A thunder-crack splits the sky.
Rain hammers the cracked pavement, splashing against Johnny’s boots.
He strides down the abandoned street, his black coat snapping in the wind.
To his left and right, skeletal buildings loom, their paint flaking away like dead skin.
The air tastes of wet iron and sour smoke, stinging his lungs with every breath.
His eyes are sunk into dark, hollowed pits, the rims raw and red.
Every time he blinks, he hears the same unanswered dial tone echoing in the back of his skull.
A figure leans against a damp brick wall, eyes tracking Johnny’s shadow as it stretches across the muck.
“You’re the courier?”
The man asks.
Johnny doesn't stop.
A faint, cold line curls at the corner of his mouth, but he says nothing.
A second silhouette merges from the mouth of an alley.
“Is that him? The courier?”
“No,” the watcher mutters, spitting into the rain.
“Probably a stranger.”
Johnny keeps walking.
Ahead, the Latvilo Casino bleeds neon light into the fog.
The signage buzzes with a violent, electric hum that vibrates in the teeth.
He pauses just short of the heavy oak doors.
His hand slides into his coat pocket.
He pulls out a small, worn photograph.
The edges are soft and creased from a thousand frantic folds.
A young girl smiles out from the paper—bright, untouched by the soot of this city.
For a heartbeat, her laughter pierces the rhythm of the rain.
It’s a sharp, clean sound that makes his chest ache.
Then the memory hardens.
The warmth in his eyes turns to flint.
He squeezes the photo, his knuckles white, before tucking it back into the dark of his pocket.
He pushes inside.
The doorbell clangs—a sharp, brassy strike that snaps every head in the room toward him.
Red-haired men dominate the floor.
Their knuckles tighten around the grips of holstered guns.
One man, a wall of muscle and cheap wool, steps into Johnny’s path.
“Stop. Don’t move.”
Johnny freezes.
His hands stay buried deep in his pockets.
“What do you want?”
The man levels a pistol at Johnny’s solar plexus.
“I’m here for the game.”
“What game?”
“Poker.”
A hulking, hard-faced man calls out from the back of the room, his voice like grinding stones.
“Let him join. If he loses, he dies. No cheating.”
Stolen story; please report.
The guards hesitate, then step aside.
Johnny walks to the table, the floorboards creaking under his weight.
Cards slap the green felt.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
Johnny lifts his hand.
He scans the symbols with a clinical indifference.
Bets rise.
Chips scrape across the table and slam into the center.
A bearded man shoves a heavy pile of plastic toward the pot, his face paling as the stakes climb.
Johnny wins.
The bearded man leans in, his breath a cloud of stale liquor and rot.
“You’re cheating, stranger.”
Johnny raises a single eyebrow.
“I don’t need to.”
A heavy, pressing silence settles over the table.
Clink.
Next hand.
Johnny wins again.
The air in the room feels thin, like the oxygen is being sucked out by the tension.
Another round.
Two aces sit in Johnny’s hand.
One by one, the other players fold, their chairs scraping back. Johnny pulls the pot toward him.
“But how?”
the bearded man mutters.
A chair flips over.
One of the men stands, his face twisted.
“Who the hell are you?”
Johnny stays silent.
The air is brittle, ready to shatter.
The man’s hand drops.
Steel flashes as he draws a dagger from his belt.
“I’ll end you—”
Johnny moves.
The gun clears his coat before the blade is even level.
Baa.
The man collapses.
A dark halo of blood spreads across the floorboards.
For half a second, the room stays frozen in the smoke.
Then, panic detonates.
Gunfire tears through the casino.
Johnny kicks his chair back and dives behind the heavy gambling table.
Wood explodes into splinters.
Chips scatter like rain.
Glass screams as the backbar shatters.
A slim man lunges over the table, a knife held high.
Johnny meets him halfway with a hard kick to the gut that sends the man gasping.
A shot at point-blank range finishes the job.
Johnny shifts, his movements precise and rhythmic.
He fires through the gaps in the bar.
A man drops behind a row of bourbon bottles.
