5:45 AM
The alarm buzzed beneath a pile of textbooks, its hum drowned out by the creak of floorboards. Devon Fiore opened his eyes, staring at the crack in the ceiling that had been there since he was twelve. The air smelled of mildew and burnt coffee, a scent that had seeped into the apartment walls like an unwelcome tenant. He rose slowly, avoiding the loose floorboard near the bed—a trap his grandfather had taught him to identify back when he still wore superhero pajamas.
Dressing was a silent ritual: faded black jeans, a gray undershirt beneath a Columbia University hoodie with a peeling logo, and military boots that had outlived Salvatore and now fell to him to inherit. In the bathroom mirror, his reflection echoed the past: the same sharp jawline, the same unruly brown hair, the same crescent-shaped scar beneath his left cheekbone. "Fiore men don't cry," his grandfather had said while stitching the wound with fishing line and a swig of whiskey. "They learn."
The coffee machine spat black liquid into a grimy mug. As he waited, Devon checked his phone. Three messages from unknown numbers:
1. Unknown: Donnie's waiting at Pier 42. Noon.
2. Unknown: Chen says you've got till Friday.
3. Unknown: The Shark smells blood. Watch your step.
He deleted them without blinking. The Harlem Crows had hounded him for weeks over a debt that wasn't his, but in Brooklyn, debts were inherited like last names.
---
7:15 AM
December's air bit like a stray dog. Devon walked streets where flickering streetlights resembled dying eyes, passing bodegas with rusted gates and graffiti that told stories of gang wars. A homeless man wrapped in a blanket grunted something unintelligible; Devon dropped a dollar into his hat without stopping.
Columbia University emerged from the fog, its Gothic buildings rising like tombs from another era. In Advanced Calculus, he took his usual seat: back row, window side, where he could watch the skeletal oaks in the courtyard unseen. Professor Raymond, a sallow man with a too-tight tie, began scribbling integrals on the board with the enthusiasm of a customs officer.
Devon opened his notebook but wrote no equations. Instead, he listed names:
- Donnie Marconi: Vinnie "The Shark" Greco's right-hand man. Horse track addict. Owed $200K to Chinese loan sharks.
- Lana Chen: Loan shark. Owned a warehouse on Pier 17. Allergic to shellfish.
- Vincenzo Greco: Crows' boss. Paranoid. Slept with a .44 Magnum under his pillow.
A stifled giggle distracted him. Up front, Jessica Park—debate team president and textbook zealot—raised her hand to answer a question no one had asked. Devon watched the professor brighten at her eagerness while the rest of the class scrolled their phones. *Pathetic*, he thought. College was just another stage, and he was a spectator in the back row.
—Mr. Fiore —Raymond's voice cracked like a whip—, care to enlighten us with this function's derivative?
The room fell silent. Devon eyed the equation snaking across the board. He could solve it in seconds. But standing meant drawing attention, and attention was a luxury he couldn't afford.
—Derivatives are like promises, Professor —he said, leaning back until his chair groaned—. They only exist if everyone pretends to believe.
Nervous laughter rippled through the rows. Jessica scowled, and the professor paled as if he'd seen a ghost. Devon returned to his list, adding a new detail: Jessica Park: Fear of Failure. Absent Father.
---
12:30 PM
Lunch was a desiccated turkey sandwich from a campus café, devoured on the steps of Low Library. As he chewed, Devon watched the ballet of student desperation: girls giggling at memes, athletes comparing sneakers, an elderly professor dragging a book cart as worn as his suit. All so vulnerable. All so predictable.
His phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number:
Unknown: Check Salvatore's mailbox. Left you a gift.
The sandwich lodged in his throat. Salvatore's mailbox was a PO box in a derelict post office near the docks, a secret only the two of them had shared.
---
1:45 PM
The 104 bus carried him south, where skyscrapers gave way to warehouses with shattered windows and cobblestone streets reeking of salt and defeat. The post office was a brick corpse strangled by ivy, its "Closed" sign hanging by one nail. Inside, the air hung thick with mold and the sweet stench of dead mice.
Box 217 sat at the back, its rusted lock yielding to three picks. Inside lay a manila envelope. A photo slipped out: Salvatore Fiore, twenty years younger, standing before the same building beside a tall, bald man whose face had been burned away by a cigarette. On the back, a note in Cyrillic: *"Долг выплачен. Не возвращайся."* (*Debt paid. Don't return.*)
Devon clenched the paper until his knuckles whitened. His grandfather had died in 2017. Who the hell was still playing with his Ghosts?
---
3:20 PM
Lana Chen's warehouse hid behind a boat repair shop facade on Pier 17. Devon shoved through the corroded metal door, the sound of waves slapping the docks mixing with the crunch of his boots.
—Didn't think you'd show —Lana said from the shadows, seated behind a desk cluttered with invoices and disassembled firearms.
—Love the smell of salt and threats —he replied, dropping a folder on the desk—. Donnie Marconi. Three shipments diverted this month. Does Vinnie know his dog's stealing scraps?
Lana flipped through the documents, her red nails gleaming like blood under fluorescents.
