KIERAN
The second the door shut behind me, the weight I'd been carrying, guilt, frustration, bloodlust, settled low in my chest like a loaded gun.
I hadn't meant to scare her.
Not like that.
We were fine, just an hour ago. She was glaring at me over a bag of marshmallows, accusing me of being a judgmental grocery snob. And now? I could still see that look in her eyes, fear, fresh and raw, trying not to show on her face.
She looked at me the way people used to while I ran the empire.
And that fucking hurt more than I thought it would.
But I hadn't grabbed that guy out of nowhere. I wasn't being reckless. I'd seen him long before that moment.
From the store.
Third aisle over, loitering by the canned goods, pretending to text. Then by the freezer. Then near the exit when we checked out. Always five paces behind, pretending to be interested in soy milk or chips or whatever the fuck people use for cover these days.
I'd clocked his shoes first. That's the trick, they never match the rest of the outfit. Black combat boots under fitted jeans. Too military for a casual shopper. Then his watch, wrong time zone, probably synced to a handler's. And the worst part?
His gaze.
It was calculating. Cold. Not just observant. Tactical.
So no, it wasn't about a keychain.
And when I grabbed his wrist, my eyes flicked down and saw it, an inked edge, barely visible above his sleeve. I couldn't make out the full image, but it looked familiar. Syndicate familiar.
And I always trust my gut. Especially now, when the game's shifted, and even the people who used to kneel are out here holding blades behind their backs.
I didn't go for a walk just to stretch my legs.
I was scanning.
Mapping the area around Kina's building, block by block. Checking for alleyways, dark corners, rooftop access points. Shadow lines. Escape routes. How many steps to the end of the street. How long it'd take to disappear if shit went sideways.
And despite the dull pull in my side from the damn bullet, I pushed myself up the rusted exterior stairwell of a nearby building, three flights. Not high, but high enough. I leaned against the ledge, breathed through the sting, and narrowed my eyes.
And then…
There.
Tucked behind the corner of the adjacent brick building. Hoodie up. Phone to his ear. Pacing slightly.
Still here.
Still watching.
The same boots.
And this time, I could see the tattoo clearer as he adjusted his sleeve, two daggers piercing a skull from both sides. Syndicate. Not my branch. That meant a message, or a death warrant.
And my lips pulled back in a grin that had nothing to do with joy.
Gotcha.
I tapped the metal railing lightly, then turned my back to him and pulled my hood up.
The sting in my side pulsed with every step, but I'd walked through fire with worse. I moved like shadow, no sound, no breath, not even a hint of presence, drifting closer to the edge of the roof where the next building dropped off.
He was still there. Still on that call.
His back to me. Dumb.
I crouched low, my shoulder brushing against warm concrete. Just a few more seconds. I'd wait. I'd him speak.
"…I don't know if it's him," the guy was whispering, voice low but sharp. "There's something off. He walks like him. Carries that edge like he used to. But I didn't get a good look. A girl's with him. Some plain chick with average boobs. I bed she'd taste sweet though."
My jaw clenched. That's how they saw her? Just another pawn in their sick little game?
"—No, I'm around the area I saw them walk still. Waiting to see if he comes out again. If he does, I follow. If not, I wait for the second guy. Said he'd be fifteen minutes tops."
Second guy. Cute. These guys were getting braver.
"How much do you think we'd get if it's really him?" the guy asked. "I mean… if it's the King? Scorpion is gonna give us enough for his head eh?"
Ah. There it was. That word again. King.
Like they could crown me or kill me like some fucking myth.
The call ended with a soft beep, and I was already off the ledge. Down a floor. Quiet as death. The wall scraped my back as I moved through the shadows, one hand pressed to my ribs, the other loose at my side.
Closer.
He still didn't know.
I was behind him now. A foot away. I could hear his breathing, shaky, nervous. Not trained. Just desperate.
I smiled. The kind that made grown men piss themselves in a room full of light.
"Long night?"
He froze.
Slowly, so slowly, he turned his head.
And when he saw me standing there, eyes locked on his like a knife to the throat, that same breathing stuttered.
I tilted my head, voice low, polite, almost gentle.
"Now… wanna tell me who the fuck you're looking for?"
He didn't answer.
Not with words.
The click of the safety going off was enough.
I moved before he could even aim. One step to the side, two fingers wrapped around the barrel, and I yanked it out of his grip so fast his wrist cracked from the force. The gun clattered against the ground, echoing down the alley like a gavel slamming down on his fate.
"Wrong move," I said lowly.
But this idiot was wired. Maybe drugged. Maybe desperate. Or maybe just stupid.
He pulled a knife next, long, curved, rust around the handle. Probably been hiding it in his waistband all day, waiting for a moment like this. He slashed out wildly, screaming like it would scare me. It didn't.
I dodged it, easy. My body burned from the wound at my side, but I knew how to move around pain. Pain was a familiar dance partner.
The mask I wore was starting to get in the way so I yanked it off.
"I knew it!" he barked like a mad dog. "I fucking knew it was you—King! You don't remember me, do you? But I remember you! I watched you fight when I was nothing, and I—"
I stopped listening.
Because that's all it ever was with them, talk.
People who wanted to be legends by leeching off one. By trying to kill one. Be the man who took down the King.
Fuck that.
He lunged at me again, blade forward.
This time I let him get close.
I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him so fast he screamed, then I slammed his back into the wall hard enough to hear the crack of something, not sure if it was the wall or his shoulder.
The knife dropped.
Mine now.
I picked and flipped it in my grip, driving it straight into the meat of his back. Again and again. Intentionally missing his vital organs.
He gasped, choked on the sound, and fell to his knees like something holy had just left him.
But I wasn't done.
"You wanna walk away from this?" I growled, grabbing the back of his neck. "Then you shouldn't have followed me."
With one sharp motion, I sliced across both his Achilles heels.
He shrieked, high and pathetic, and collapsed, legs giving out beneath him like a puppet with no strings. Blood already pooling beneath him.
I crouched beside him, wiping the bloodied knife on his back as I watched him twitch.
Then I stood again. Calm. Focused. Chest heaving, ribs screaming. The pain from my side had doubled and I could feel my shirt dampening from blood.
I walked over, picked up the discarded gun, slid it into the back of my jeans.
Then I took his phone.
I turned to face him again.
He was trembling, crying maybe, but I didn't care.
I crouched once more, this time with the blade still glinting red in my hand.
"Now," I said, voice like winter. "You and I are gonna have a nice, long fucking chat."