Chapter 12: Identity Is What You Make It

The night had sunk its claws into East London, and the cityscape dimmed into a sea of shadowed bricks, crooked chimneys, and whispering alleyways. The streets were slick with damp, and above them, the crescent moon glared like a sickle. It was nearly eight o'clock.

Lorian left Jack downstairs with strict orders to wait and keep watch, then ascended to the second floor of the building at 1145 Hammer Street—headquarters of the so-called "Corey Brotherhood," an up-and-coming gang whose appetite for expansion bordered on suicidal.

The floorboards creaked beneath his boots. No one stopped him. No guards, no shouts—just a lazy silence and the occasional whisper of jazz leaking through a cracked door. Apparently, these thugs thought themselves untouchable. Bold of them.

He moved with purpose, scanning room numbers until he found the one that matched the barkeep's intel: Room 265. The door was barely ajar.

Without hesitation, Lorian stepped forward and kicked it in.

BANG!

The door slammed against the wall, drawing a startled shout from within. A man scrambled to his feet, bald and heavyset, dressed in a crisp black suit that was too clean for a man so dirty.

Olan Smith. Senior enforcer. Eighty-pound bounty on his head, dead or alive.

Smith's eyes widened in panic. He lunged for a revolver sitting on the desk.

CRACK.

A bullet smashed into the table's edge, flinging the revolver out of reach. Lorian stepped into the room, his new Dragon Cavalry revolver steady in his grip.

"You've got three seconds to convince me not to shoot again," Lorian said calmly.

Smith held up his hands slowly, eyes flicking between the gun and Lorian's face. "Listen—I don't know who you are, but I'm guessing we've never had any issues, right?"

"You're right. You've done nothing to me personally," Lorian said, pulling a crumpled newspaper from his coat pocket and tapping the bounty section. "But the people you've tortured, robbed, and sold down the river? That's a different story."

Smith saw his picture beneath the words "WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE." His jaw clenched. "So you're a bounty hunter. Fine. I'll double it—hell, five times the bounty. Eighty pounds? I'll give you four hundred and walk away. No one needs to know."

Lorian smirked. "See, here's the problem. If I kill you, I get the money and everything in your pockets. Dead men don't negotiate."

Smith cursed under his breath. He dived behind the desk, blood spraying from his thigh as Lorian's second shot grazed him. He hit the ground hard, clutching the revolver, and opened fire wildly.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Lorian ducked behind the doorframe, calculating each movement. Smith made a run for the window, limping hard, trying to escape. But the moment he passed into Lorian's line of sight again—

CRACK.

One clean shot to the back.

Smith screamed, collapsed, and lay twitching. Lorian approached cautiously, fired twice more into the body for good measure, then stood over the corpse.

A familiar pulse stirred inside him—a low, inhuman whisper rippling through the air, reaching out from his bloodstream toward the body.

But the man's soul, such as it was, offered no resistance and no potential. Shallow hatred. No depth. No fire.

"You're not worth it," Lorian muttered, shutting off the connection. Not everyone deserved a second chance—especially not filth like this.

He worked quickly, rifling through drawers and coat pockets. Fifty-eight pounds in crumpled notes, a locked ledger, and several sticks of chewing tobacco. He pocketed everything.

Dragging a heavy burlap sack from the corner, he stuffed the corpse inside, tying it off with rope before slinging it over his shoulder like old laundry.

He stepped out of Room 265—only to be greeted by two Corey men charging up the stairs.

"Hey! Drop it!" one shouted, reaching for his belt.

BANG. BANG.

Two shots. Two thuds. Lorian stepped over the bodies without slowing down.

Downstairs, the bar was empty now except for the nervous bartender and his assistant. Jack was waiting at the exit, silent and alert.

"That it?" Jack asked.

"That's it," Lorian said, dropping the sack with a wet thump.

The bartender glanced at the sack. He knew what it was—he just didn't want to say it. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. "You... want me to clean up?"

Lorian raised a brow. "Clean? No. But I do want something."

The bartender stiffened. "Yes, sir?"

"I want a list. Every name in the area. High-ranking gang members, wanted criminals. Prioritize the ones with bounties. You get me?"

The bartender swallowed. "I—I can do that. Might take a day or two."

"You've got one."

"Yes, sir."

"And one more thing," Lorian added as he turned to go. "If anyone asks who did this..."

He paused, casting a shadow across the bar.

"...Tell them 'J' did."

"J... as in...?"

"Just 'J.' An enthusiastic bounty hunter with a hobby."

And with that, Lorian pushed open the door and stepped into the night. Jack followed, the corpse still slung over his shoulder.

Outside, the London fog had thickened. Gaslights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. It was now 8:21 p.m.

The night was just beginning.