The Phantom's Hunt

The city hums with life—cars moving, neon signs flickering, people lost in their own worlds. But amidst the chaos, a predator watches.

Archer Creed stands atop a nearby rooftop, his silhouette barely visible against the night sky. The wind tugs at his black coat as he watches the black SUV pull up near the entrance of the Orlov Grand Hotel.

The doors open. Viktor steps out. Dressed in a tailored suit, he adjusts his cuffs, oblivious to the eyes burning into him from the shadows. His guards flank him, scanning the surroundings, but they see nothing.

Not the hunter.

Not the nightmare waiting for them.

ORLOV GRAND HOTEL – NIGHT

Viktor walks through the grand entrance, greeted with respect, his presence commanding the room. He moves with confidence, unaware of the storm brewing outside.

Archer lowers his binoculars.

His grip tightens around the M4A1.

Nobody inside that hotel knows.

Nobody hears the silent countdown to death.

Because death has already arrived.

Dark. Silent. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and spilled liquor. The neon lights flicker through the cracks of the doorway below, casting jagged shadows on the concrete walls.

Archer Creed's hand tightens around the grip of his M4A1. His breathing is slow, controlled. A single drop of blood trails from his temple, mixing with the sweat on his jaw.

He exhales. Steps forward.

Luxury. Calm. A thick haze of cigar smoke lingers in the air. The city sprawls outside the penthouse window, golden lights twinkling in the abyss.

At the center of the room, VIKTOR IVANOV sits, his fingers lazily twirling a glass of whiskey. His expression is unreadable. The men around him—Sergei, Dante, Pavel—are tense. They know what's coming.

SERGEI (leans forward, fists clenched)

"He butchered eighteen men in one night. This isn't just business for him anymore."

VIKTOR (exhales smoke, smirks)

"It was always personal."

Then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Muffled gunfire shakes the floor. Screams. The music from the club below abruptly cuts out. Viktor doesn't flinch. He simply closes his eyes.

VIKTOR (soft, almost amused)

"It begins."

CHAOS. Strobe lights flash, illuminating the panic. Patrons scream, knocking over tables in a desperate scramble.

Archer steps through the wreckage, M4A1 raised.

GUNSHOT—A MAN DROPS.

Another thug reaches for his weapon—POP. POP. A clean burst takes him down before he can react.

Archer moves like a specter, his gunfire blending with the pulsing bass of the speakers. The M4A1 kicks in his hands, controlled bursts cutting through flesh and bone.

Bodies hit the floor. Thirteen men. Each one precise. Efficient.

The fight isn't over.

Dimly lit. A narrow corridor lined with red wallpaper. Shadows stretch along the walls like grasping hands.

Archer steps forward—

SHOTGUN BLAST.

The buckshot rips into the wall just inches from his head. He barely twists in time, the heat of the blast licking his cheek. The shooter—a bald man in a leather jacket—pumps for another shot.

Archer doesn't let him.

BURST FIRE—THREE ROUNDS TO THE CHEST.

The man crumples.

More thugs flood in, gunfire erupting in a deafening storm. Archer ducks behind an overturned table, breathing hard. Bullets tear through the wood, splintering it into jagged shards.

CLICK. Empty mag.

Archer's eyes flick to his belt—one spare mag left.

He exhales. Moves.

Archer vaults over the couch—

THWIP. He draws his switchblade—

SLICK. The blade finds flesh, carving through a throat.

BANG. His pistol snaps up—one clean shot to the head.

BLOOD SPRAY ACROSS THE WALLPAPER.

He doesn't stop.

A thug swings a metal bat—Archer twists, catching the man's wrist, yanking him forward—GUNSHOT TO THE SPINE.

The body crumples. The air is thick with gunpowder and death.

Archer limps forward—BANG.

BULLET TO THE LEG.

His knee buckles. He collapses against a marble pillar, gritting his teeth. Blood pools beneath him.

HE WON'T STOP.

A GIANT THUG steps forward. Built like a bear. Tattoos crawling up his arms. He grabs Archer by the throat—lifts him—SLAMS HIM INTO A TABLE.

Glass shatters. Archer gasps, coughing blood.

The world spins.

Gun barrels surround him. Boots stomp closer.

THE UNBREAKABLE CREED

Archer's eyelids flutter open. His vision is a blurred haze of light and shadow. The dull ache in his skull throbs like a war drum. A metallic taste of blood lingers on his tongue.

He tries to move. Nothing. His wrists are bound tightly behind his back, rope digging into his skin. His ankles are tied to the legs of the chair.

