Evening came, the sky painted in dull greys and blues outside the portholes.
Noir found himself in the cafeteria, where fluorescent lights hummed and cutlery clanged, mixed with low murmurs from tired crewmen.
He moved like an afterthought, plate in hand, heading for a secluded corner table as just another shadow.
He kept his head down, focused on the lukewarm stew, then he saw him.
A man was by the drinks dispenser. He was tall and lean. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw.
He was not a crewman, he was too stiff and too watchful. Their eyes met for a split second, brief and accidental.
But it was enough. Disbelief hit Viktor first. It was a sharp jolt. Then, recognition flashed. It couldn't be him.
A cold, hard flicker showed in the man's gaze; it was a predator's knowing.
Noir didn't flinch, he just looked away pretending a deep interest in his stale bread. But he knew. Bad news. Real bad news.
The officer, Viktor, watched Noir finish his meal. His heart hammered a silent rhythm. He's alive.
The thought was a shock. It brought on a sudden cold sweat.
He finished his own stale sandwich. Then, he slipped away quietly, melting into the corridor shadows.
He needed to report this immediately.
He moved with practiced ease through the ship's winding passages, past sleeping quarters and humming ventilation shafts.
He knew this vessel, every hidden nook. He found the ship's internal telephone, tucked away in a small, secured office near the captain's bridge.
He glanced over his shoulder. The area was empty. He picked up the receiver and dialed a number from memory.
It rang once, then twice, then came a sharp click.
"Volkova," Viktor said, his voice low, a harsh whisper that barely escaped his lips. The words felt impossible.
"I found him. The kid. He's on board. He's alive. On the cargo ship, route Delta-9."
A crackle sounded on the line, like static electricity before a storm. Then, a sharp, masculine voice came through, colder than ice.
"What? That's impossible. Are you certain, Viktor? Absolutely certain? He's dead." His tone was laced with a chilling mix of disbelief and lethal fury.
"Yes. No doubt. The face. The build. And the way he moves. He's trying to hide it, but he can't." Viktor could almost feel his rage through the line.
"He was shot in the heart, Viktor. He couldn't have possibly survived that."
"Perhaps, he doesn't have one?"
"Don't be absurd, he isn't the god of death or something."
"Well, he is somehow alive, sir. What are the orders?"
"Don't let him leave that ship, Viktor. Deal with it. Silently. No complications. Clean up this mess. You know what to do."
The line went dead, with no pleasantries or 'good luck.' Just an order, and a deadly reminder.
It was a reminder of what happened to those who failed him. Viktor hung up, his jaw tight. Orders were orders.
This kid was trouble. He needed to be eliminated. Quietly.
He had to do it before anyone else knew he was here. He had to do it before Volkova's wrath turned on him.
Noir felt eyes on him for the rest of the evening. It was a phantom weight on his back, a shadow always in his periphery.
He'd walk down a deserted corridor, and a door would click shut too quickly ahead.
Or a faint sound, like a shoe scuffing metal, would vanish just as he turned. He played it cool.
He walked slow, acting like nothing was wrong, like he was just another tired stowaway.
But every muscle was coiled tight. They were ready to spring. He knew. He had known, really, since that glance in the cafeteria.
Instinct screamed danger. Loud and clear. He had just been waiting. He was waiting for the hunter to make his move.
Night finally fell. The ship's internal lights dimmed, plunging many areas into near darkness.
Long, shifting shadows danced with the hull's rocking. Footsteps became less frequent.
They were replaced by the creaks and groans of the ship itself. The only constant sound was the deep, resonant thrum of the engines below.
It was a mechanical heartbeat, a lonely and vulnerable sound.
And Viktor was out there.
Noir moved through the darker corridors. He was heading towards the less-used stern section. This was away from the crew's mess and sleeping quarters.
He was looking for a place. A quiet, confined space. A place where a fight wouldn't echo too far.
He rounded a corner. Into a narrow service tunnel. Pipes ran along the ceiling, like metallic arteries.
