"The wise measure their silence. The fool fills it—and dies by the echo."
The wind had died.
James tasted blood, thick and metallic, pooling at the back of his throat. His ribs ached, his breathing sharp with pain. He was still standing… barely. The last punch had nearly put him down, but he'd stayed upright out of spite. Even as his ribs burned, his mind was working. Looking for a way out.and kill them all after all nobody dares to touch the Cross family, and gets away with it.
The man in front of him—grinning, pacing—was enjoying this. Overconfident. Loud. He thought he was in control.
Behind him, the taller one stood still, watching. Silent, unreadable. A presence that demanded caution. He wasn't enjoying this. He was calculating. Measuring.
"You should've stayed down," the loud one said, cracking his knuckles. "Would've saved us all some time."
James let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders.
"Would've saved me from your voice."
The grin widened—a man who didn't see the knife at his throat.
The quiet one shifted, his posture tightening. His gaze flicked past James, into the darkness beyond the alley. The tension in his stance sharpened. His voice, when it came, was low and controlled.
"Why is he here already?"
Everything stopped.
The air thickened. The silence stretched.
He was here.
James exhaled, blood dripping from his mouth as he turned slightly, half-smirking despite himself.
"Took you long enough."
A figure stepped forward, hands in pocket, shadow peeling away as though it had been waiting for him to move.
Lucas Cain.
The loud one's grin faltered. The man behind him exhaled, slow and measured. The shift in the air was barely noticeable, but he felt it, a tightening in his chest, a subtle shift that had nothing to do with the men before him. Something had changed.
Lucas glanced at James.
"You look like shit."
James chuckled, wincing.
"Yeah. It's been a day."
Lucas said nothing. His gaze swept the men before him.
They flinched.
The bravado snapped back like a reflex. The loud one scoffed, forcing out a laugh.
"This is the Lucas Cain?"
He turned to his men, spreading his arms wide like a fool offering a toast to his own stupidity.
"This is the Big Bad Wolf? The Night's Executioner?"
The quiet one didn't laugh. He was still watching. Still calculating. His gaze flicked to loud one standing in front of him.
"Dante, you fool. Stop talking right now."
He smirked, rolling his shoulders.
"Well, ain't this a disappointm—"
Lucas moved.
No warning. Just a crack.
A body hitting the alley floor.
The tension broke like glass.
Dante froze. The men around him tensed. The bravado drained from his face.
Lucas straightened, his voice calm. Absolute.
"Try again."
Dante walked into this night believing he had already won.
Now, he was realizing just how wrong he was.
The weight of Lucas Cain's presence pressed down on him, heavier than any reputation, thicker than any whispered warning. Stories had painted a picture, sure. Rumors, threats, half-truths wrapped in fear.
None of them did justice to the reality. They never could.
For the first time, Dante felt the instinct to run.
Every nerve screamed for him to leave, to abandon this place, to forget he had ever been here. But greed is louder than instinct.
"If I kill this bastard…" The thought clawed through his mind, desperate, hungry. "I kill two birds with one stone. The contract will be fulfilled, and I'll be feared among the Mercenaries."
His fingers twitched. A plan took shape—reckless, desperate, intoxicating.
The quiet one had a different plan. A smarter one.
He'd heard the stories. Had seen what happened to men who crossed paths with Lucas Cain. And more importantly. He felt it.
Something shifted. Not just the air—something deeper. The pressure around them thickened, like the walls of the alley had pulled closer, like the ground beneath them was suddenly aware. A faint ringing at the edges of perception, just below hearing.
Fighting wasn't just a bad choice.
It was suicide.
But before he could act, Dante made the worst decision of his life.
"Kill them both."
The words left his lips in a sharp hiss. A signal, sharp and absolute.
A ripple of hesitation ran through his men. A fraction of a second. Too long.
The quiet one exhaled. "Fuck."
And in that sliver of silence, Lucas spoke.
Low. Calm. Final.
"You should've run."
The wind stilled.
The alley, once alive with the quiet shuffle of uneasy men, fell into absolute silence.
Not natural silence—something else.
The night seemed to lean in. The shadows shifted. Not like something moving within them, but like the shadows themselves had moved.