A cold voice cuts through the silence.

VIKTOR (calm, mocking)

"Did you think you could waltz into my city, kill my men, and walk away?"

Viktor. He stands tall, perfectly composed, his black suit crisp, his tie loosened just slightly. Behind him, Dante—a towering brute with a scar splitting his lip—leans against the wall, rolling a cigar between his fingers.

Several armed guards flank the room, their fingers resting on the triggers.

Archer spits blood onto the cold floor, his jaw tightening. He says nothing.

VIKTOR

"You fascinate me, Creed. Most men would be begging by now. But you… You sit there, bleeding, staring at me like a damn wolf."

Viktor steps to a nearby wooden desk. Papers are scattered across its surface. Among them, a stapler glints under the dim light. A wall behind him is lined with weapons—assault rifles, shotguns, knives, all neatly displayed.

Viktor picks up a single manila folder, flipping through it lazily.

VIKTOR

"I dug a little into your past. Tragic, really. No family, no home, nothing left except…" (he smirks) "One revolver?"

Archer's heart stops. The mere mention of it sends a storm raging in his chest.

Viktor pulls out a photograph—Archer's revolver, lying in a pool of blood from last night's carnage.

VIKTOR

"Why? Out of all the weapons in the world, why hold onto something so… simple?"

Silence. Archer's fingers curl into fists behind his back. His breathing grows heavy.

VIKTOR (chuckling)

"Come on, Creed. It's just a gun."

Archer's head snaps up. His entire body trembles—not from fear, but from pure, unfiltered rage.

Archer's roar shakes the walls.

ARCHER (furious, voice breaking)

"IT WASN'T JUST A REVOLVER!!!"

The air in the room thickens. The guards stiffen, their fingers twitching near their triggers.

Viktor's brow lifts, intrigued. Dante, always smug, now loses his smirk.

Archer's chest rises and falls rapidly. His hands clench into fists behind the chair, knuckles white.

ARCHER (voice trembling, but firm)

"It was the last thing that kept me close to my father… After he passed away."

A long, suffocating silence.

Viktor studies him—cold, calculating. Then, with an almost exaggerated sigh, he tosses the file onto the desk.

VIKTOR (apathetic)

"Pathetic."

That's it.

Something inside Archer SNAPS.

His muscles coil like a spring. His entire body trembles with fury. His jaw clenches so tightly it might break.

Then—he explodes.

ARCHER (screaming, feral)

"I'LL KILL YOU!!!"

VIKTOR

"Not today, Creed."

He turns to leave, and Archer lets out a final roar, shaking the chair beneath him.

The guards force him down harder, but they can't break him.

VIKTOR

"Pathetic." (to Dante) "Kill him."

He turns, walking toward the door.

Dante grins, cracking his knuckles.

DANTE

"Oh, don't worry, boss. I'll make sure it hurts."

Viktor steps out. The heavy door slams shut.

A deep, sickening chuckle escapes Dante's throat as he strides forward, standing inches from Archer's face.

DANTE (mocking)

"You really are a stubborn little mutt, huh?"

Archer glares up at him. Dante crouches down, grabbing Archer's jaw with his thick fingers.

DANTE

"Not so tough now, are you?"

He leans in closer, his breath reeking of whiskey and tobacco.

That was his mistake.

Archer lunges forward, smashing his forehead into Dante's nose.

CRACK.

Dante stumbles back, roaring in pain. Blood spurts from his shattered nose.

Archer doesn't hesitate. Using the chair itself, he lifts his legs and swings full force, slamming the wooden legs into Dante's ribs. The brute crashes onto the floor.

The door bursts open. Guards rush in, raising their rifles.

Archer spots the desk—his chance. He lunges, throwing his entire body weight onto it, sending papers flying. His fingers snatch the metal stapler.

The first guard fires—too late.

Archer drives the stapler into his throat. Blood sprays as the man chokes, collapsing.

The second guard pulls the trigger—BANG.

Archer ducks, spinning behind him. He slams the stapler against his skull, sending him crumbling.

Dante, still reeling from the broken nose, roars and charges.

Archer sidesteps, grabbing a knife from the weapons wall. He slashes Dante's arm, drawing a deep crimson line.

DANTE (enraged)

"I'M GONNA TEAR YOU APART!"

Archer, panting, bloodied but unbowed, stares him down.

ARCHER

"Come try."

The fight isn't over. The hallways are swarming with more guards.

Archer grits his teeth, grips the knife tighter.

He's not going down. Not tonight.