Good night hunting

"After a few minutes of crawling through the vents, Boris groaned. "Oh, fuck this." as Jack lost control of his body, his head slamming into the metallic walls of the vent, before his consciousness faded he heard, "Up there! In the vents."

Seconds after Jack lost consciousness, a swirl of darkness engulfed his body, twisting and shifting. His form contorted, reshaping itself—until Boris stood in his place.

Dissolving into the shadows, Boris reappeared in the hallway, facing the assailants. He took slow, measured steps toward them, his voice low and deliberate.

"How about you tell me who sent you, and maybe—just maybe—I don't torture you until your eyes bleed?"

The two masked assailants hesitated, exchanging a quick glance. Their grips on their silenced pistols tightened, but Boris caught the flicker of uncertainty and fear in their posture.

Good. This is shaping up to be fun.

The one on the left took a cautious step back. "At alert," he muttered to his partner. "Something's wrong—"

Unfortunately Boris was already moving.

In a blur of motion, he closed the distance, seizing the man's wrist in an iron grip, kicking his knees, it buckled lowering the man. A sickening crack echoed through the hallway as the man's wrist snapped, making the gun drop to the floor. The masked man barely had time to scream before Boris slammed his forehead into his nose, sending him sprawling against the wall.

The second assailant, raisied his weapon firing a shot. Boris twisted sideways, the bullet whizzed past his ear, rushing forward his trench coat billowing as he closed in, driving an elbow into the man's throat. The man gasped for air as he clutched his neck staggering backwards. Boris caught the gun that fell off his hands mid-air, and without hesitation, fired a single shot into his knee.

The man collapsed with a strangled cry, clutching his shattered kneecap.

Boris crouched beside him, pressing the warm barrel of the pistol against the man's forehead. His tone remained casual.

"You've got three seconds. Who sent you?"

The injured man gritted his teeth, refusing to speak. His partner, still groaning against the wall, tried to reach for a hidden blade. Boris didn't even look—as a tendril emerged from the man's shadow coiling around his neck.

He sighed. "Wrong answer."

The gunshot that followed was muffled, but the message was clear.

Boris turned back to the kneeling man, who was now trembling, his breath ragged.

"Let's try that again, да?" Boris said, his Russian accent thickening. "Who. Sent. You?"

"I don't—I don't know, man—it was an order from Boss. Said someone paid good money wanting the kid dead, I swear I don't know anything else," the man gasped, his breath ragged.

"See? That was easy." Boris crouched down, grabbing the man by his hair. "Now, who is this Boss?"

"I—I don't know his real name," the man stammered. "We just call him Boss. He runs things—coordinates jobs. That's all I know!"

Boris studied him, his expression unreadable. "Where?"

The man swallowed hard. "Warehouse… on 12th and Crestview. Big place. We run shipments through there, but—it's not just us, man. He's got muscle. A lot of it."

Boris smirked. "Good."

The man barely had time to process the response before Boris snapped his neck with a sharp crack the body slumped to the floor.

Boris stood, dusting himself off, as shadows coiled around him, swallowing the two corpses into the void.

Boss. The title was meaningless—there were always bosses. But something about this didn't make sense.

Without another word, he vanished into the darkness.

___________________________

Minutes later, Boris emerged in an alley with neon lights glowing overhead, adjusting his trench coat. The night air was thick with rain, drumming softly against the ground.

Across the street, the warehouse loomed—a hulking, rust-streaked relic of old industry. Dim lights buzzed weakly above, casting pools of yellow over the cracked concrete.

Staring at the warehouse he muttered. "The bastard hadn't lied."

Walking out the alley towards a parked car he leaned against the hood, retrieving a cigarette from his coat pocket. He didn't light it—just rolled it between his fingers, thinking.

A place like this wouldn't be lightly guarded. Not that it mattered.

With a slow exhale, he approached the warehouse. Knocking on the metal door. A few seconds passed before a voice came from the other side.

"Who's there?"

Boris replied casually, "Pizza delivery."

There was a pause. Then a confused, "What?"