—Interesting —she murmured, looking up—. What's your price?
—Two more weeks.
—One —she countered, slamming the folder shut—. And if you play with fire again, I'll burn you so slow you'll beg for the Crows.
Devon smirked. Lana loved mind games as much as he did.
---
6:10 PM
The Midnight Diner glowed with pink neon. Luigi, the owner, slid him a triple espresso without a word, his face carved with wrinkles that told stories of decades on the streets.
—Crows were here —the old man muttered, wiping a glass with a rag that had lost its whiteness in the '90s—. Asking about you.
Devon nodded, savoring the coffee's bitterness. Luigi had been Salvatore's partner before a stray bullet retired him. Now he was a useful ghost, with ears in every alley and warehouse.
—Tell them to find me —Devon said, leaving a twenty under the cup—. But bring flowers. The dead like company.
---
8:30 PM
Bitter wind whipped through Devon's hoodie as he walked the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan's lights flickering like counterfeit stars across the East River. He pulled out his phone, staring at the unanswered messages. A gust tore a paper from his hand—the photo of Salvatore and the bald man. He watched the wind drag it toward the river, where dark waters swallowed it whole.
—Even the dead have secrets, huh, old man? —he muttered, rubbing the scar under his jaw.
Suddenly, a scream shattered the night. Across the bridge, a young woman struggled with a man trying to snatch her purse. Without thinking, Devon sprinted toward them, his knife already in hand.
—Let her go! —he growled, the blade glinting in the moonlight.
The thief cursed and fled, leaving the woman trembling. She stared at him with grateful eyes, but Devon was already walking away, vanishing into the night before she could speak.
---
10:15 PM
Back in his apartment, Devon spread a city map over the kitchen table, red pins marking Crow territory, blue pins his meager footholds. Salvatore's urn watched from the shelf, a silent witness to every move.
—What would you do, old man? —he whispered, tracing the urn's cold edge—. Run? Negotiate? Or show them why Fiores don't bend?
The sirens outside wailed his answer.
---
Flashback: The Ghosts of Queens
Twelve years old. The Queens apartment reeked of cheap cologne and lies. His mother, perched on a velvet armchair, toyed with a nail file.
—Know why your grandfather took you in, Devon? —her voice was honey on broken glass—. Not out of love. He sees the same rot in you that ruined the Fiores.
The file glinted under dim light. Devon tried to step back, but his feet were rooted. His mother laughed, a soun that Frozen blood.
—You and I are the same —she whispered—. Cold. Calculating. But even useful things become trash when they outlive their purpose.
The file stabbed into the table with a crack. When Devon woke, the file was still there, ando her laughter echoed in his bones like poisoned scripture.
---
12:00 AM
The phone rang at midnight, its shrill tone cutting the silence like a knife. Vinnie Greco's voice rasped through static:
—You've got till dawn, Fiore. Or I'll turn your skull into a paperweight.
Devon hung up. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out Salvatore's Glock 19, its weight familiar and cold.
—Let's play —he whispered to the dark, as wind rattled the windows like a warning.
---
2:15 AM
The warehouse on Pier 42 buzzed with flickering lights that cast dancing shadows on concrete walls. Donnie Marconi paced between crates of stolen goods, a Smith & Wesson on his hip.
—Thought you'd lost your spine —Donnie sneered, acne-scarred face twisting.
—Couldn't miss your face when the feds kick down your door —Devon said, tossing a USB at his feet—. Happy Thanksgiving, Donnie.
A recording of Donnie confessing to shipment fraud boomed from hidden speakers. By the time the Crows arrived, Devon was already a ghost.
---
4:00 AM
Back in his apartment, Devon slumped into Salvatore's armchair, the map now dotted with new blue pins. He'd bought time, but Vinnie wouldn't forget the insult. The first hint of sunlight bled through the blinds, painting the room in gold that couldn't warm the chill.
Then he saw it.
At the map's center, where he'd pinned the mailbox photo, a smear of black wax—the same wax that had sealed the anonymous envelope—began to spread. Not melted by heat, not smeared by human hands. It moved on its own, like a living thing, twisting into letters that squirmed across the paper:
THE RULES CHANGE AT DAWN
Devon shot upright, his chair clattering to the floor. His pulse raced, his trembling hands gripping the table's edge.
—What the hell…? —he muttered, rubbing his eyes furiously.
The words remained. Not Cyrillic, not English, no language he knew. Yet he understood them, felt them slither into his mind like a serpent's whisper.
He stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall, Salvatore's Glock already in hand. Sweat snaked down his spine as he scanned the room for cameras, traps, logic. Nothing. Just the creak of old wood and the drumbeat of his heart.
—This isn't happening —he hissed, glaring at the message. His razor-sharp mind raced— Hallucination? Gas? Crow trick?
But nothing explained how the wax had crawled into words.
The floor shuddered. Not like the subway's rumble, but like something colossal and unseen breathing beneath his feet. The walls seemed to lean in, and for a heartbeat, Devon glimpsed flashes of another place: a forest with violet-barked trees, a sky cracked by glowing fissures…
Then it vanished.
Everything was normal.
Except the message.
Except him.