thought about how it had all led to this. The storm outside wasn't just weather—it was a reflection of the chaos he had carefully orchestrated.

The rain beat against the windows, as if the world itself mourned what was about to happen, but Dante didn't flinch. There would be no turning back now.

The rain fell harder now, a relentless downpour that turned the streets of New York into slick rivers of shadow and light. The storm raged above, but below, in the darkness of the alley, it was as if the world had paused. A chill ran through the air, the kind that seeped into your bones. Alexander stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the ground, a weight heavy on his chest. He could feel it before he saw it—the presence of eyes watching him, hidden in the gloom. The alley seemed to close in around him, and though his body was worn and bruised by the years, his instincts never dulled. He'd been through this before, seen the ugly side of life, felt the blade of betrayal time and time again. But now, at this moment, there was nothing left. No family, no empire, no hope.

His hands shook, not from fear, but from the crushing realization of his helplessness. His life had already crumbled into dust, and all he had left was this bleak, empty moment.

From the shadows above, they descended—dark figures that seemed to move like phantoms, their bodies merging with the night, daggers gleaming in the sparse light of the alley. They were swift, like predators closing in on their prey, but Alexander didn't flinch. He had already accepted that death was near. What did it matter now? He had nothing left to fight for.

A voice broke the silence, cutting through the rain and the wind. It was cold, merciless.

"What? Have you already accepted death?" the figure taunted, his tone like ice.

Before Alexander could even reply, the figure lunged at him. The assassin's movements were a blur, quick and practiced, and within seconds, the dagger found its mark. The sharp pain seared through Alexander's body as the blade plunged deep into his stomach. He gasped, his vision fading as the blood poured out of him, staining the cold concrete beneath.

But even in the face of death, Alexander showed no fear. Only regret.

His mind wandered back to his family—the faces of his children, the warmth of his wife's smile. All of it was gone, swept away by forces beyond his control. He could never make things right, never avenge them. That was his final burden, the one that crushed him as much as the physical wound.

He sank to his knees, the rain mixing with the blood that seeped from his wound. His body felt heavy, the weight of his failures too much to bear. As he collapsed onto the unforgiving ground, the cold concrete pressing into his skin, a thought flickered in his fading mind.

Maybe God will give me another chance.

It was a fleeting thought, a desperate hope that bloomed in the last moments of his life. He thought of the good he had done, the moments where he had chosen mercy over vengeance, where he had tried to make the world a little better. Had it all been for nothing? His soul was slipping away, but for a moment, it felt as though the universe was giving him time to reflect, to see his life one last time through the lens of all he had done.

But the darkness grew, and the cold concrete beneath him became less tangible. He lost consciousness, the world around him blurring into nothingness.

The storm outside howled on, uncaring, as the last breath of Alexander left his lips.