Originalwonder1

Number Nine is a man who exists on the edge of everything. A ruthless killer, precise and calculating, his actions leave no room for weakness or hesitation. But beneath the silence of his cold exterior lies a fractured past-a web of lies, pain, and memories that he himself doesn't fully understand.

With a pistol as his only companion, Number Nine drifts through a city teeming with chaos and corruption, an enigma to all who cross his path. He never speaks of his past, never explains his purpose. The world may try to box him in with labels and theories, but he is no one's puppet. Not a monster, not a hero-just a shadow who moves in the space between.

As he moves through the streets, leaving only death in his wake, one question lingers: who is Number Nine, really? And will he ever be more than the sum of his fractured past?

The body was still warm when Anderson got the call.

It was early—too early for bullshit. The number flashing on his phone wasn't one he ignored, so he answered without thinking.

Anderson didn't respond. He just listened.

"You need to get down here. Now."

The street was quiet. A few flickering streetlights hummed in the cold morning air, casting long shadows over the pavement. Anderson stepped out of his car, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes already scanning. The first thing he saw was the blood. A lot of it. It pooled beneath the body, dark and glistening against the cracked pavement. The guy was slumped against a graffiti-tagged brick wall, head tilted at an angle that made it clear he wasn't coming back. Someone had executed him, clean and efficient. One bullet. Close range. No struggle.

This wasn't a warning. It was a message.

Threatening his sister was one thing. That was business. That was leverage. But this? Actually killing one of his guys? That was different. That was personal.

Anderson crouched down, staring at the face of a man he'd known for years. He wasn't the best guy. Probably not even a good one. But he was Anderson's. And now he was dead. His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say anything. Didn't move for a long time.

"You want us to do something?"

Anderson didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out his phone and sent a text. No bullshit. No asking nicely.

A few seconds passed. Then, a response. An address.

Anderson stared at it for a moment, then slipped his phone back into his pocket. He stood up, took one last look at the body, and walked away.

Anthony was already there when Anderson arrived. Same seat. Same drink. Same unreadable expression. He barely looked up when Anderson sat down across from him. A waiter came over, but Anderson waved him off. The silence stretched. Then Anthony sighed. "You look like shit."

Anderson ignored him. "He's dead."

Anthony swirled the ice in his glass. Didn't blink. Didn't react. "I know."

Anderson leaned forward. "And you let her?"

Anthony met his gaze, unreadable as ever. "You really think I could've stopped her?"

Silence. Anderson studied him. The way he spoke. The way he didn't seem surprised. The way he didn't ask who. His fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this."

Anthony exhaled, tipping his glass back slightly before setting it down with a soft clink.

"Yeah." His voice was quiet. Tired.

Anderson stood outside the bar, staring out at the city. His breath curled in the cold air. His mind was already moving forward. He reached into his coat, pulled out his gun, and checked the magazine. Loaded. Ready.

Blood on the Pavement