The night was merciless.
Rain poured from the heavens like a flood sent by angry gods, drumming violently against the steel and stone of the city. Thunder cracked open the sky like a whip, echoing across empty alleyways and towering skyscrapers. The streets shimmered with the sheen of water, reflecting red and white lights in chaotic, broken ribbons.
Somewhere deep beneath the city—in the cold, damp belly of an abandoned railway tunnel—a man bled.
Jacob Black knelt in the darkness, one hand pressed to his side, warm blood slipping between his fingers. His breathing was heavy, measured, and defiant. His body was carved from violence—broad shoulders, thickly corded arms, and abs like sculpted iron. But even iron could break.
The blood soaked through the black fabric of his shirt, blooming like a death flower across the scar that stretched diagonally from his collarbone to his lower ribs. That scar… that damned scar… was a brand of the past. A symbol of survival.
He had earned it as a child—in another tunnel, in another world. At ten years old, he had been sold into hell. Trained to kill. Beaten into obedience. Broken, remade, and renamed. Jacob Black wasn’t born. He was forged.
And now he was bleeding again. In a tunnel. How poetic.
He winced as he leaned against the moss-coated wall. Every breath scraped his lungs. His golden-brown eyes—sharp, calculating—scanned the tunnel’s mouth, lit faintly by flickering streetlamps in the distance.
They were coming.
They were still coming.
The ambush had been perfect. Too perfect.
It started hours ago, when an encrypted message reached his private server—a breach at one of his shipping docks. Jacob didn’t trust many people, but the tip came from Ramos, one of his oldest enforcers. A man he’d once dragged from a pit in Colombia. A man who owed him his life.
So, Jacob went. Quietly. Discreetly. With only two men at his side, both highly trained, both loyal.
Or so he thought.
They reached the tunnel just before midnight. It was supposed to be a meeting point. But the moment the three of them stepped inside, it was clear something was off. The air was too still. The silence too thick.
Then the first shot rang out.
One of Jacob’s men dropped instantly, blood spraying from his throat. The second turned to return fire—but didn’t get the chance. A blade slashed across his neck from behind.
That’s when Jacob saw it.
Ramos.
Emerging from the shadows. Grinning like the traitor he was.
“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, boss,” Ramos had said, cocking his rifle. “But you trained me too well.”
Jacob didn’t respond. He didn’t scream or curse. He just moved—like death itself.
His first bullet tore through the kneecap of the man flanking Ramos. Another round slammed into a second man’s chest. He grabbed a pipe from the wall and swung with such force it cracked bone through Kevlar.
But there were too many.
Masked men poured into the tunnel from hidden alcoves, from trapdoors in the floor, from the shadows above. Fifteen. Maybe twenty. Armed to the teeth. No insignia. No mercy.
A firefight exploded. Bullets ricocheted off steel beams, sparks flying in every direction. Jacob moved like a phantom—rolling, dodging, striking. Blood flew from his fists. A blade slashed across his ribs, and he roared, elbowing the attacker in the jaw, sending teeth scattering across the ground.
His muscles screamed. His side throbbed. The smell of cordite, blood, and wet concrete clogged his lungs.
He didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
Because if he died here… they would come for the company. For the children he protected. For the innocent lives he kept off the streets.
Jacob wasn’t just a boss. He was a gatekeeper.
And they wanted to break the gates wide open.
He took a bullet to the shoulder, stumbled, then ducked behind a rusted support beam. The wound burned. His fingers twitched. He was running low on ammunition.
That’s when he heard the voice in his earpiece.
Static. Then Ramos.
“You should’ve seen it, Jacob. All your precious secrets… bought and sold. You thought loyalty still existed in this business?”
Jacob spat blood onto the floor. “I made you, Ramos. And I’ll be the one to unmake you.”
Laughter.
Then silence.
A second later, a sniper’s round tore through the air, grazing Jacob’s shoulder and knocking him back. He hit the ground hard, back skidding across wet stone. His head rang. Stars burst behind his eyes.
Still… he crawled.
Pulled himself into the far end of the tunnel, teeth gritted, face pale, blood pooling beneath him. His vision flickered. Rain had started to pour through a crack in the ceiling, icy water striking his skin in steady beats.
His thoughts scattered.
Memories—faces—blood.
He remembered a little girl crying in the alley as her father was dragged away. Remembered the way he’d killed that man’s captors before they touched the child. He had drawn the line there. Always there. No children. No innocents.
His enemies called him ruthless.
But they never saw the whole picture.
His last breath was shallow. His fingers twitched. He had to stay awake.
Then darkness wrapped around him like an old lover, dragging him down.
And Jacob Black knew nothing more.