The morning light broke through the cracks of the warehouse hideout, glinting off the scattered metal and old furniture. Everyone was awake — Mostang leaned against a wall with his cigarette half-lit, Kane was sitting cross-legged fiddling with a knife, Celeste was cleaning her tools, and Diana sat nearby with her arm still wrapped in bandages.
Emma stood near the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the distant skyline like she was reading the next step off it. The air was tense but calm — the kind of calm that always came before Emma decided their next move.
Then Valeria's voice cut through the silence.
"Hey… I've been thinking," she said, stretching her arms with a grin. "We've been running, fighting, saving people… but we don't even have a name."
Kane tilted his head. "A name? Like… what, a gang name?"
Valeria smirked. "Not a gang, dumbass. An organisation. Something people can fear or believe in when they hear it."
Mostang took a drag from his cigarette, amused. "Huh. Not a bad point. Every cause needs a name… or no one takes it seriously."
Emma didn't respond at first — she was deep in thought, eyes fixed out the window. Then, quietly, she turned around.
"A name, huh…" she muttered. "Never thought about that."
Diana looked at her, one brow raised. "You didn't?"
Emma shook her head slightly. "Names are… symbols. Once you name something, it becomes a target. But maybe…"
She looked around at all of them — tired faces, scarred hands, but still standing. "…maybe it's time we become one."
Valeria grinned. "Then let's decide right here, right now."
Mostang smirked. "Alright, boss. You lead, we'll follow."
Emma crossed her arms again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "If we're giving ourselves a name… it needs to mean something. Something that represents what we're doing — cleansing this world from rot."
Kane spoke up, eager. "Then something about… purity? Or rebirth?"
Diana chuckled weakly. "You sound like you're naming a church, Kane."
Everyone laughed lightly — except Emma, who was thinking.
Then she said, calm and cold:
"…White World."
The room fell silent.
Celeste looked up from her desk. "White… World?"
Emma nodded once. "Because that's what we're fighting for. A world without corruption. Without filth. A world that's… finally clean."
Valeria's grin widened. "White World, huh… I like it."
Mostang flicked his cigarette away, smirking. "Has a nice ring to it. Simple, cold, powerful."
Diana gave a tired smile. "Then it's settled. From today… we're White World."
Emma looked at them all — her team, her family in this twisted fight — and for a moment, something faint glimmered in her eyes.
"White World," she repeated quietly. "Then let's make it real."
The city smelled of diesel and dusk. The roof was cold under their boots—metal grit, a few puddles, the distant neon halo of the streets. One by one they stood along the low parapet, silhouettes carved against the dying light.
Celeste was tucked back in the shadowed stairwell, already gone through the motions in her head—pack ready, med kit within reach. She wasn't expendable. She wasn't here to fight; she was here to make sure they could keep fighting.
On the edge, shoulder to shoulder: Kane — fists taped, chest heaving with the nervous fire of youth.
Mostang — cigarette stub crushed in his palm, eyes scanning angles and escape routes.
Valeria — grin sharp, knuckles flexed, appetite for chaos on her face.
Emma — still as ever, a black shape with steel in her eyes.
Diana — bandaged but unbowed, breathing steady, that calm rage simmering just beneath the surface.
They exchanged no speeches. No pep talk. Just looks — all the trust and warning and steel that comes from being the only family you're allowed.
Emma lifted one hand. She didn't shout. She didn't count down.
She made the signal.
A single, small motion — a finger flicked twice toward the street—crooked, precise.
Like a single body with many limbs, they moved.
They threw themselves off the roof.
Air ripped at them. Time folded.
For a second everyone was weightless—Kane's shout swallowed by the wind, Valeria's hair a dark banner, Mostang already aligning for impact, Diana twisting mid-fall to land on her feet, Emma folding herself into the descent with a practiced, deadly grace.
They hit the alley in a thunder of bodies. The first moment after landing was controlled chaos: boots skidding, a spray of concrete dust, and then movement—fast, brutal, synchronized. Every punch, every kick, every roll had been rehearsed in the dark until it was muscle and instinct.
Gangsters down below never knew what hit them. Shouts became screams, orders became confusion, and in the middle of it all the name whispered between clenched teeth carried weight:
"White World."
They moved as one—swift, precise, terrifying. The rooftop was empty again, the echo of their jump trailing up into the night.
