Abandoned hangar. Somewhere past the dead wheat line.
Sunday, 12:41 PM
One van.
One Maserati.
Both silent now. Only glimmer of expensive light there .
The metal hangar breathed rust. Inside, only the flies moved without hesitation—drawn to a body dumped like broken furniture. One eye open. One foot twisted backward. Whatever story he once had… ended two hours ago.
Blood was fresh near the steel railing.
Another man—barely conscious, teeth clicking against each other from shock—was learning the difference between pain and punishment. His face cracked open under a rhythmless storm of fists.
The one who was beating them?
Not loud.
Not hurried.
He wore a black hoodie. White hair slipped from beneath the hood, catching the flicker of overhead lights that hadn't worked in years.
He moved like he'd done this before—like his hands had been trained in silence, not anger. Lean. Surgical.
No words.
No grunts.
The third man ran. Through tools. Past crates. Toward anything resembling a door. He had piss down his leg and a name no one here would remember.
The others watched from various corners—Gen-Z exiles vaping beside crates, girls in neon mesh doing nothing productive. Phones were out, but none were recording. This wasn't TikTok. This was survival.
She stood slightly apart—Vaxyn.
Barely twenty. Korean.
Dark hair slick, neck-length, parted just sharp enough to mirror the blade strapped to her thigh. Jacket cropped short, military green. She looked like someone who ran at dawn and hit like dusk.
She eyed the white-haired figure like a puzzle with missing edges.
"…Even that guy wasn't this brutal," she said, voice cool but not unimpressed. "You monster."
The last word didn't reach him.
He was already moving.
The third man didn't scream—he just stopped being audible.
When the hoodie-clad figure returned, his hands were darker. He wiped them on the corner of a tarp that once held something valuable.
Vaxyn didn't blink.
She knew.
Those three had it coming. Not for what they did tonight. But for Saturday—when a small act of greed turned into something messier. Something that forced someone from the shadows.
The man in the hoodie finally spoke—low, unhurried, like a page turning itself.
"Now… the game begins."
The hangar held its breath.
Vaxyn raised a brow.
Something about the way he said it…
made you think the first move had already been made.