Chapter 14 Blood in the Water

  January 27, 2025. Monday. 9:00 PM. The Coiled Serpent.

  The bar was exactly what you’d expect from a gang like Dragon Fist, a grimy dive with the smell of cheap beer, bad decisions, and desperation hanging in the air. From my vantage point on the rooftop, I could hear the muffled bass of some hard rock anthem and the occasional cheer from inside. The lights flickered erratically, like the building itself was trying to get out of this part of town.

  I adjusted my hat and gloves, the porcelain mask smooth and cool against my face. The suit and tie made me feel like an old-school hitman, though the bonnet mask peeking out beneath my hat probably killed the aesthetic. Still, appearances mattered, even for someone like me. You didn’t just kill a small-time gang leader, you made a statement.

  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. The mantra echoed in my head as I prepared to move. My power worked best with precision, and this was about to be as surgical as it got.

  I let myself go intangible, my body phasing seamlessly through the worn concrete and peeling roof tiles. Gravity took over, and I descended soundlessly into the chaos below. In seconds, I was inside, landing softly beside Iron Fang.

  The guy was bigger than I expected. Muscles like steel cables strained against his leather jacket, his Enhancer-3 physique impossible to miss. Tattoos snaked up his neck and onto his shaved head, marking him as Dragon Fist’s leader. He was leaning back in his chair, laughing loudly at some crude joke his lackeys were telling.

  None of them noticed me, just quickly enough.

  I drew the knife, ordinary in appearance but lethal when paired with my power. As I phased it into his neck, time seemed to slow. His laugh turned into a confused grunt, his brows furrowing as he registered the intrusion.

  I let go of the intangibility enveloping the knife, making it solid again. It tore through flesh and muscle as I pulled it out, a sickening squelch followed by a fountain of blood.

  Iron Fang’s eyes widened in shock and pain as he clutched at the wound, but it was too late. Blood sprayed across the table, painting the faces of his men and splattering the bottles of cheap liquor. I dodged the mess, stepping back as the bikers erupted into chaos.

  Screams filled the air. It was raw, panicked, and animalistic. The patrons bolted for the door, shoving past each other in their rush to escape. Civilians, bikers, and even the bar owner. They all scattered like roaches under a flashlight.

  Iron Fang crumpled forward, his weight tipping the table and sending glasses shattering onto the floor. For someone hyped up as an Enhancer-3, he went down surprisingly easy. Maybe the rumors about him were just that... rumors.

  Or maybe, a knife getting jammed on the neck with little to no resistance was just that deadly.

  I didn’t stick around to analyze the situation. My job was done. The mooks were too panicked to do anything. Some tried to shoot at me, but their bullets just passed through me. I turned intangible again, slipping through the walls and out into the night like a shadow. By the time the first of the survivors thought to check the alley outside, I was already gone.

  Easier than I imagined. Almost disappointingly so.

  Still, a dead boss was a dead boss, and now Dragon Fist was headless. The payout was practically mine. As I disappeared into the dark streets of Markend, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of ripple this would send through the city.

  Crow did say he wanted Iron Fang’s head. Hopefully, he didn’t mean it literally.

  I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Rave, the guy Crow decided would be my point of contact from now on. Job’s done. Let me know about the payment, I typed. Rave wasn’t exactly the chatty type, which I appreciated. Within minutes, he replied, confirming the deposit had been made to the criminally underrated account Bunny had set up for me.

  450,000 marks. That was almost ten convenience stores robbed. Not bad for a night’s work. In fact, the money made me smile... I still owed BunnyBlade a bit about the Crow information, but I might be able to pay him in full now. Not to mention, pay an advance for Seamark while I complete my accounts on Pride.

  "Oh my, never thought assassination would pay this big."

  Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how Murder of Crows had confirmed the kill so quickly. I didn’t take a picture or leave any proof behind. Maybe Crow had eyes everywhere, or maybe Rave was just that efficient at his job. Either way, I got paid, and that was all that mattered. Some hitman I was, though. Shouldn’t I have thought about confirmation beforehand? Probably.

  But I didn’t like to think of myself as a hitman. Fixer. Freelancer. Those felt better, like I was still my own boss, not someone else’s tool.

  "Who am I kidding? People get used to, and then people use... It's a cycle, really..."

  Speaking of fixers, there was one I still owed money to. Bunny. The eccentric techie had set me up with a meeting with Crow, but our deal wasn’t cheap. 90,000 marks for every gang boss he connected me to. I’d paid him 45,000 for Crow’s meeting, leaving me 45,000 in the red. And with two more gang bosses left on my to-do list, I was looking at another 180,000 marks owed to Bunny.

  I sighed and texted him. "Sending the 45k I still owe. Consider the next 90k your advance for Pride and Seamark. Work your magic."

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  His response came almost immediately, short and cryptic as always: Noted. ETA for leads: 72 hours max.

  With the payment made, I was down to 315,000 marks. Enough to get by, but not exactly a fortune when you factored in the danger, cost of living, equipment, and, you know, paying off tech geniuses who worked in the shadows of the Dark Net.

  I leaned back in my chair, staring at the balance on my phone. 315,000 marks. It felt like a lot, but it burned fast when you had ambitions like mine. "I am probably going to spend more for the following week."

  Time to figure out my next move.

  Bang!

  The sudden sound snapped me out of my thoughts, my entire body freezing on instinct. A charred mark appeared inches from my right foot, the ground beneath it jagged and scorched. My eyes darted toward the source.

  Standing a few meters away, perched on the iron railings like a vulture sizing up its prey, was a woman. A leather jacket clung to her frame, her fiery red hair almost glowing under the dim light. Her face was obscured by a black mask painted with jagged white teeth and a haunting permanent grin.

  Sharpy.

