"Things would've gone just fine if you'd just walked away like you were supposed to."
The man in the grey shirt pulled the trigger.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots ripped through the alley, sharp and deafening. Both tore into Edward's chest, dead center.
With a heavy, sickening thud, Edward collapsed, a crumpled heap of expensive fabric and stolen identity. Beneath him, a dark stain bloomed rapidly, spreading across the worn cobblestones.
The man in grey raised the gun again, finger tightening for a final shot—but the one in brown stopped him. "Enough. He's done."
He approached, footsteps heavy, nudging Edward's side with his boot.
No movement. No groan. Nothing but limp, unnerving stillness.
He kicked the body, rolling it over. Edward's face, a mask of grim determination moments before, was now slack, smeared with dust and rapidly spreading blood.
The shots had hit the chest—directly over the heart. Crimson soaked into the pristine white shirt.
"Looks like he's dead," the brown-shirted man muttered, grim satisfaction in his voice.
He straightened, already taking a step back, confident the job was finished—
But just as he shifted his weight—
Edward moved.
With a sudden, explosive twist, Edward's legs lashed out, wrapping around the man's ankle in a swift, practiced grapple. He hauled, dragging the larger man off balance with unexpected force.
"Wha—?" The sound ended in a choked gasp.
The man crashed forward, his face smashing into the dirty ground with a wet thud.
The one in grey reacted instantly, gun snapping up. But Edward was faster, fueled by desperation and cold strategy.
He grabbed a fistful of the blank bills from the open duffel bag, a worthless, mocking wad of paper. With a flick of his wrist, he threw them into the air like macabre confetti. The fluttering paper obscured the grey-shirted man's view—just enough to spoil his aim.
Bang!
The bullet tore into the wall beside Edward's head, spraying concrete dust.
Edward didn't hesitate. He was a blur of motion, scrambling to his feet, bolting into the deeper labyrinth of the alley.
The man in grey cursed, a guttural growl of frustration. He rushed over, abandoning his shot to help his partner up.
"You okay?"
The brown-shirted man groaned, spitting blood and dirt. His eyes, wide with fury, darted around. "Where is he?!"
"Gone. He ran."
"Fuck! Why didn't I check for a pulse, you idiot?!" He struggled to stand, clutching his throbbing jaw. His gaze swept the narrow space, frantic—until he noticed something else missing. "…Where's the suitcase?"
The other man froze, his face pale beneath the grime. "I thought you had it."
A moment of dead silence hung between them, thick with dawning horror.
Then, a collective, explosive realization.
"That fucking bastard ran off with the case!" the brown-shirted man roared, pushing himself fully upright.
"Shit! Move! He can't have gone far!"
Both men launched themselves forward, sprinting down the alley, their heavy footsteps pounding a desperate rhythm.
They followed the faint blood trail—a thin, crimson whisper against the grimy cobblestones. Fast, focused, ruthless.
The trail led them out of the wider street and plunged them deeper into the maze of narrow alleys—places where sunlight barely reached, where shadows clung like ghosts, and echoes felt too close.
But then… the trail abruptly vanished.
It just stopped. The last dark drop of blood clung to a broken tile, drying fast, a final, taunting clue.
Ahead, the alley split in two.
Two narrow paths. Two choices.
The man in grey scanned the ground, the crumbling walls, the deepest shadows—nothing. Edward had disappeared as if swallowed by the stone itself.
"He went down one of these," he muttered, voice tight with frustration.
"I'll take the left," the brown-shirted man growled, already moving. "You go right."
A sharp nod. "Don't let him out of sight. Don't stop until you have him."
And with that, they split, their figures swallowed by the deepening gloom.
Each disappearing down opposite paths, driven by cold fury and the lure of the missing prize.
They were chasing a ghost with blood on its heels.
The man in the brown shirt plunged down the path to the right.
It was narrow—far narrower than expected. More a fissure between buildings than an alley.
The deeper he went, the closer the cold, damp walls pressed in. He stretched his arms, fingertips brushing rough, ancient stone on both sides.
