Novak staggers through the heavy glass doors of the Regional Enforcement Hub, his boots leaving faint smears of blood and mud on the polished marble floor. His face is a mess—swollen, bruised, one eye half-closed from a vicious blow, and a jagged cut runs from his temple to his jaw, still oozing crimson. His dark jacket hangs in tatters, the leather shredded across his shoulders, and his knuckles are raw, split open from another fight for his life. The air inside the government building is sterile, cool, a stark contrast to the chaos clinging to him like a second skin. Heads turn as he limps forward, a battered silhouette against the pristine white walls of the lobby.

  The hall buzzes with activity—movers in crisp suits and fancy black caps, clerks shuffling papers, mercenaries like him milling about, waiting for their next bounty. But as Novak trudges past, the chatter shifts, sharpens into something cruel. A wiry man with a clipboard smirks, leaning against a pillar. “What’s this? Novak get an early period on the job?” Laughter ripples through the cluster of onlookers nearby. Another voice, gruff and low, pipes up from a bench. “Nah, looks like he tried to wrestle a pig and lost. We don’t keep prostitutes on the clock here, pussy.” More snickers follow, a chorus of mockery bouncing off the high ceiling.

  Novak doesn’t flinch. His jaw tightens, but his eyes stay fixed ahead, locked on the front desk at the far end of the hall. The jeers slide off him like rain on glass. His right arm drags something heavy behind him, a limp weight thudding against the floor with each step. The crowd parts reluctantly, some still chuckling, others wrinkling their noses at the stench of sweat and blood trailing in his wake. He doesn’t care. He’s got one goal, and it’s sitting behind that counter.

  When he reaches the desk, he slams a crumpled wanted poster down onto the smooth surface. The paper’s edges are torn, stained with dirt and dried blood, but the face on it is unmistakable—a sneaky maniac who lives for the scent of blood, The Hooded Man, wanted for a string of murders across the region. The clerk, a woman in her late thirties with long red hair and a red dress, showing all her busty bosom, but her only glances are into her own world. Her expression is a blank slate, eyes half-lidded behind wire-rimmed glasses, as if she’s seen this scene a thousand times before. Novak doesn’t wait for her to ask. With a grunt, he heaves his burden up and onto the desk, the wood creaking under the sudden weight.

  It’s The Hooded Man—or what’s left of him. The man’s stripped naked, his broad, tattooed chest rising and falling faintly with shallow breaths. His arms and legs are bound tight with coarse rope, the knots digging into his flesh, and a filthy rag tied over his eyes and mouth, muffling any sound he might try to make. His skin is mottled with bruises, cuts crisscrossing his torso, a testament to the hell Novak put him through to drag him here. The crowd behind him goes quiet for a split second, then erupts again, louder this time.

  “Damn, green blood, you really went all out on this one!” someone shouts.

  “Looks like he’s ready for the meat market!” another adds, cackling.

  Novak ignores them. He leans forward, resting his battered hands on the edge of the desk, staring at the clerk. “Reward,” he says, his voice rough, like gravel scraped over steel.

  The woman doesn’t blink. She reaches under the counter, pulls out a small metal box, and slides it open with a practiced flick of her wrist. Inside is a stack of crisp bills—bounty money, unmarked and untraceable. She counts out the amount listed on The Hooded Mans poster, her fingers moving with mechanical precision, then pushes the pile toward him. “Ten thousand,” she says flatly, her tone as lifeless as her face. “Sign here.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Novak grabs a pen from the desk and scrawls his name on the receipt she slides over, his hand trembling slightly from exhaustion. He pockets the cash, shoving it into the torn lining of his jacket, but he doesn’t move away. Something’s gnawing at him, a question that’s been building since he left The Hooded mans hideout with half a dozen new enemies on his tail. He slams both hands down on the desk, the impact loud enough to make the metal box rattle. The clerk doesn’t flinch, just raises her eyes to meet his.

  “Why the hell are there so many assholes me now?” he demands, his voice rising, raw with frustration. “I took down this bitch, sure, but it’s like every bastard in the region’s got my name on their list overnight. The hell’s going on?”

  For the first time, a flicker of something crosses the woman’s face—a slight smirk, barely there, but enough to make Novak’s stomach twist. She leans back in her chair, folding her arms. “Congratulations,” she says, her voice still monotone but edged with a faint amusement. “You’re officially the tenth-ranked mercenary in the region.”

  Novak stares at her, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” The word comes out half-choked, disbelief warring with the ache in his bones. “Tenth? Since when?”

  The clerk tilts her head, that smirk lingering like a shadow. “Since you brought in the object of your mission. He was number ten. The ranking system doesn’t name the tenth until they’re dead—or replaced. And the next ranker up is always the one who takes them out. That’s you, Mister Novak.”

  The air in the hall feels heavier, pressing down on him as her words sink in. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog of exhaustion and shock. “You’re telling me I just painted a target on my back because I did my job? And you didn’t think to warn me?”

  She shrugs, a small, indifferent gesture. “Not my job to hold your hand. You wanted the bounty, you got it. The rest is your problem.”

  Novak’s hands curl into fists, the raw skin on his knuckles stinging as he presses them harder against the desk. Fear claws at him, sharp and unfamiliar—he’s faced death before, plenty of times, but this is different. This isn’t just one fight, one target. This is a death sentence with no expiration date, a promise that every lowlife, every ambitious killer in the region will come for him until someone claims his spot. He’s trapped.

  The crowd’s laughter fades into a distant hum as he straightens up, his mind racing. He could run—disappear outside the zone, ditch the mercenary life altogether. But the thought sours as soon as it forms. He’s got no one, nowhere to go. This life, this bloody, brutal grind, is all he has left of his past. And the cash in his pocket won’t last forever. He’s in too deep to back out now.

  “Fine,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “Tenth it is.”

  The clerk raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, already turning back to her paperwork as if he’s just another name on a list. Novak grabs the edge of the wanted poster and tears it in half, letting the pieces flutter to the floor. He doesn’t look at the bound man still sprawled across the desk—someone else will deal with him now. Instead, he turns and starts walking back toward the doors, his steps slower, heavier than when he came in.

  The jeers start up again as he passes through the lobby. “Look at him, strutting like he’s the king of the world!” one voice calls. “Hope you’ve got a good hiding spot, nub!” another taunts. He keeps his eyes forward, but the weight of their words presses against him, each one a reminder of the knives waiting in the shadows.

  Outside, the air hits him like a slap—cold, sharp, cutting through the haze of pain and adrenaline. The ruined city sprawls before him, a jagged maze of steel and neon it once was, but now nothing left of it, only grumbled buildings from before the zone. Novak pulls his jacket tighter around his bruised ribs, wincing as the movement tugs at his wounds. He’s scared—terrified, if he’s honest—but there’s no running from this. Not anymore.

  He takes a deep breath, the taste of blood still lingering on his tongue, and starts walking. If he’s going to survive, he’ll need to get even stronger. Weapons, allies, a life time of beer. Though trust is a luxury he can’t afford. The tenth rank is his now.

  The city swallows him up as he disappears into the night, a battered figure with a new title and a dozen new enemies. The game’s changed, and Novak’s got no choice but to play.