Death is Near

The Orlov Strip Club pulsed with neon lights and deafening bass. A red haze filled the air, mixing with the scent of cheap perfume, sweat, and alcohol. Laughter echoed from the VIP booths, where Silas, a cocky bastard with a taste for luxury, enjoyed his night.

Five thugs pushed through the entrance, their boots heavy against the floor. The club girls turned, some flashing fake smiles, others stepping away, sensing the stench of arrogance and danger.

Silas smirked, leaning back in the plush booth, draping his arms over two dancers. His gold chains glimmered under the flickering lights as he tilted his whiskey glass, swirling the liquid inside.

SILAS (grinning)

"You girls ever been with a man worth more than your rent?"

The girls giggled, though their smiles were forced. But they had no idea what was about to happen.

Because death was near.

OUTSIDE THE CLUB – THE REAPER ARRIVES

Archer Creed stood in the cold, staring at the club's glowing entrance. His breath was slow, controlled. His blood still dried on his knuckles from the last fight. His father's revolver was inside. Silas had it. That was all that mattered.

With cold, calculated steps, he moved—not through the front, but the back.

Behind the club, a lone thug guard patrolled. He was half-focused, lazily dragging a cigarette to his lips.

Flick. The lighter sparked. The flame flickered.

Then—a hand clamped over his mouth.

The cigarette tumbled from his lips, his muffled scream lost in the darkness. Archer twisted the thug's head hard and fast. A sharp crack. The body dropped. The burning cigarette sizzled out on the pavement.

No hesitation. No remorse. Just another step forward.

Archer pressed against the metal back door, listening. Muffled bass rumbled through the walls. He reached into his coat and pulled out a blade.

A gun presses against a man's skull.

VYACHESLAV ENZO, the owner. Slick suit. Tired eyes. Hands raised, fingers twitching.

ENZO (calm, in Russian)

"Chego ty khochesh, tovarishch?"

(What do you want, comrade?)

ARCHER (cold, in Russian)

"Ya videl gruppu banditov, kotoryye zashli syuda. Kto oni?"

(I saw a group of thugs walk in. Who are they?)

ENZO (measured)

"Silas... i yego pyatero. No s nimi eshche tridtsat' chelovek."

(Silas... and his five. But there are thirty more with them.)

Archer lowers the gun. Steps back.

Enzo breathes. Turns slightly. Eyes shift.

A silent signal.

Outside the room, a guard listens. Hand on his radio.

A thug guard stands near a translucent mirror, arms lazily crossed. His attention is fixed on the girls in front of him, lost in their swaying movements. His grin widens… until—

SILENCED SHOT – FWIP!

Blood spatters across the mirror, a dark crimson stain creeping over the glass. The thug doesn't even get a chance to react.

From behind, Archer Creed lowers his silenced USP, his expression unreadable. He tilts his head slightly, watching as the thug slumps forward, dead before he hits the floor.

Dim lights flicker. The air is thick with cigarette smoke. A lone agent, dressed in a black suit, hears faint footsteps behind him—calm, calculated. His breathing quickens. His hand reaches for his gun, but—

A hand clamps over his mouth.

His eyes go wide. Cold steel presses against his ear. A blade—so sharp he can feel the edge whispering against his skin.

The knife sinks in—not deep enough to kill, just enough to make him crumble. He stumbles forward, clutching his ear, his body growing dull, weak from blood loss. He knows he's dying, just not when.

A thug, wearing only a boxer, steps out of a steam-filled room, rubbing his eyes. He halts. A body lies on the floor. His breath catches.

THUG

"What the hell..."

He turns to run—but wrong direction.

A suppressed shot—FWIP!

A perfect round buries into his skull. He drops instantly.

The thugs sense danger. Two guards move in, each gripping a pistol. They check corners, clearing rooms in sync.

GUARD 1

"On uzhe tut."

(He's already here.)

Footsteps echo. Then—a shadow moves.

BANG!

Archer drops down from above, landing between them. Before they react—

BANG! BANG!

Mozambique Drill—two to the chest, one to the head. First guard collapses instantly.

The second guard fires—misses.

BANG!

Archer redirects the gun, twisting the thug's wrist. A quick elbow snaps bone, forcing the pistol loose. In one fluid motion, Archer catches the falling gun, spins it, and—

BANG!

A single shot—straight between the eyes.

He ejects the empty mag, slots in a fresh one. [MAGAZINE CHANGE]

The gunfire reaches Silas. He sits in a private booth, a drink in hand. He smirks, unimpressed.

SILAS

"Odin chelovek ne mozhet ubit' 24 cheloveka v odinochku."

(One man can't kill 24 alone.)

He sips his drink—then hears the screaming.

Screams ripple through the club. Thugs scramble. Archer moves like a phantom, cutting through the guards with ruthless efficiency.

One thug fires wildly—

BANG! BANG! (13 rounds left)

Archer ducks, slides forward, fires twice—kneecap, throat.

Another thug rushes him with a crowbar—Archer sidesteps, redirects the swing into another thug's skull, then executes a brutal knee strike. The thug stumbles, Archer presses the barrel against his temple—

BANG! (12 rounds left)

He moves on. His movements are precise—never wasting bullets, never reloading prematurely.

Silas runs. Fast. He pushes past dancers, knocking over tables. But—

BANG! (11 rounds left)

A shot rings out. A bullet rips through his leg.

He collapses, crawling, dragging himself toward the exit. But Archer is already there.

Silas groans, clutching his bleeding leg as Archer looms over him, his USP aimed steady.