  That was her name. SRC had a habit of plastering non-intimidating names for dangerous capes and intimidating names for those considered small-time and of little consequence, like the brute Iron Fang.

  "Sharpy, is it?" I drawled. "I want no trouble, let me pass through."

  Five years ago, she was a name whispered among Markend’s streets. A former member of Seamark who’d clawed her way out and gone independent. That alone was impressive; most capes tied to major gangs either died trying to leave or were dragged back into line. But Sharpy had not only survived. She’d thrived.

  In Markend, independents were a rarity. The city wasn’t kind to freelancers without connections, which was part of the reason I hadn’t dared go full lone wolf myself. It was sophistry in the end that allowed me to win Crow, but it was something he could easily take away just as easily as he had given them. Newbies like me wouldn’t even think about it. But Sharpy was no newbie.

  “How dare you do contract work on my turf?” she began, her voice a raspy snarl, carrying the kind of authority that came with knowing she could back it up. "Do you want to end up dead or what?"

  I swallowed hard, trying to assess the situation without showing how on edge I was. Her tone, her stance, the fact that she’d fired a warning shot instead of aiming to kill. All of it told me she was more interested in intimidation than immediate violence.

  Still, this was Sharpy. She wasn’t exactly known for patience.

  “Do you know,” she continued, the jagged grin of her mask practically mocking me, “I kill people for disobeying the unwritten rules?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Which rules?” I asked, keeping my tone steady and neutral. “There are a lot of unwritten rules in this city. Gonna need you to be specific.” Honestly, I have no idea.

  Her head tilted, the glint of her eyes through the mask narrowing. “Which city are you from?”

  Markendite-born, but there was no way I was going to tell her that. She didn’t need to know the details of my background, not when she already seemed pissed off about me stepping into her so-called turf.

  “Not from here,” I lied, shrugging. “I’m just passing through. The job came my way, and I took it. Didn’t know the patchwork of ownership was so strict.”

  “Bullshit,” she hissed, hopping down from the railing. She moved closer, her boots clanging against the metal as she closed the distance. “You don’t take work in Markend unless you’re from Markend. And you sure as hell don’t take work on my turf unless you’re asking for a death sentence.”

  Huh? What's the point of asking me which city I came from?

  I could feel the weight of her presence now, her aura sharp and predatory. This wasn’t just about turf. It was about power and respect. Sharpy was making a point, and if I didn’t tread carefully, I’d be the example she used.

  “Look,” I said, raising my hands slowly to show I wasn’t reaching for anything, “I didn’t know it was your turf. The guy who hired me didn’t mention you at all.” I was tempted to name-drop Crow, but I wouldn't want to be associated with his name so early in the game. I'd hate for people to misunderstand that I work for him.

  “That’s because they know better than to mention me,” she shot back, her voice dripping with venom.

  “Fair enough,” I replied, forcing a calmness into my tone I didn’t entirely feel. “I’m not here to start anything with you. Just doing a job, Sharpy. That’s all.”

  Her name slipped out before I could stop myself. A mistake. She stiffened, and I realized too late that acknowledging her by name had tipped her off to how much I actually knew. At least, that painted me as someone who was in the know about the cape scene. Sharpy hadn't made much of an appearance after all in recent years.

  She smirked behind the mask. “So, you do know who I am.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, exhaling slowly. “You’re kind of an urban legend around here.”

  The flattery didn’t seem to soften her, but it also didn’t escalate things, so I counted that as a win.

  “You’ve got guts,” she said after a moment, tapping the barrel of her smoking gun against her shoulder. “I’ll give you that. But guts don’t mean shit if you’re dead.”

  I held my ground, even as every instinct screamed at me to run. “I’m not looking to die tonight. Just tell me what it’ll take to smooth this over.” There were a few things I was wary of when it came to power interaction. I couldn't be one hundred percent certain I'd be immune to just everything, because I had intangibility.

  Her laugh was low and humorless. “Smooth this over? You don’t smooth over stepping on my turf, kid. But…” She paused, tilting her head like she was considering something. “You might be able to work off your stupidity.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  Sharpy’s eyes narrowed into slits beneath her mask, and for the first time, I felt a chill run down my spine. “Let’s call it a test,” she said, her voice laced with dark amusement. “You pass, you live. You fail… well, you won’t have to worry about stepping on anyone’s turf ever again.”

  Like gangs, independents also had ‘turfs’ where they did their work. It was something I didn’t fully understand yet because I was new to the job. I liked leaning on the pretense of being inexperienced as it made people underestimate me, which probably explained why Crow had been so accommodating. But Crow was different. He could detect lies if the rumors were to be believed, and as the boss of a major gang, he didn’t tolerate nonsense. Sharpy, on the other hand, was different. She was an independent, just like me, but with more experience and reputation.

  Not as notorious as Cape Killer, though.

  I addressed her directly, standing my ground. “There’s no testing or passing that’s going to happen here. It’s one of two things: we try to kill each other, or we part ways. Choose the latter, and we might even become friends. Choose the former, and trust me, I’ll either walk away with you dead… or you’ll fail miserably at even landing a single hit on me.”

  If you were going to bluff, you had to bluff hard.

  Sharpy froze for a moment, the jagged grin of her mask locked on me. It was a gamble, calling her out like that, but I wasn’t about to let her think I’d be some pushover she could toy with. Independents like us weren’t bound by gang rules or hierarchy, but that also meant our reputations were everything. If she thought I was weak, I’d be dealing with more than just her in the future.

  Her body language shifted slightly, a subtle change in posture that told me she wasn’t used to people pushing back. “You’ve got a mouth on you,” she finally said, her voice low and sharp, like a blade being unsheathed. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed.”

  I crossed my arms, keeping my stance casual but ready. “Let’s go with impressed. Makes things easier for both of us.”