The silence was suffocating. Alec Vance sat at the edge of his bed, the worn mattress sagging beneath his weight. The dim streetlight outside cast fractured shadows across the cracked walls, and the faint hum of the city buzzed like a distant echo. In his hand, a lighter flicked open and shut. The flame danced with a hypnotic rhythm, each flicker stirring ghosts he couldn't silence.
The fire. The screams. The betrayal.
His jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tightened as the memories clawed to the surface. He slammed the lighter shut. Not tonight.
The phone on the nightstand vibrated, its screen glowing with an unlisted number. He hesitated, then answered.
"You're late, Vance," came the voice. Low, familiar. "The Crimson Exchange. Thirty minutes. Don’t disappoint me again."
The line clicked dead.
Alec exhaled slowly. Leon Rivers. The man who once called him "brother." The man who walked away as Alec burned. Now Leon ruled the underground, untouchable and unchallenged. But ghosts don’t stay buried forever.
Alec pulled on his black jacket, the knife in his sleeve snug against his wrist. Revenge wasn’t about rage. It was about patience. And tonight, patience was walking into the lion’s den.
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The Crimson Exchange
The nightclub pulsed with manufactured life. Neon lights flickered across faces lost to indulgence, and the bass thrummed through the floor like a restless heartbeat. Alec weaved through the crowd, invisible. His eyes locked on the VIP balcony above.
Leon sat there, laughing with dead-eyed women and men who thrived on fear. Alec's fingers twitched toward his knife. Too soon.
He slid toward the back hallway. One guard, bored and distracted, stood watch. Alec moved like a shadow, his arm snaking around the man’s neck.
The guard stiffened, gasping. Alec leaned in. "Sleep."
A sharp twist. The body went limp. Alec lowered him silently, stole his earpiece, and slipped through the door.
"Sector three clear," he mimicked the guard’s voice.
The upstairs corridor smelled of cologne and gun oil. Alec pressed against the wall, eyes on the balcony. Leon was there—relaxed, confident. The scar on Alec's back throbbed at the memory of that same arrogance the night Leon lit the match.
The fire wasn't the worst part. It was the smile.
A voice crackled in his ear. "Sector three, check-in."
Alec’s pulse spiked. Shit.
He turned back toward the exit, but footsteps pounded from both ends of the hall. Two guards appeared, guns raised.
"Down!" one barked.
Alec lunged. His knife slashed through the first man's wrist. The gun clattered to the floor. The second fired—a sharp crack. The bullet grazed Alec’s shoulder, burning like molten wire. He slammed his knee into the man’s ribs, then drove his knife into his thigh. The guard crumpled with a muffled scream.
More footsteps. No time. Alec sprinted toward the emergency exit, crashing into the night air. The cold hit like ice water. He tore through shadowed streets, weaving between cars and ducking into a convenience store bathroom.
The mirror reflected a pale face, blood dripping down his arm. His breath came in sharp bursts as he yanked off his jacket. The wound was shallow. He’d survive.
But then he saw it: a blinking red light sewn into the jacket's lining.
A tracker.
He knew I was coming.
Alec ripped it free and crushed it under his heel. The phone in his pocket buzzed. He stared at the screen. Unknown number. Again.
He answered.
"Sloppy," Leon said, his voice smooth with amusement. "Ghosts should know better than to leave tracks."
Alec's knuckles turned white around the phone. "Enjoy your throne while you can. Hell’s already at your door."
Leon chuckled softly. "I hope so, brother. I’ve missed you."
The line went dead.
Alec's heart hammered. Blood dripped onto the floor, mingling with the shattered tracker. His reflection stared back with hollow, burning eyes.
Leon wanted a ghost.
He was about to meet the devil.