Claustrophobic. Cramped. Quiet. The silence here was absolute, broken only by his ragged breathing. Only slivers of dull, muted sunlight touched the ground above.
"This can't be it," he muttered, voice low, breath catching in the still, stale air. The sound felt wrong, too loud.
He turned to go back—
Then froze.
Something caught his eye. A scrap of dark fabric.
Familiar. Just barely visible, peeking from behind a large, rusted dustbin wedged into a recessed alcove. Subtle enough to miss if his instincts weren't screaming.
His hand instinctively reached behind his back, slowly drawing a heavy revolver. His thumb cocked the hammer with a soft, ominous click that shattered the oppressive silence.
Step by silent step, he moved closer.
Quiet. Controlled. His senses honed.
The silence wrapped around him like a second skin, broken only by the faint, rasping sound of his own breath, ragged in the claustrophobic space.
He approached the bin, hand steady on the trigger, the cold metal a familiar comfort.
Carefully, he peeked over the edge.
Only a blood-soaked coat lay there—familiar and crumpled, draped casually over the sleek, dark form of the suitcase.
He exhaled, a long, controlled breath, the tension easing.
Did he ditch it and run? the man thought, a flicker of grudging respect for the bastard's cunning.
He stepped closer, reaching for the suitcase—
Drip.
A warm splash of drop hit his outstretched hand.
Red.
He looked up, eyes snapping to the narrow space above.
A shadow clung to the wall, suspended between the stone sides, limbs braced like a predator in a hidden alcove Edward. His face, once pale with "death," was now tight with ruthless focus.
Eyes wide, the man opened his mouth, a desperate, warning shout beginning to form—
But it was too late.
Edward dropped, landing like a phantom, silent and lethal.
Panic seized the man, overriding years of ingrained training. He tried to fire—
But Edward was already on him, a blur of motion.
With blinding speed, he struck the gun hand aside, twisting it back with a sickening crunch of bone and tendon, and drove a powerful knee into the man's gut.
"Huff—!" Air burst from his lungs in a choked gasp, his body folding around the impact.
Edward's left hand followed with a sharp, precise blow to the wrist—
Clack. The revolver clattered uselessly to the ground.
The man tried to shout, tried to scream—
A fist met his throat, a brutal, crushing blow that stole his voice and his breath.
The wind was gone. He staggered back, wheezing, clutching at his throat, eyes wide with a dawning, terrifying disbelief.
This wasn't just a middleman. Not some street thug.
This was an Awakened.
But before the thought could fully register—
Edward moved again.
Behind him. Arms around his neck—
But not for a choke. Not for mercy.
Crack.
A violent, sickening twist. The sound echoed in the confined space, final and absolute.
His neck snapped clean.
The body dropped, hitting the ground with a boneless thud, motionless.
Edward exhaled through gritted teeth, a sound of grim satisfaction mixed with annoyance, and gave the corpse a hard, dismissive kick.
"Tch. Damn it…" he muttered.
But now wasn't the moment for complaints.
He picked up the discarded revolver, retrieved the suitcase, and without wasting another breath, scaled the wall like a shadow, disappearing into the slivers of darkness above.
There was no time to rest. Time to find the next one.
---
[Grey Shirt Man – Left Alley]
The man in the grey shirt was breathing heavily, the stale air scratching at his lungs. Frustration burned, quickly turning to cold dread. His partner should have given the signal by now. The silence was a lead weight.
If that bastard made it to the main street, it'd be a mess. Too many people. Too much attention. A clean job was a silent one.
Desperate, he pushed deeper into the alley, where junkies sprawled across the ground. He scanned them, eyes sharp, until he spotted one still awake, half-wrapped in a dirty blanket, eyes unfocused.
The man stepped forward, voice a low growl. "Hey. You see a guy come through here? Injured, carrying a suitcase?"
The junkie looked up, glassy-eyed. "Nah. Ain't seen anyone." His voice rasped.
The grey-shirted man started to walk past—then stopped. His intuition screamed.
His eyes narrowed.
