The Russian Ghost

The hot afternoon breeze lightly caressed Jack's face, his breath hitched as his eyes snapped open. His ceiling blurring into focus, the loud noise of the district outside filtering through the thin walls of his apartment. He blinked, still feeling disoriented, his body heavy, sluggish.

His hand instinctively went to his chest. His fingers trembled as they pressed against his skin—smooth. No hole. No blood. Just his heartbeat, steady beneath his palm.

"Was it...a dream?"

His mind screamed that it wasn't. He had felt the bullet hit him, the cold metal burrowing into his flesh. He remembered the sting, then the suffocating darkness that came with him.

It all felt too real to be a dream.

While pondering, Jack sat up too fast. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, his head throbbing like a drum.

And then he saw it.

The jacket he wore yesterday.

Crumpled at the foot of his bed, stained deep red, accusing.

The memories slammed into him all at once—Keno's betrayal, the gunshot, the ocean swallowing him whole. He staggered from the bed, gripping the edge of the nightstand as a sharp pain lanced through his skull.

"No. No fucking way, how am I alive then?"

Stumbling toward the bathroom, he shoved open the door, his breath coming in short gasps. On the wall mirror his reflection stared back at him, pale, shaken. Trembling fingers reached for the bottle of painkillers in the cabinet.

He swallowed two dry. Reaching for the faucet and splashing cold water onto his face, after a brief moment he walked out of the bathroom dazed, making his way to his night stand.

Tapping his smartwatch, it displayed 12:30 PM, "Shit I'm late for work", Jack muttered, before he remembered he had been dismissed. The sting of yesterday's dismissal flared fresh, Levine's words, the snickers from his so-called classmates, the pitying stares from colleagues.

Tossing it aside, he picked up a slightly worn-out T-shirt picking it up again before making his way downstairs, through the streets, arriving at the convenience store shortly after.

The flickering neon sign hummed like a dying insect. Bear Energy Drink. The clerk barely glanced up as Jack slammed the can on the counter, scanning the displayed code. He paid. His account balance flashed in his eyes — pathetic, but enough. Screw energy drinks. "Today, I'd eat like a human."

The diner down the street smelled of grease and nostalgia. He ordered steak (rare), and a beer. Letting the alcohol blur the edges. For hours, he lingered, savoring the luxury of stillness. The world outside could burn.

By evening, the dusk painted the streets in bruised purple. Making his way back home Jack walked admiring the scenery of the city, which he had been to busy to do, since he had been wrapped up in work.

Passing by a rather deserted street, leaning against a graffiti-smeared wall, smoking Jack sighted a man, his leather jacket too tight, their eyes locked as he looked at him.

"Look who's still breathing," The man drawled, flicking his cigarette, "I thought you'd be six feet under by now. Betrayal's a bitch, huh?"

"You know for someone that's supposed to be dead you seem awfully relaxed." Keno continued as he stepped into the light.

Jack stopped a few feet away. His fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. "Why?"

Keno arched an eyebrow, flicking ash to the side. "Why what? Why'd I leave you all to die? Or why I sold out the crew?" He smirked. "C'mon, Jack. You're not stupid. You already know."

Jack's jaw tightened. "Say it."

Keno sighed, feigning disappointment. "You really needed things spelled out, huh? Fine. The Don's got ties to VIXA, Jack. They needed a name, a crew to burn. It was either the crew, or me. And between the two options Well… you guys were the easy choice."

Jack's vision blurred with fury. His voice was low, controlled. "You didn't just sell me out. You sold all of us. Flint. John. Even fucking Ford. They trusted you."

Keno shrugged. "Trust is a currency, Jack. And when it runs out, well… you'll most likely end up scarred or worse dead."

Jack took a step forward, his hands twitching at his sides. "Then let me ask you something, Keno." His eyes glowed red, simmering with restrained violence. "How much is your life worth to them? How long before you're the one they burn?"

For the first time, Keno's smirk faltered. Just for a second. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "After what happened, you should've run, Jack. Why the hell didn't you?" His voice spiked, betraying his bravado. "This is on you, Jack. You should've stayed dead."

Deftly pulling out a pistol, he shot Jack.

Jack's hand slowly reached, touching where the shot hit him now wet with blood, rasing his shaking hands, seeing the blood on it, a look of surprise in his eyes as he stared at Keno before slumping down, the pavement cold against his cheek.

He heard the sound of Keno's boot clacking as he approached him. "Should've stayed dead," Keno spat letting off another shot.

Jack's body covulsed then the darkness swelled. Just before the darkness embraced him, He felt a slight tug on his consciousness as everywhere went dark, again.

___________________________

Jack's lifeless body lay on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood. Moments later, his still heart began thumping slowly his body morphing, and seconds later it stood up, his figure completely different as he appeared taller donning a black trench coat and a fedora to match.

"Oh, I've missed this." the figure said, cracking his neck as it surveyed his surrounding. His voice was low and menacing, with a thick Russian accent. "Let the hunt begin."

With an inhuman leap, the figure sprang onto the roof of the building and began sprinting. Minutes later, he muttered, "Found you," as the figure dissolved like ink, sliding down the walls.

A dark tentacle shot out from the shadow, grabbing Keno and flinging him into an alley. The figure materialized in front of him, his eyes glowing with intensity.

Keno stumbled on the ground, his eyes wide with terror as he looked up at the figure. "What the f—," he stammered, reaching for his waistline he pull out his gun before he could pull the trigger, the figure closed in, deftly disarming him.

The figure grabbed Keno by the neck, lifting him up with ease. "You like to prey on the weak, don't you?" it said, its voice dripping with malice. "Well, you're the weak now."

Before Keno could scream, a swirl of darkness covered his mouth. "Uh uh uh, no shouting, American," the figure said, its accent thick and menacing. "I like to savor torture without disturbances."

The darkness enveloped both figures as the chirping sounds of crickets returned in the alley.

___________________________

Boris's eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he gestured to the dark, twisted landscape surrounding them. "Welcome, to the land of nightmares Keno, I see you're admiring the décor."

The shadows dissipated, revealing Boris's imposing figure. His broad shoulders, brown eyes gleaming with malevolence. A thick, well-groomed moustache above his cruel smile.

"I am Boris Karpov. But most people..." Boris leaned in, his smile running ear to ear. "...know me as the Russian Ghost."

Keno forced a weak chuckle, though his voice shook. "Bullshit. He only appears on a full moon, and if you really were him I'd—d already be dead. No one survives a meeting with the Ghost."

Boris's smile thinned, the amusement in his eyes turning to something colder, sharper. "Oh, American... It's a full moon every night now." He clenched his fist, the shadows slithering around Keno's throat tightened.

"...And do not mistake my restraint for mercy."

"This isn't a meeting." Boris's grin returned, wicked and patient. "It's a lesson, your..final.. lesson."

Keno spat blood, forcing a smirk. "You can try all that scary ghost shit. But if you're here, then you're human. And humans bleed."

Boris smiled, "I will enjoy breaking your bravado."