The air turned cold. Not in temperature, but in something worse. A wrongness seeped into the space between heartbeats, the kind of quiet that makes the body tense before the mind understands why.
A quiet hum beneath his feet.
The weight of something pressing in.
The hesitation broke.
One of the men took a step forward—and then it began.
It wasn't a fight.
It was an execution.
Lucas moved like a mechanism built for one thing. The kukri slipped from his sleeve with a whisper. His other hand reached beneath his coat, drawing Threnody from the custom underarm holster with the same care one might give a relic. A matte black Glock 34—silent, balanced, precise. No chrome, no flash.
The first man died before he understood what was happening. Lucas closed the distance, his steps measured, unhurried. The gun barely left the man's holster before Lucas's knife found his throat. A clean cut. Precise, controlled. The body fell soundlessly.
Another turned to run. Lucas shot him in the back of the knee. The man hit the ground, screaming. The sound was short-lived. It was a song for the dead. Lucas walked past him, blade flashing once. No wasted motion. No struggle.
The next tried to raise his weapon. Lucas caught his wrist, twisted—bone snapped like dry wood. The gun hit the pavement. The man barely had time to look at his ruined arm before Lucas put a bullet in his head.
One by one.
Methodical.
Inevitable.
Dante had seen death before—had delivered it himself—but never like this.
This wasn't a battle.
It was a verdict.
The quiet one didn't waste another second.
He turned sharply to Dante, voice a razor's edge.
"We leave. NOW. While he's busy."
Dante hesitated. His breath hitched, his fingers stiff at his sides. His throat felt tight, as if something unseen had already wrapped around it. He wanted to move.
He couldn't.
And by then, it was already too late.
Five minutes.
That's all it had taken.
Five minutes for Lucas Cain to pass judgment.
The street was silent now.
Lucas turned.
His attention was on them now.
Dante had already lost.
He just hadn't hit the ground yet.
James watches the carnage unfold, breath caught in his throat. He's seen men fight, seen them kill—but this?
This isn't a fight. It's a lesson. A reckoning.
Dante feels it now. That inevitable pull. Like the moment before a guillotine drops. His mind scrambles for something, anything… but instinct takes over.
He bolts.
Lucas doesn't chase.
He doesn't need to.
The quiet one, his escape ruined by Dante's stupidity, now has no choice but to fight. He moves—fast, desperate, clever. His nails elongate, sharpening into something inhuman. A last gamble, a final card.
He lunges.
His true self.
Lucas lets him believe he has a chance.
The attack misses, because Lucas isn't there anymore.
A fist drives into his gut. Not a punch—an execution. A fraction of a second later, an elbow slams into his spine.
A crack. A sharp gasp.
The quiet one crumples.
Lucas exhales, smirking. "Not human, huh?" He crouches, tilting his head. "And you thought I didn't know." He pats his shoulder. Mocking, casual. "This will keep you down."
A ragged breath. A groan. The quiet one isn't dead, but he won't be getting up anytime soon.
Dante, still running, still believing there's a way out, makes it seven steps before something slams into him. The seventh step is permission. Not for death. For claiming.
Not a bullet. Not a blade.
Just a force. A pressure that crushes the air from his lungs, sends him sprawling onto the pavement. A boot presses down on his chest.
Lucas looms over him, a shadow against the dim streetlights.
Dante coughs, gasping. He scrambles. Reaching for anything, an escape, a weapon, a prayer.
Lucas tilts his head. Eyes unreadable.
"All that bravado—gone."
Dante chokes out something between a curse and a plea.
Lucas exhales, almost bored, and applies more pressure.
Not enough to kill. Just enough to remind Dante how close he is to death.
Then, Lucas steps off him.
Dante is left gasping, clutching his ribs. Still alive.
Barely.
Behind them, boots hit the ground. Victor's men sweep in, weapons raised—only to stop dead.
The fight is already over.
The bodies tell them everything they need to know.
And in some distant room, Victor watches through a screen. Silent. Not in shock. Not in horror.
Just in understanding.
He had hired a hunter.
But what stood before them wasn't a hunter.
It was something far, far worse.
END OF CHAPTER 4.