The moment they hit the ground, the world exploded.
Gunfire. Screams. The crunch of metal pipes clashing against bone.
Kane was the first to move — a wild punch straight into the jaw of the nearest thug, sending him spinning into a trash bin. Mostang followed in perfect rhythm, kicking the next man in the ribs so hard he collapsed against a wall. The alley filled with shouts, curses, the smell of smoke and blood.
Valeria went in like a storm — no hesitation, no mercy. She ducked under a bat swing, grabbed the wielder by the collar, and slammed his face into a car hood. Clang! A spark of blood sprayed as she screamed, "COME ON THEN!" laughing through the chaos.
Diana, calm in the storm, fought like she was dancing — every movement clean, sharp. She dodged two blades, caught one arm, broke it, twisted the knife out, and threw it into the next man's thigh before he even blinked.
Emma… Emma was different.
She didn't move fast. She moved right.
Every motion was exact, efficient, like she'd already seen this fight before.
One thug came from behind — she stepped aside, elbowed his face, caught his gun midair as it fell, turned, fired once — BANG! — a clean shot through another's shoulder.
Then the flood came. Dozens. They poured from both sides of the alley — men with bats, chains, knives, even pistols.
Kane shouted, "THERE'S TOO MANY!"
"Keep fighting!" Emma barked, voice cutting through the noise like steel.
Valeria was bleeding from her forehead, still grinning. Mostang reloaded mid-spin, covering them with gunfire. Diana crushed another man's hand under her boot, then spun to block Emma's side.
"BACK TO BACK!" Emma ordered.
They formed a tight circle — five of them surrounded by waves of enemies. The concrete beneath them was slick with blood.
Emma took one deep breath. Her mask — cracked and half fallen — hung from her jaw. Her eyes were calm, empty, sharp.
"White World," she murmured. "Let's show them why we exist."
And then — she charged.
The chaos became art.
Every sound — a rhythm. Every move — a story.
The White World wasn't just fighting. They were erasing corruption, one punch, one shot, one broken jaw at a time.
The city's gangs would remember this night —
The night the Vencors legacy returned.
They came back to the hideout past midnight — clothes torn, bruised, dirt and blood mixed across their faces.
The door creaked open. Emma stepped in first, quiet, her usual calm returning as the adrenaline faded. Valeria stumbled behind her, yawning loudly while wiping a cut from her lip. "That was wild…" she muttered, tossing her jacket onto the couch.
Kane dropped himself right onto the floor. "I swear I fought like, ten guys."
Mostang passed by, lighting a cigarette. "You hit two. One tripped."
"Still counts," Kane mumbled, too tired to argue.
Diana came in last, helping Celeste carry the medical bag. "Get those two idiots seated," she said, pointing at Valeria and Kane. Celeste sighed, already preparing bandages.
Emma sat on the table edge, silent, pulling off her gloves. The faint sound of rain started outside — soft, distant. She watched it for a moment, her reflection faint in the window.
Mostang leaned on the wall. "So, boss," he said lazily, smoke trailing from his mouth. "What's next?"
Emma didn't answer right away. She looked at everyone — Diana checking Valeria's wound, Kane half-asleep, Celeste focused on cleaning blood, Mostang pretending not to care but watching them all.
Then she finally said, quietly, "We rest. Tonight was only the beginning."
Valeria looked up, smirked. "Beginning of what?"
Emma's eyes shifted — that cold, determined look again.
"Of taking everything back."
The room went quiet.
Just the rain tapping against the window, and the sound of their tired breathing.
Their war had started — and somehow, the hideout felt like the calm before the next storm.
.
.
.
Glass shattered—
The sound hit before the thought could.
CLANK.
A grenade rolled across the floor, spinning once before stopping near the table.
Emma's eyes widened instantly. "GRENADE!!" she yelled, voice sharp and commanding.
Everyone reacted on instinct—
Diana dove over Valeria, dragging her behind the couch.
Kane and Mostang threw themselves backward, glass crunching under their boots.
Celeste barely made it behind the counter.
Then—
BOOM!
The explosion tore through the room. The blast shattered the rest of the windows, sent smoke, dust, and splinters flying everywhere. Furniture flipped, flames sparked along the walls.
Emma was thrown back, slamming into the side of a desk. Her ears rang, vision blurring. For a few seconds, everything was chaos—just noise and light.
