Ghosts of the Iron Fist

The warehouse loomed like a tomb, its corrugated walls weeping rust. Felix’s boots crunched over shattered glass, each step echoing through the cavernous space. The air reeked of mold and motor oil, undercut by the metallic tang of old blood. Graffiti of the Nine Dragons’ insignia—once vibrant, now flaking—stared down from the walls, the syndicate’s serpentine emblem cracked by time.

A flashback struck like a shiv:

Younger Felix, twenty-three and sharp-edged in syndicate black, dragged a thrashing informant across the same floor. Wei Long stood silhouetted in the doorway, his voice a blade. “Loyalty is earned through fear. Make him understand.” The man’s pleas—“I have a family!”—died as Felix’s fist snapped his jaw. The crunch of bone, the wet gasp. Wei Long’s approving nod.

Felix’s hand tightened around a rusted pipe, his knuckles bleaching to bone-white.