Failure is not an option

Chapter - 2

Meanwhile, on the other side, the search continued around the warehouse. There was no sign of the storm getting weaker anytime soon, the rain continued to pour in thick. 

Because of the continuous downpour, the ground was now washed clean. It was as if the nature itself was trying its best to erase everything that could allow the men to chase the wounded man - the footprints in the mud, the trails of blood, or any desperate sign of the man's futile struggle.

At the center of all the wreckage, Scar-faced man stood still with a grim expression on his face, his fingers curling and uncurling around the handle of his revolver. 

"Where the fuck is that son of a bitch?" With his jaw clenched tightly, his sharp eyes scanned the darkness, searching, waiting, and seething in anger. 

"You fucking imbeciles. Can't even find a man," Scar-faced man's patience was slipping. That man should have been here. Wounded, desperate, struggling to breathe. Yet somehow, he had vanished, "He is wounded, yet he managed to slip through your fingers."

"You impotent bastards," With a low, growling voice, Scar-face continued, "How hard can it be to find a man? He is a fucking dead man for god's sake."

Hearing Scar-face, the men surrounding him stiffened. They took a step back under the piercing gaze of Scar-face. No one wanted to answer Scar-face. No one wanted to be the first to say what they were all thinking. So they all looked at each other, pushing one another to speak.

Finally, one of them swallowed and dared to speak. "Boss… it's too dark. And the storm is getting worse. We can't track him like this." His voice was hesitant, cautious, as if afraid his own words might get him killed.

The leader's head snapped toward him, his piercing gaze locking onto the speaker like a knife to the throat. His scarred face twisted in fury, his grip on the revolver tightening.

"Shut the fuck up," Scar-face spat, his voice bonechillingly loud. The words cut through the storm like a blade. "We can't go back empty-handed. Do you think that guy will just pat our backs for job well done at screwing up?"

The man who had spoken flinched. He didn't need to be told twice. They all knew him. That guy was ruthless. And ruthlessly unforgiving. If they returned without that man's head, there would be consequences—painful, bloody consequences.

As Scar-face looked around at the fallen faces of his men, he took a slow, deep breath, trying to rein in his anger, but the frustration still boiled beneath the surface. 

His sharp eyes flickered toward the area, searching one last time. His gut told him something was off, something was just not right. There was no way a half-dead man would disappear just like that.

The bastard was injured. Bleeding… Weak… And on the verge of dying. He shouldn't, more like he couldn't have made it far.

And yet, he was gone.

Scar-face clenched his fists tightly, his nails digging into his palm. He wanted to keep looking for that bastard. He wanted to finish this hunt tonight. But the storm was relentless, drowning every sound, every track, every lead that led to his target.

And by now he had run out of options.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, he made his decision.

"Fine," he muttered under his breath, giving up. He turned towards his men, his expression cold and unforgiving. "We leave. For now."

"But we are not done. This is far from over. We will find him—today, tomorrow, or however long it takes. And when we do..." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "We will end that Draugr."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the waiting vehicles.

And one by one, his men followed behind as well. They climbed into their black SUVs, slamming the doors shut. The deep growl of engines filled the air, headlights cutting through the rain. And then, with a roar, the convoy sped off, disappearing from the sight, swallowed by the night.

And the storm raged on.

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The black SUVs soon came to a screeching halt in front of a massive skyscraper. Its smooth, reflective mirrors loomed over the city. Neon signs across the street flickered erratically, their glow reflected by the skyscraper and the wet pavement.

The city was alive, yet indifferent. People hurried along their way gripping their umbrellas tightly and heads lowered against the cold wind and the rain which had died down by now. But all of them seemed oblivious to the den of death they were walking by. If only they knew.

The car doors swung open simultaneously, and one by one, the men stepped out, their heavy boots slamming onto the road. 

They didn't care about the drizzle falling on their face, but none of them flinched. Their faces showed no emotion, their eyes looking in front sharply. The slight rain was nothing compared to what awaited them inside the building.

With hesitation, they waited for Scar-face to take the lead. He was the one in charge of the hunt. So he was the one going to face the brunt of whatever That Man was going to do to them. 

"Whatever happens, just let me handle it," Scar-face said as he stepped forward and entered the building followed by half a dozen or so men with him.

As soon as they stepped inside, the world changed.

The storm and chaos outside were locked behind thick, soundproof glass doors. Inside, everything was different. The air was warm, filled with the thick scent of expensive cologne and polished leather. 

A slow, smooth jazz tune played softly filling the luxurious lobby with an air of effortless sophistication. The world inside and outside the building was heavens and earth apart.

The floor beneath them was polished marble, so pristine that their own reflections stared back at them. But it was all distorted by the puddles of water forming beneath their dripping clothes. 

Overhead, a massive golden chandelier bathed the space in a warm, almost deceiving glow, casting gentle light across the high ceiling.

But despite the elegance, the comforting music, the soothing smell, the wealth dripping from every inch of this place, the men felt no comfort in their hearts.

They didn't stop at the front desk. They didn't even acknowledge the well-dressed receptionist who dared not ask questions. Those at the desk did not even dare stop the men walking with a steady pace. They knew where they were going.

Straight to the top.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a mirrored interior with plush carpeting. 

Without a word, all of them stepped inside, cramming into the small space one after the other, as their drenched coats left dark stains against the fabric.

And the doors closed.

Soon, the elevator ascended and with every floor they moved up, the tension inside the elevator thickened. 

None of them spoke a word, but each of them could sense the fear bubbling inside of them and suffocating. None of them knew what was waiting for them at the top. But they all knew one thing, for that man, failure was never an option.

As the numbers on the panel climbed higher, beads of sweat mixed with rain formed on each one of their foreheads, but they didn't dare wipe it away.

Finally, the elevator came to a stop.

With a soft chime, the doors slid open, and at once, they were met with a thick wave of cigar smoke. 

It curled through the air like a living thing, carrying with it the scent of burnt tobacco, aged whiskey, and something else. Something heavier. Something that smelled like power.

The room before them was vast, yet somehow for those men, it was suffocating. They found it hard to breathe.

The lighting in the room was dim, casting long and pitch dark shadows that stretched across the floor like reaching hands. The walls were lined with dark leather couches, their surfaces barely visible beneath the thick haze of smoke. Paintings hung on the walls and no matter how many times they looked at them, they found it strangely unsettling, as if they were watching their every move.

At the center of the room sat a massive oak table. Around which, men lounged in deep leather chairs, their faces obscured by shadows, their presence alone was enough to make lesser men tremble. 

These were the rulers of the underworld. The kings of the dead.

And at the head of the table, in the largest chair, he sat, The Man.

No one dared to say his full name aloud. To do so was to invite upon themselves the death itself.

His presence alone made the air heavier, as if the room itself bent under the weight of his existence. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching the men step forward with cold, unreadable eyes.

They had come to report.

And they had come to beg for mercy.

Because they had failed.

And failure… was never forgiven by The Man.

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