Crates were stacked against one wall. They smelled of old rope and stagnant air.
This was the perfect spot. He stopped. He listened.
He heard the faint, almost imperceptible whisper of breath. He heard the soft scuff of a rubber sole on metal.
A sudden whoosh of air. Something silent and deadly swung out from the darkness behind him.
A garrote wire. It was thin and vicious. It hissed through the air.
It was fast. Too fast for anyone but him. But Noir had been ready.
He ducked low. It was a practiced, almost bored movement.
The wire whistled past his ear. It narrowly missed his throat.
He spun. He drove an elbow hard into empty air, where Viktor should have been. He missed.
Viktor was swift and professional. He moved. Striking with a silence that mirrored Noir's own.
He came in low. He delivered a quick, brutal kick to Noir's knee.
Noir hopped. Twisting. He used the grimy, cold wall for leverage. Then he rammed his shoulder hard into Viktor's chest.
Thud. A deep, muffled impact. Viktor grunted. He shoved back. He tried to pin Noir against a cold, unforgiving pipe.
The fight was brutal. It was a desperate dance in the dim light.
There was no yelling. No loud crashes. Nothing to alert anyone.
Just strained breathing. The slick sound of skin on skin. Muffled impacts. And the soft drag of shoes.
Noir slammed Viktor's head against a steel bulkhead. It wasn't hard enough to crack it, but enough to rattle teeth, to stun.
Viktor retaliated. He delivered a sharp knee to Noir's lower ribs.
Pain shot through Noir's chest wound. It was a searing fire. He gasped.
It was a short, sharp intake of air. He tried to stifle the sound.
Blood bloomed. A fresh dark stain on his shirt. It spread over the old, drying crust. He ignored it. He had to. There was no other option.
He saw an open locker nearby. It was a service locker, holding emergency equipment.
A fire extinguisher. Heavy. Red. It sat inside.
He grabbed it. It was a swift, practiced motion. He didn't remember learning it. His fingers instinctively found the grip.
Viktor lunged again. A hunting knife glinted wickedly in his hand. He tried to plunge it into Noir's side. Right where the bullet had gone in.
Noir brought the extinguisher up. He wasn't swinging wildly. Instead, he drove the nozzle end down onto Viktor's knife wrist with precise force.
Crack. A sickening sound of bone. Viktor cried out.
It was a choked, pain-filled gasp. It ended abruptly. Noir clamped a hand over his mouth.
The knife clattered on the metal floor. It made barely a whisper of sound.
Noir didn't hesitate. He dropped the extinguisher. He grabbed Viktor's head.
He slammed it into the bulkhead again. Hard. Then he twisted. He shoved the man face-first into the open locker.
Viktor struggled. Muffled grunts escaped him. His body convulsed.
Noir found a loose pipe. It was lying on the floor. Short. Heavy. Just the right size.
He brought it down once. Hard. On the back of Viktor's neck.
A final, convulsive tremor ran through the body. Then it went limp. Stillness.
He closed the locker door, the clack of the latch surprisingly loud in the sudden, heavy silence.
No one would find him for a while. Noir leaned against the cold metal wall. His chest heaved.
A thin line of sweat broke out on his forehead. The adrenaline started to recede. It left him shaking. Exhausted.
The sharp ache in his chest returned. Now, new aches joined it. In his ribs. In his knuckles.
He slid down to the floor. His head rested against the cool metal. He was alive. He had done it. Again. Without even thinking.
His hands were trembling. They felt strong. Lethal. The raw capability of them was unsettling.
He looked down at his bloody shirt. It was soaked. Fresh, hot blood mixed with old. It was ruined.
He ran a hand over his face. The silence of the ship around him was almost deafening after the internal struggle.
It was broken only by the distant hum of the engines. He was a survivor. But what was he surviving for?
The knowledge that someone was looking for him, someone who thought he was dead, was terrifyingly real.
He needed to vanish. And he definitely. Absolutely. Needed new clothes. This shirt was a screaming billboard for trouble.