The bearded man raises his gun, but Johnny is faster.
The shot hits center mass, slamming the man back into the wall.
Another bolts for the door.
He doesn’t make it halfway before a bullet finds his spine.
Bodies lie still.
Smoke curls toward the ceiling in lazy ribbons.
The floor runs red, the liquid pooling in the cracks of the wood.
Only the boss remains.
His gun slips from his sweaty fingers and clatters away.
His hands rise, trembling.
“Please,” he wheezes.
“I’m not the leader.”
Johnny steps closer.
He doesn't blink.
“Don’t play games with me,” Johnny says, his voice a low, terrifying calm.
"Where is Silas?”
“I—I don’t know!”
Johnny presses the hot muzzle of the gun into the man’s chest.
The boss’s eyes snap wide.
His knees knock together.
“You deal in trafficking,” Johnny growls, his jaw tight.
A raw, jagged anger flickers in his eyes.
“You work for him.”
The man shakes so violently he can barely speak.
"I only see an agent! He collects the money! That’s all! I swear!”
Baa.
The body drops.
Johnny stands in the center of the carnage.
Smoke drifts from the barrel of his gun.
He stands there for a moment, just breathing.
Silas. Always one step ahead. Always a ghost.
Behind the bar, the bartender reaches for a hidden weapon.
Johnny looks at him.
The bartender freezes, the color draining from his face.
The gun slips from his fingers and thuds onto the floor.
Johnny turns and walks out.
Rain slaps his face as he hits the street, his silhouette disappearing into the dark.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Whispers crawl through the city's underbelly.
The Red Carpet gang is gone.
On a rain-slicked rooftop, a man stands beside a woman in a black balaclava.
Wind tugs at her coat.
“Report it,” the man says.
“A man in black wiped out the Red Carpet at Latvilo.”
The woman clenches her jaw.
“That’s bad. The boss won't like the noise.”
“I’ll hunt him,” she adds, her voice sharpening.
The man narrows his eyes.
“That’s not your concern. Just tell the boss. He hates disturbances.”
She steps off the ledge, vanishing into the night like a shadow.
The man exhales a long cloud of mist.
“Flash Night Jessie is on him now.”
Johnny walks into the new town.
Rainbow lights flicker across the sky, bleeding neon colors into the low, heavy clouds.
He settles into the shadow of a stone pillar near a roaring waterfall.
He watches the streets with the stillness of a predator.
A girl wanders through the plaza.
Lost.
She passes his shadow without noticing him.
Laughter spills from a nearby tavern—rough and loud.
The girl hesitates, then pushes the door open.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of cheap ale and unwashed men.
“My apologies,” she says, her voice small.
“I was looking for an inn. I’m new here.”
She turns to leave.
A hand slams against the door, blocking her exit.
“You can’t leave yet, sweetheart,” a man grins.
Another man leans back, eyeing her like a piece of meat.
“We’ll get a huge sum for this one.”
The girl’s breath fractures.
She lunges through a side window, glass shattering against her cloak.
She hits the dirt and runs into the trees.
Branches slash at her skin.
Dry leaves betray every footstep.
Three men follow, their heavy boots thumping behind her.
She stumbles.
Falls.
Tries to crawl through the mud.
A hand grips her collar and slams her onto her back.
“You ain’t going nowhere.”
“Cut off her finger first,” the other snarls.
“Teach her not to run.”
“You fools know better than to prey on a little girl.”
The voice is calm.
The men spin.
Johnny leans against a tree, his expression bored.
They fire.
He’s gone.
A shift in rhythm.
A blur in the shadows.
Three shots crack through the woods, sharp and sudden.
The three men drop before the echoes can even fade.
Johnny steps into the moonlight.
“Why were they chasing you?”
“I—I was looking for a place to stay, sir.”
He studies her.
"A young girl like you shouldn't be out by this hour."
He points.
“Go straight down this road,” he says, pointing toward the light.
“Don’t turn. Don’t stop.”
Before she can thank him, he vanishes into the trees.
A ghost in the dark.