The junkie was hastily, subtly, trying to shove crumpled bills deeper into his blanket. A glint of green. Too clean for this alley.
The man turned back, posture radiating menace.
"You sure you didn't see anyone?"
"I—yeah, I swear. Ain't seen nothin'." The lie was transparent, delivered with a desperate tremor.
He lunged, grabbing the junkie by the collar, hauling him roughly to his feet. Cold metal pressed against the junkie's temple—the muzzle of his pistol.
"If you lie to me again," he snarled, a venomous whisper, "I'll blow your fucking head off. Got it?"
"Y-Yes!" the junkie stammered, terror blooming.
"Where'd you get the cash?"
"I—I…"
"Speak. Now."
"A man gave it to me! Told me to keep quiet if anyone asked!"
The man's grip tightened, knuckles white.
"Which way did he go?"
"H-He went that way!" the junkie stammered, a trembling finger pointing down a narrow, dark path.
The grey-shirted man shoved him back, sending the junkie sprawling, and sprinted in the indicated direction. He turned a sharp corner and—
Stopped.
Dead end.
A solid concrete wall loomed. No footprints. No broken fences. Nothing but rough stone.
"Did that junkie lie to me?" he growled, rage bubbling.
He turned to leave.
Step.
A sound behind him. Faint. A soft shift.
He whipped around—just in time.
Bang.
The first bullet slammed into his chest, knocking the breath from him. He stumbled back, crashing onto his back.
Bang. Bang.
Two more shots tore through his legs, hot agony erupting.
He screamed, a raw, guttural sound, clawing at the ground. Through blurred, pain-filled vision, he saw someone walking toward him, slow and deliberate, emerging from the gloom.
It was the junkie.
Only now, he wasn't wrapped in a dirty blanket.
He was brushing his hand through his messy, still-grimy hair, revealing a pale, strikingly handsome face.
Edward.
The man gasped, a desperate, rattling sound, and clawed toward the pistol that had fallen behind him.
His fingers brushed the cold metal handle—
Crunch.
A foot slammed down on it, hard, pinning his hand and the gun.
"Not so fast," Edward's voice was cold, calm, utterly devoid of mercy.
Bam!
A brutal kick landed square on his jaw, a sickening crack. A tooth flew, bright white against the dark alley, spraying blood.
"You know," Edward muttered, eyes holding a chilling glint, "things could've been easy if you'd just handed over the cash."
Another kick, just as savage, to his ribs.
"But no—you and your fucking partner just had to screw it up."
Bam.
Edward crouched, grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him up, forcing him to look into his eyes.
"You get one more chance," he whispered, voice dangerously low. "And maybe—just maybe—I'll let you live."
His voice turned razor-sharp.
"So where's my money, man?"
He leaned closer, breath hot on the man's ruined face.
"Where's my fucking money?"
The man struggled to speak, blood dripping, his jaw hanging at an unnatural angle.
"I-I don't kno—whe—thaf—i-s..." His broken teeth and torn lips made his words unintelligible, a desperate, gurgling mess.
Edward clicked his tongue, supreme frustration boiling over.
"Fuck, man—hurry up. Talk so I can understand you!"
"I-I don't know," the man stammered, choking on blood. "We were only supposed to deliver the bag... and m-make sure things went down clean. After that, we were told someone else would—"
BAM.
Edward snapped.
He grabbed the man's head and slammed it into the concrete.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Again and again, the sickening sound of impact, blood smearing across the ground—some splashing on Edward's pale face, but he didn't flinch. His curses joined the wet, pulping sounds, a low, savage growl.
"Fuck! Fuck!" he snarled between hits. "Motherless son of a whore—!"
His arm didn't stop until it ached, until the muscles screamed. Until he couldn't lift it anymore.
And only then did he stop.
The man's face was ruined—unrecognizable. A pulp of broken bone and bloody flesh. And unmoving.
He wasn't breathing.
Edward stood, panting, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. He wiped the blood off his cheek with the back of his sleeve, pushed his damp hair back from his forehead, and stared down at the mess he made.
"...Why do things always have to get fucked up?"