Chapter 10 – Prince of Victory

  The streets blurred past as the roar of the engine echoed through the empty lanes.

  Grim’s breathing was shallow, his hand pressed against the bleeding wound in his shoulder. His pulse dulled with each heartbeat.

  "Hold on, man. You aren’t dying on me," Ash’s voice was annoyingly cheerful, like the events of the last hour were a thrilling amusement ride.

  The black muscle car cut through the city’s dim glow. Neon signs flickered against the cracked pavement. The air tasted of the usual rust and rain. The roads were wet.

  "Where are we going?" Grim’s voice rasped.

  Ash smirked turning towards him, one hand on the wheel. "Home, obviously."

  "Thought I didn’t have one."

  "That’s what I’m for."

  The car skid into a narrow alley.

  An old brick building stood tall, its chipped paint scarcely hiding the layers of grime beneath. A crooked sign dangled above the door — "Red Jack’s" and below it in smaller letters “CLOSED”.

  "The place’s closed," Grim muttered.

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  "Not for us."

  Ash stepped out, the pale light falling on her hair.

  She walked like she owned the world — and maybe she did.

  A single knock on the metal door and it creaked open. Revealing a burly man with a bored expression.

  "Still alive, I see," he grunted unamused.

  "Missed me, Jack?"

  The man only rolled his eyes.

  Inside, the bar was dimly lit, its air thick with stale smoke. The shelves lined with dusty bottles, and the cracked leather seats told stories no one dared to speak.

  It wasn’t the kind of place for celebrations. But Ash made it feel like one nevertheless.

  Grim slumped into a booth. His shoulder burned. The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving only pain.

  Ash disappeared behind the counter, grabbing a dusty old first aid kit.

  "Hold still." She pulled a chair closer, fingers brushing against his skin as she ripped the sleeve away. "You’re lucky. Clean shot." She said with a grin.

  Grim winced. "Feels worse."

  She laughed softly, almost amused. "Pain means you’re alive."

  The needle glinted under the dim light. Thread and gauze. She worked quickly, stitching the torn flesh like it was nothing. Every tug and pull reminded Grim just how fragile his body was.

  "Why are you doing this?" he muttered.

  Ash grinned. "Wouldn’t want my investment bleeding out."

  "Investment, huh?"

  She tossed the bloodied gauze aside, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Fifty grand, as promised. No tricks."

  A small envelope slid across the table. Grim eyed it.

  "Feels too easy," he murmured.

  Ash leaned forward, her face dangerously close. "And yet, you almost died. Isn’t that enough?"

  He held her gaze. The discomfort lingered. But so did the temptation.

  He tucked the envelope away, the weight of it heavier than it should have been.

  "Drink?" she offered, standing up.

  "Why not?"

  The clink of glasses echoed through the empty bar. The burn of the whiskey was harsh, but it was a warm distraction.

  Ash talked, laughed, and teased, as if the past few hours never happened. For a moment, the weight on Grim’s chest lifted.

  But deep within him, the voice remained silent.

  Watching. Waiting.

  And when the time comes, it would speak again.