Through the door, Boris caught the faint murmur of voices—a low exchange of uncertainty. Then came the sharp click of guns being cocked.

"I'm not going to ask again—who the hell is out there?"

Boris sighed, shaking his head. "And here I thought you'd fall for that."

He kicked the door open. The metal groaned under the force sending it flying, he dashed forward following closely behind, a short shadow blade forming in his grip. With a single slash, he cut across the nearest man's throat.

The man gasped for air, clutching his throat as he staggered backward, choking on his own blood before collapsing with a thud.

The others froze in shock. One of them whispered, "What the fuck…?"

Boris turned to face the rest, a cruel, sadistic smile spreading across his face.

Then—chaos exploded. Gunfire shattered the silence—but the bullets found nothing. Only shadows.

Boris moved through them like a phantom, his figure occasionally melting into the darkness. A flick of his wrist, and a knife buried itself in one man's eye socket. A shadow tendril lashed out, coiling around a guard's neck and twisting. His spine snapped with a dull pop.

Everything he emerged from the darkness another body collapsed on the floor.

Screams filled the warehouse. Men scrambled for cover, some attempting to run outside but it was useless. One by one, they all fell.

Blood pooled across the concrete floor. The scent of gunpowder and death hung thick in the air.

Boris stood amidst the carnage, expression unreadable. Bodies littered the ground—twenty men, maybe more. None had escaped.

Stepping over a corpse, he made his way to the back office. Inside, he saw a room with an half-open old wooden door.

Chuckling, he approached the door, pushing it open.

The site of roaring flames greeted him, stepping swiftly to the side into the room, Boris saw the assailant.

A single shot rang out. The man staggered backwards, clutching his shoulder before collapsing into his chair, groaning in pain.

Boris closed in instanly , pressing the still-smoking barrel against his forehead. "Who sent you after the boy?"

A slight smile revealed his golden tooth, "Which boy?" Heaving a cough, he licked the blood trickling down his lips. "And even if I knew, I can't tell you, customer discretion."

Boris chuckled lightly, "They always start off brave."

Pulling back the gun, he whipped him across the face with it. "Let's try that again shall we?" His eyes narrowing as the Shadows behind him fluctuated violently into grotesque forms.

Gulping, he nodded. "Okay, Look—I got a kill contract. One of my channels passed it along, so I didn't bother checking who wanted him dead, but they put 3,000 ERC on the kid.'"

Boris narrowed his eyes.

The man fidgeted, sweat dripping down his temple. "That's all I know. I swear."

Still staring at the man with narrowed eyes, Boris asked, "So you're telling me, you took a kill contract and you don't know who it's from."

The man swallowed, beads of sweat running down his face, but before he could answer—his watch rang.

The sharp chime cut through the tense air like a blade.

Boris pressed the gun harder against his forehead. "Pick it up. Loudspeaker."

With trembling fingers, the Boss answered. "Yeah…?"

A voice came through the speaker. "Is it done?"

The Boss hesitated, then spoke carefully. "We're… wrapping it up. Had some complications."

The voice darkened. "Complications?" after a brief pause it continued. "That wasn't part of the arrangement."

The Boss swallowed. "Look, we got hit. Lost men. But the shipment is ready, alright?"

The voice growled. "For your sake, it better be. You know how this works."

The Boss shuddered slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Good. Expect a follow-up soon."

Click. The line went dead.

Boris slowly lowered the gun, his eyes glowing with barely restrained rage.

"Who was that?"

The Boss swallowed hard. "One of my associates." Boris's brows arched, "We work for The Don."

Boris' jaw clenched. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, grotesque forms twisting and writhing behind him.

A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips.

"Very good, Gervaine. Very good."

Before the Boss could react, Boris pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed in the small office. Blood and bone splattered against the wall as the man's head snapped back, slumping into the chair. His eyes widened in shock—then dulled, lifeless.

Boris tilted his head, studying the corpse.

He muttered, almost amused, "What? You thought I was going to let you live?"

Picking up the man's smartwatch from the table he walked out of the warehouse.