ARCHER CREED (cold, sharp)

"You stole my revolver."

Silas shivers, his breath ragged. Blood pools beneath him.

SILAS (desperate, gasping)

"In… in the safehouse… Nightshade… Nightshade Colony…"

Archer's grip tightens. His eyes, cold and unyielding, scan Silas for deception. He doesn't need to ask twice.

BANG! (10 rounds left)

A clean, final shot. Silas slumps, lifeless.

THE EXECUTION OF SIENNA

The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor echoes through the dimly lit hospital room. Pale fluorescent lights flicker slightly. Sienna lies in bed, her face bruised, arm in a cast, and bandages wrapped around her skull. The aftermath of her last encounter still lingers in her breath.

The door clicks open. Footsteps. Slow. Precise.

DRAY CASSIDY steps inside. Dressed in a sleek black suit, his presence carries the weight of finality. His cold, calculating eyes scan the room before settling on Sienna.

SIENNA (weakly, forcing a smirk)

"Didn't think you'd visit me in a place like this, Dray."

DRAY (calm, measured)

"I'm not here for a visit."

Sienna's smirk fades. She tries to sit up, but pain shoots through her ribs. Her breath hitches. She knows. Her hands grip the bedsheet, but there's nowhere to run.

SIENNA (desperate, whispering)

"I didn't break the rules... I—"

DRAY (interrupting, unfazed)

"Doesn't matter what you think. The verdict is in."

Silence. Heavy. Final.

Dray reaches inside his coat and retrieves a suppressed pistol—a sleek, compact instrument of execution. He takes a step closer, raising the barrel to her forehead. Sienna's breath quickens.

SIENNA (hoarse, barely audible)

"Please..."

A single thwip. The suppressed shot echoes softly in the sterile room.

Sienna's head jerks back slightly, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The beeping heart monitor lets out a long, continuous tone.

Dray exhales slowly, slipping the pistol back into his coat. He nods once to the NURSE standing quietly in the corner.

DRAY (flat, emotionless)

"Clean it up."

The nurse, unfazed, walks to the machine and turns it off. The room falls into absolute silence.

THE WALK OF THE DEAD

A cold morning. The streets are empty, except for one man—Archer Creed. His black suit is torn, soaked in blood, some his, most not. His steps are slow, precise, his body aching from the war he waged the night before.

As he approaches the Justice Holder's Hotel, the city's criminal elite and high-ranking enforcers gather inside, sipping expensive whiskey, discussing deals. The moment Archer steps in, silence takes over. Eyes lock onto him—some in awe, some in fear.

INSIDE THE JUSTICE HOLDER'S HOTEL

The golden chandeliers above cast a glow over the polished floors. Men in tailored suits pause mid-drink. Women in designer dresses stop their conversations. Archer, unfazed, continues his walk toward the reception desk, leaving faint drops of blood behind him.

A security guard shifts nervously, hand moving toward his holster. His colleague grabs his wrist—

"Don't."

Archer finally stops at the front desk. The receptionist, a well-dressed woman with sharp eyes, barely flinches.

RECEPTIONIST

"Mr. Creed… I assume you're here to return the suit?"

Archer says nothing. He unbuttons his blood-soaked signature black coat, shrugs it off, and tosses it onto the counter.

ARCHER CREED

"Clean it. Burn it. I don't care."

A tense beat. The receptionist nods and snaps her fingers. A bellboy hesitantly picks up the ruined suit, holding it away from his pristine uniform.

A group of men sitting in the lounge exchange whispers.

Man #1: "He just killed Viktor and over a hundred men."

Man #2: "And walked in here like it was a Sunday morning."

Man #3: "He's a dead man walking. You don't kill that many people and just… go home."

Archer turns slightly, giving them a sideways glance. The men immediately shut up.

THE SILENT JUDGMENT

A figure steps forward—Dray Cassidy, a high-ranking member of the Justice Holders. He studies Archer, then smirks.

DRAY CASSIDY

"Impressive. Thought you'd be in a body bag by now."

Archer stares at him, silent as ever. He turns to leave.

DRAY CASSIDY (MOCKING)

"No 'thank you' for the suit? No final words?"

Archer stops at the entrance, looking at his own bloodied reflection in the glass door. He exhales, then finally speaks—

ARCHER CREED

"I'll need another one soon."

Archer stands at the hotel entrance, his bloodied reflection staring back at him in the glass door. Behind him, whispers and murmurs fill the room. But one voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

DRAY CASSIDY

"Meet me by 6 PM."

Archer stops but doesn't turn around.

DRAY CASSIDY (CALM, BUT FIRM)

"We have something to discuss. The decision is on the way… though you'll need to use one suit."

A tense pause. Archer understands the weight behind those words. 'The decision'—it means judgment is coming. And 'one suit'—that means no room for mistakes, no second chances. Either he walks out of this alive or in a body bag.

He clenches his jaw slightly, eyes narrowing. He knew this would happen. He always knew. After all, you don't kill over a hundred men, wipe out a powerful figure like Viktor, and expect to walk away clean.

The Justice Holders are watching. And now, they are deciding.

Archer steps outside, the cold air biting against his skin. He exhales, watching his breath disappear into the morning fog. His mind sharpens, calculating.

What will happen at 6 PM?

Who will be waiting?

Is this a setup, an execution… or an opportunity?

One thing is clear— the hunt isn't over.

And with that, the meeting by 6 pm is on the way..... The next chapter awaits to see if he's also....