Death Whispers In The Alley

Dre's knuckles were still raw from punching Rex in the last fight. The blood had dried, crusted under his fingernails like war paint. He didn't wipe it off. Let the world see what his hands had done.

The streets hadn't gone quiet—not really. They were tense, holding their breath like a smoker hiding from the cops. Word was already spreading. Rex survived, but barely. Dre was back. And he wasn't moving like a man looking for peace.

Ghost limped beside him, one leg stiff from the shootout, but his eyes still sharp. His rifle bounced gently against his back with every step, as if waiting to bite again.

"We're low on ammo," Ghost said.

Dre didn't respond. His eyes were locked on the cracked pavement ahead.

They were moving toward Crater Lane—the kind of street even demons crossed themselves before entering. Tomi had hacked one of Rex's runners. Location drop. 3:00 a.m. A warehouse in the middle of nowhere. No cameras. No markings. Perfect for an ambush or a massacre.

Dre wasn't wearing armor. He didn't care.

"I want them both," he said finally, voice flat like a dead man's whisper. "Elric. Rex. No more warnings."

"You know it's a trap," Ghost said.

"I hope it is."

The way Dre said it made Ghost stop talking.

A fog drifted in from the gutters. The kind that hides blood until it dries. The kind that remembers screams.

They turned a corner and found a man slumped against a fence. Neck broken. Eyes wide open. His pockets had been turned inside out, but whoever killed him hadn't taken his watch. It was still ticking.

Dre knelt beside the body and stared.

"That's one of Rex's couriers," Ghost muttered. "Someone's cleaning house."

Dre stood up slowly. "Then we hit the heart before they finish sweeping."

The two moved in silence.

As they approached the warehouse district, a low humming started in the distance. Not engines. Not machines. Just this low, vibrating sound like the city itself was grinding its teeth.

They ducked into an alley, stepped over broken glass, and paused.

Footsteps.

Two of them.

Dre raised his hand and motioned Ghost to stay low. Without a word, Dre melted into the shadows like he'd been born in them.

A whisper. A sharp sound.

Then silence.

Ghost moved forward and found Dre standing over a man holding his throat.

"Talk," Dre said. "You work for Elric?"

"I'm just a runner," the man coughed. "I carry messages. That's it!"

"Then carry this," Dre said, pressing the barrel of his pistol to the guy's temple. "Tell Elric that Dre's coming. No shadows. No mercy. And the next person I send this message through won't have a throat."

He stepped back. The man ran like death was chewing at his heels.

Ghost raised an eyebrow. "That's twice now. You going soft?"

Dre holstered the gun. "I'm not saving him. I'm sending him."

They moved again.

The warehouse was ugly. Old tin roof, rusted gates, shattered lights swinging in the wind like broken limbs. No guards. That's what bothered Dre the most. Rex never left himself exposed. Elric never showed up without bodybags prepped.

Something was off.

"Flank right," Dre said. "I go loud."

Ghost nodded and vanished into the shadows.

Dre walked straight through the front gate.

No hesitation.

The door creaked like it was crying.

Inside, pitch black.

Until a spotlight hit his face.

"You've grown reckless," a voice echoed.

Elric.

His voice was still smooth. Too calm. Like he wasn't standing ten feet from death.

Dre squinted. Elric stood at the far end, arms folded, smirking. And next to him?

Rex.

The bastard was still alive, patched up, one arm in a sling. His grin was wide and wicked.

"Dre," Rex said. "Back so soon? Didn't we already bury this beef?"

Dre said nothing. Just raised his gun and fired.

Twice.

They dove for cover. Return fire exploded around him like fireworks on demon night.

Ghost dropped in from above, glass shattering as he landed on a crate and fired. One of Rex's hidden shooters dropped with a scream.

Chaos erupted.

The warehouse lit up with gunfire and smoke. Wood splinters flew. Crates burst apart. Dre rolled behind a steel beam, reloaded, and threw a flashbang over the crates.

The explosion of light blinded half the room.

He charged.

Ghost covered him with clean shots, taking down another man with surgical aim.

Elric screamed something in another language and bolted through a hidden door.

Coward.

But Rex?

He stood his ground.

When Dre saw him pull off his sling, toss the rifle, and raise his fists, he knew this was personal.

"You ready?" Rex asked, spitting blood. "Let's finish this."

"No guns?" Dre asked.

"I want your blood on my hands."

Dre smiled. "Same."

They clashed.

Not like fighters.

Like killers.

No form. No technique. Just rage and memory.

Every punch Dre threw was for a body. For his mother. For the street kids buried nameless. For Miracle.

Rex fought like a man who'd ruled too long and wasn't ready to give up the throne.

But thrones weren't made for men like Dre.

Rex's punches slowed. His breath came shallow.

Dre didn't stop.

He broke a rib.

Then another.

Finally, Rex collapsed. Breathing. Barely.

Dre stood over him. Gun out again.

"You done?" Rex coughed.

"No."

He pulled the trigger.

And that was it.

No speech.

No last words.

Just silence.

Ghost stepped forward. "Elric got away."

Dre looked at the body.

"One down," he said.

Then he turned to face the next war.