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Valemont City, ten years later.
The cold wind howled through the narrow alleyways like a ghost that refused to die. It was just past midnight, and the rain had turned to sleet, falling in sharp angles against cracked sidewalks and neon-lit windows. The city hadn't changed—not really. New buildings, maybe. New names. But the same rot still lived under the skin. Drugs. Blood. Power. Silence.
A black-cloaked figure stepped off the last bus at South District Terminal, unnoticed in the crowd of late-shift workers and junkies shuffling through the streets. His boots hit the pavement with the weight of someone returning from the dead.
Dante Moretti had come home.
He paused outside the terminal, hood drawn low, eyes scanning the street like a hunter returning to old grounds. The familiar stench of the city—oil, garbage, and cold steel—was like a slap in the face. And he welcomed it.
He lit a cigarette with gloved fingers, the flame briefly illuminating a scar across his jawline—one of many. The smoke curled from his lips like a promise. A promise of revenge.
Ten years since they framed him.
Ten years since they butchered his family.
Ten years since they called him traitor and cast him out.
The Black Vultures thought he was dead. Thought they'd wiped his bloodline clean. But Dante wasn't buried in the grave they dug. He'd clawed out from hell—and he'd brought the devil with him.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a photograph. The edges were frayed, the ink slightly faded, but the image was seared into his memory: his younger sister, Gia, beaming with birthday cake frosting on her nose. Her smile was frozen in time, taped at the corner with yellowed Scotch tape.
It was her sixth birthday when the Vultures came.
They hadn't even let her cry.
Dante closed his eyes, clenching the photo in his hand until the paper crumpled. His heart thudded like a war drum. Somewhere in this city, the men responsible still walked free. Still laughed. Still lived. That was going to change.
He whispered to the wind, "I'm coming for all of you."
---
Two Hours Later — Meryl Street
The dive bar looked exactly the same, like a fossil stuck in time. "Jack's Tank" flickered in tired neon over the door, a sign barely holding on. Inside, the air was thick with old smoke, broken dreams, and cheap whiskey.
Dante slipped inside, the bell over the door jingling weakly. No one looked up. Drunks and dealers sat hunched over, lost in their own stories. A television above the bar buzzed static before returning to a late-night news broadcast.
He slid into the last booth, in the shadows, his eyes locked on the entrance. The bartender glanced at him once, poured a double shot of whiskey, and placed it on a tray without a word. People in this part of Valemont knew better than to ask questions.
Frankie "Two-Chins" Morales arrived twenty minutes late, as usual.
Frankie had aged poorly. Bloated face, thinning hair, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. He walked like a man who feared every corner might be his last.
When he saw Dante, he froze.
His lips parted slightly, and the blood drained from his cheeks. The drink in his hand slipped to the floor and shattered. A few patrons glanced over, but no one cared enough to intervene.
"D-Dante?" he stammered. "You're supposed to be—"
"Dead?" Dante raised an eyebrow. "Guess I missed my funeral."
Frankie shuffled into the booth across from him, eyes darting toward the exits. "You shouldn't be here, man. If they find out—"
"They won't," Dante interrupted. "Not if you tell me what I want to know."
Frankie wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. "Look, I don't know nothin', alright? I'm out. I've been out."
"You were never out, Frankie," Dante said coldly. "Once you wear the Vulture's wings, they're burned into your skin."
"I swear, man—I had nothing to do with what happened. I was just a runner."
Dante slid a thick envelope across the table. "This buys you silence and an escape route. One answer. One name. Who gave the order?"
Frankie stared at the envelope like it was radioactive. "You don't understand... it wasn't that simple. It came from the top. The whole council voted on it. But the one who pulled the trigger—who started it all?"
He leaned forward, whispering like the walls had ears.
"Nico Verratti."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"He was your friend," Frankie added quickly, like it might matter. "Your brother, practically. But he was scared. Said you were going to flip. Said your father was feeding the cops info. It was a lie, I swear. But once Nico spun the story, no one questioned it."
Silence. Long and dangerous.
Frankie shrank in his seat. "That's all I know, man. Please."
Dante stood, towering over the booth.
"I gave you your out," he said. "Now disappear."
And then he walked out the door, leaving Frankie to pick up the pieces of his shattered nerves.
---
Back on the Streets
Outside, the sleet had turned to snow. Soft, bitter flakes fell from the sky, muffling the world. Dante walked alone down Meryl Street, past shuttered storefronts and flickering streetlamps, past the ghosts of old memories—some warm, most bloody.
He stopped at the edge of the block where his family bakery used to be. The building was gone now. Replaced by a luxury cigar lounge, windows polished and glowing.
Gia had loved sitting on the counter while their father made biscotti. She'd sneak chocolate chips from the bowl when she thought no one was looking.
Dante clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
They took everything.
But they hadn't taken his resolve.
---
Across the City — Valemont University Campus
Aria Caldwell was the last to leave the library again. She slung her overstuffed backpack over one shoulder and yawned as she pulled her wool-lined coat tighter. The security guard gave her a sleepy wave as she stepped into the night.
Her sneakers squeaked slightly against the wet pavement as she headed for the bus stop. She usually didn't walk this late, but finals week didn't leave many options. The streets were quiet, save for the distant wail of sirens and the hum of power lines overhead.
She hummed softly to keep herself calm—an old tune her mother used to sing.
Three blocks.
Just three more blocks.
She didn't notice the black car idling at the curb until it pulled forward... slowly.
Aria stopped walking.
The car crawled along beside her, engine low and purring. The windows were tinted. She picked up her pace. So did the car.
Her heart raced.
Suddenly, the passenger door opened and a man stepped out. Tall, broad-shouldered, hoodie pulled low.
"Hey, sweetheart," he called.
She turned and ran.
Footsteps behind her. Fast.
She turned a corner—into a dead-end alley.
"Shit," she muttered, backing up.
The man was already there, grinning. "Just wanted to talk."
His partner appeared behind him, cracking his knuckles.
Terror surged through her.
And then—
A blur. A flash. A figure moved between her and the attackers like lightning.
A sickening crack of bone.
One man dropped, clutching his jaw.
The other swung and missed—caught in a bone-breaking hold before hitting the pavement.
Dante stood over them like a fallen angel of wrath. Dark coat flaring, breath fogging the air, eyes lit with barely restrained violence.
He turned to her.
"You okay?" he asked, voice like gravel.
Aria nodded, stunned.
"Get out of here," he said.
She hesitated. "Wait—who are you?"
But he was already walking away, the snow swallowing his silhouette.
---
Later That Night
Dante sat on the roof of an old tenement building, overlooking Valemont. The city glittered like a blade under moonlight—beautiful, but dangerous.
He thought about the girl. She reminded him of Gia in a way—same defiance, same fire. He hadn't meant to get involved. It wasn't part of the plan. But when he saw those thugs closing in, he couldn't walk away.
Not again.
He lit another cigarette.
His war had begun.
And nothing—not even fate—would stop him now.
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