Kane coughed, dragging himself up through the smoke. "What the hell—"
"Everyone okay?!" Diana yelled, voice muffled.
Emma forced herself to stand, covering one bleeding arm. Her face was covered in dust, eyes narrowed, scanning the doorway.
Outside, faint footsteps echoed in the alley.
She clenched her teeth. "They found us."
Mostang pulled his gun, still coughing. "Those bastards…"
Celeste crawled toward her medical bag, trembling. "We need to move—"
Emma stepped forward, expression turning deadly calm.
"Everyone out the back. Now."
The others obeyed instantly.
As they ran toward the back exit, Emma glanced one last time at the burning hideout—their home, now in flames.
Her tone dropped cold, almost whisper-like.
"…I'll make them regret that."
Smoke still lingered in the air, and the sound of sirens echoed faintly in the distance.
Emma ran through the alley, her boots splashing in puddles, following the echoes of fighting.
When she turned the corner—
Her eyes locked onto the scene.
Valeria was locked in combat with a towering, muscular man — veins bulging on his arms, eyes calm yet terrifyingly focused. His expression didn't change, even as Valeria swung her knife, slicing his shoulder.
He didn't even flinch.
Then, faster than she could react, he grabbed her wrist, twisted it, and landed a heavy punch to her stomach. The sound echoed.
Valeria gasped, coughed blood, and before she could recover—he grabbed her hair and threw her across the ground. She hit a wall hard and collapsed, barely conscious.
"VALERIA!" Diana yelled, sprinting in, rage flashing across her face. She didn't think twice. She charged, fists ready—
But the man met her halfway. His movements were calm, precise, brutal.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Each punch hit harder than the last.
Diana tried to block, but the force broke through her guard, knocking her to the ground. She spat blood, the world spinning around her.
Mostang raised his pistol, gritting his teeth. "YOU SON OF A—"
Before he could finish, the man was already in front of him—
CRACK!
A single kick to the ribs sent Mostang flying into a pile of crates, the gun clattering away. He lay still, unconscious.
Kane froze, trembling as he backed away, gripping his knife with shaking hands. "Wh–who the hell is this guy…"
The man turned toward him, expression still calm, eyes cold as stone.
Then—Emma stepped out of the smoke behind him.
Her presence froze the air.
"…You've done enough."
The man turned slowly, finally facing her. Their eyes locked.
A faint smirk formed on his lips.
"So you're the one they call… Emma Elarat."
Emma didn't respond. Her gaze stayed sharp, unreadable, as the tension thickened like a storm about to break.
-----
The air felt heavier after his words.
The man stood tall, muscles tensing under his black vest, his shadow stretching across the broken floor. His voice was low, deep — calm enough to send chills.
"…You don't need to know who I am," he said, brushing the dust off his arm. "Just call me by my nickname."
Emma narrowed her eyes, still standing between him and her injured team. "…And that is?"
He looked up — eyes cold, a faint smile creeping on his lips.
"Shadow."
Silence followed. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Diana, blood dripping from her lip, forced herself to stand. "You… bastard…"
But Emma raised a hand slightly — stopping her. Her expression didn't change. Calculating. Focused.
"Shadow, huh?" she said flatly. "If you're here… then Vencor sent you."
Shadow's smirk deepened.
"Smart girl. No wonder he warned me not to underestimate you."
Kane swallowed, voice trembling. "W–What do you want from us?"
Shadow's gaze shifted to him for a brief second — a gaze sharp enough to cut.
Then back to Emma.
"…To deliver a message."
Emma didn't blink. "Say it."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into a whisper that carried across the silent room.
"Vencor wants his world back. And he'll start by taking yours."
Then, without another word, Shadow stepped backward — smoke grenade in hand — and disappeared in a gray cloud.
Emma didn't move. Just stood there as the smoke cleared, her face cold and unflinching.
Emma's shout rips the air—raw, furious.
"FIGHT ME!"
The word lands like a thrown knife. Shadow's smirk tightens into something almost respectful. For the first time, his calm slips into a small, predatory smile.
He drops his hands into a ready stance. The alley narrows to the two of them: metal, rain-slick concrete, broken glass glittering like teeth around their feet. The rest of the team pulls back, circling, breath held. Even the sirens in the distance seem to mute.
