Somewhere else in the city, there were some men—a cartel sitting in an office, waiting for someone. One of them stared at a broken billboard outside the window.
'WELCOME TO' was all that was visible on the billboard, the rest had burnt off.
No one really knew the name of the city, at least not anymore. There wasn't any use in knowing it—the situation wouldn't change if they did. Some called it The Ash city.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting, gentlemen," Hank said as he walked in.
Hank Fisher was a 6ft muscular man with a brown beard and sharp green eyes. He was often called the Giant due to his size and physical strength. He wasn't the kind of man who really relied on guns like Harry—just one punch from him could completely shatter a man's jaw.
Hank used to control the major trades in the city—everything from bread to ammunition. But ever since the system showed up—an entity no one understood—his grip had started to slip. Slowly, piece by piece, it was getting harder to breathe at the top.
Will was pulled from his thoughts. "No worries. We got here too early."
Hank was always late to meetings, but no one complained. He was short-tempered, and even the wrong look could set him off.
But this time, someone spoke.
"Your persistent lateness is unacceptable. And we will no longer tolerate it."
The others in the room turned sharply to the speaker—Peterson, the last man they'd expect to challenge Hank. He wasn't bold, but he'd lost too much lately. His last shipment was taken in broad daylight, and his crew hadn't even gotten the chance to fire back.
Hank stared at him for a long second, then started walking forward. The hum of the busted ceiling fan was the only sound in the room.
Peterson held his ground.
"You know what your problem is?" Hank said as he approached. "You think this is a business meeting. Like this city still has rules. You think coming on time makes any difference when everything out there is falling apart."
He stopped right in front of Peterson. Silence wrapped around the room. Then, with a loud crack, Hank's fist slammed into the wall beside Peterson's head, knocking out a chunk of old concrete.
Peterson flinched—but didn't back down.
"You think I don't know what we've lost?" Hank asked, stepping back. "You think I don't see the way our people disappear overnight? We used to run this city. Now we're getting hunted."
He turned and walked to the center table, pulled out a chair and sat. No one moved.
"Talk."
Peterson fixed his collar. "Two warehouses gone. No witnesses. Our boys—gone. Only a card left behind. Black and gold."
Hank's eyes narrowed. "Same card?"
Peterson nodded. "Same design. No writing. Just a small symbol in the middle."
"The system's calling card," Will muttered.
Santos, the youngest of the crew, stepped forward. "It's not just us. Marlo's group vanished last night. No noise. No struggle. Just… gone. Only their base was left burning."
"They're not killing to make a point," Peterson said. "They're wiping names off the map. Erasing presence."
"And they're not taking credit either," Hank said. "No turf tags. No blood marks. No threats. Just silence."
"It's worse than threats," Will added. "At least when a gang threatens you, you can prepare. This? This is something else."
Hank leaned forward. "So what do they want?"
No one answered.
"Power? Territory? Revenge?"
Still nothing.
Santos finally spoke. "Maybe none of that. Maybe it's order. They don't hit random. Every group that went missing... was making noise. Fights. Black deals. Public mess."
"They're cleaning the city?" Will scoffed. "Who the hell gave them the right?"
"Maybe no one did," Hank said slowly. "Maybe they're not asking."
He stood, cracking his knuckles again. "We're not going to sit here and watch our city get reset by ghosts. We built this place in fire. We'll fight fire with worse."
He stepped toward the window and looked out at the broken skyline.
"Get the word out," he said without turning around. "Tonight, we smoke out anything that doesn't bleed like us."
"And if it doesn't?" Santos asked.
Hank smiled, but it wasn't warm. "Then we'll learn what kind of monster we're dealing with."
Just as the tension reached its peak, the door burst open.
Marlo stumbled in—blood soaking through his shirt, one arm limp, face pale with shock. He looked like he'd been thrown down a flight of stairs, then dragged through gravel.
Everyone turned.
"Marlo?" Peterson stepped forward, stunned.
Marlo didn't speak right away. He staggered to the table and collapsed against it, gasping for breath. Blood dripped from his side onto the concrete floor.
"They're not... just cleaning up," he wheezed. "They're sending messages."
Hank was already at the corner of the room. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a 12-gauge shotgun—black, solid, used too many times before. He cocked it once and stepped forward, calm as ever.
"What happened?" he asked, voice low.
"They hit our safehouse," Marlo said, barely holding himself up. "Didn't even announce themselves. Just came in... didn't ask no questions. My boys—gone. All of them, even Cruz."
Cruz wasn't a light name in The Ash city. He was in charge of all the the underworld deals.
"Did they say anything?" Will asked.
Marlo looked up slowly. "Just one."
The room went still.
The elevator dinged again.
No one moved this time.
Footsteps approached. It was gentle—too gentle.
The door creaked open.
A single figure stood there—tall, dressed in a black suit with gloves and a black hat with white feathers. His stance was straight, calm. No visible weapon, no entourage. But no one dared move.
He stepped forward slowly.
Everyone pointed their guns.
Except Hank.
The figure stopped just inside the room.
"I'm not here to kill you," he said, voice smooth but cold. "Not unless you force me to."
"Then what the hell do you want?" Peterson asked, hands trembling on his pistol.
"To deliver a clear warning."
He glanced at Marlo.
"You really think you can outrun us?," the figure said. "You can't and you won't."
Without breaking stride, he reached behind his back, pulled out a small sidearm, and shot Marlo in the head.
A clean, single shot.
Marlo dropped instantly, no scream—just a final breath and silence.
Guns cocked again across the room, but the man didn't flinch. He holstered the weapon slowly.
"Next time, it won't be a warning."
He looked straight at Hank who was pointing the shotgun at his fore head.
"You're running out of time, Giant."
And with that, he turned around and walked back out—calm, silent footsteps echoing in the hallway.
The room stayed frozen.
Then Will whispered, "He walked in alone, killed our men and Marlo like it was nothing."
Peterson dropped into a chair, hands shaking. "What do we even do now?"
Hank didn't speak. He stared at Marlo's body for a long second, then at the blood spreading on the floor.
He lifted the shotgun and leaned it over his shoulder.
"We hunt."