Shadow moves first — deceptively quick, a blur that tests Emma's timing. He feints low, then arcs a brutal palm toward her ribs. Emma reads the motion the way a hunter reads wind; she twists, takes the blow on her forearm, bone-jarring, and counters with a short, hard elbow to his sternum. He inhales like air knocked out of a bellows, but he doesn't fall.
They trade—fast, tighter than the fights before. Shadow's strikes are surgical, each one meant to end something. Emma's are economical and ornery: less flash, more damage. He's strong, but she's cunning. Where he pushes, she slips; where he overcommits, she cracks him with angles.
Shadow swings a low kick that clips Emma's thigh—she stumbles, teeth gritting. He follows with a spinning back fist. Emma ducks under the arc, grabs his rotating momentum, and yanks him forward into a concrete pillar. The impact rattles through both of them. For a heartbeat, she tastes metal and the old, dark memory of being trained to kill.
Shadow grins, wiping blood from his lip. "Not bad." He lunges with a knee aimed at her chest; Emma blocks it with the flat of her arm and answers with a brutal palm strike to his jaw that snaps his head sideways. He staggers but recovers with grace, sliding away and throwing a string of low, chopping kicks that force Emma to dance back.
A knife flashes in Shadow's hand — he's not messing around. Emma closes distance, grabs his wrist, and with a move honed by a thousand darker nights, twists, freeing the knife and sending it skittering into the muck. She slams her knee into his ribs and drives an uppercut that floors him for a breath.
The alley shakes with the sounds of impact. Valeria whoops low, but Kane's face is pale; Mostang grips the edge of the dumpster like a lifeline. Celeste stands ready, medical kit open, eyes wide.
Shadow rolls, back on his feet in a blink. He's smiling through a split lip. "You fight like a storm," he breathes. "But storms end."
Emma spits blood, eyes narrowed. "So do you."
He rushes—faster now, tactics changing. He's not taking chances; he presses, pressing, every strike a message. Emma absorbs two brutal blows to the ribs. Pain blooms—sharp, white—but she channels it into focus. She stops one strike with her shoulder, catches the next with her forearm, and then pivots, using his forward motion to throw him over a rusted barrel. He crashes; for a second, it looks like she's won.
Then Shadow lashes his foot out, catches her ankle; she goes down hard, hand smashing into broken glass. Pain sharpens into white noise. He moves in, kneeling, aiming a final, calm blow.
Emma doesn't beg. She breathes. Time slows. She hooks her leg around his knee, sweeps—surprise—pulls him down with her. They crash together. Emma reaches up, eye-level, and slams her forehead into his nose—brutal, intimate—and follows with a crushing palm into his throat. The air leaves him in a ragged yank.
They stay locked, two breathing storms. Emma's arms shake, blood on her knuckles. Shadow's chest heaves. He laughs once—bitter, impressed—and with a sudden hard shove slips from beneath her. He scrambles, stumbles backwards, profiles in the alley light like a silhouette losing shape.
"Enough," Shadow says, voice low, dangerous. He straightens, backing into the smoke and the night. "This isn't over, Phantom."
With that, he turns and vanishes — a ghost folding into the city's teeth. Not defeated, but forced to retreat. Not captured. Not dead.
Emma stays on her knees, chest heaving, one hand pressed to a rib that screams when she moves. The pain is real, the exhaustion absolute, but the alley smells like victory: metal and rain and the quiet hum of lives that still breathe.
Valeria rushes in, grabbing Emma's shoulders. "You alright?" she snaps, eyes wide.
Emma bares her teeth in a half-smile that is almost a snarl. "I'm fine." Her voice is hoarse. "He ran."
Mostang spits into the gutter. "He left. Smart."
Kane exhales, shaky with relief and awe. "You… you were crazy."
Emma pushes to her feet, slow, steady, leaning into the pain until it becomes background. She looks down the alley where Shadow disappeared, her eyes cold and alive.
"Tell Vencor," she says, voice hard as flint. "We took his message and burned it. Send whatever you want next. We'll be waiting."
They move — bandaging, breathing, limping back toward the hideout. The city swallows Shadow's footprints. Emma's rib bleeds through her shirt; she doesn't care. Tonight she bled, fought, and forced respect out of a lethal shadow.
Behind them, the night holds its breath.
Chapter End