Lance's apartment hadn't changed much.
Same cracked walls. Same half-broken blinds letting in the neon glow from the streets below. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the faint trace of cigarette smoke.
"Sit," Lance said, nodding toward the couch as he tossed his leather jacket on a chair.
I sat, but I couldn't relax. My mind was racing. Three days. Three damn days I was dead. And the world had moved on without me.
Lance disappeared into the tiny kitchen, returning with two beers. He popped one open and handed it to me.
"Start talking," he said, dropping into the armchair across from me. "What the hell happened to you, Leon?"
I took a long sip, the cold bitterness grounding me for a moment.
"I don't know," I admitted. "One minute I was bleeding out in an alley, the next… I woke up in a morgue with a damn System in my head."
"System?" Lance raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah. Some kind of… interface. It gives me abilities. I took one from a dead guy. Ghost Step. I can move short distances in a blink."
Lance let out a low whistle. "So, you're telling me you died, came back with powers, and now you're stealing abilities from corpses?"
"That's the gist of it."
Lance took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. "Shit, man. You always had a knack for getting into trouble, but this… this is next-level."
I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. "I need to know what happened after I died, Lance. What happened to Black Sun?"
Lance's expression darkened.
"That's the part you're not gonna like," he muttered.
"After you went down, everything fell apart," Lance said, his tone grim.
"How?"
"The job was a setup, Leon. Someone sold us out. You weren't the only one who got hit that night."
My jaw clenched. "Who else?"
"Rico's dead. Mia disappeared—no one's seen her since. And Damien… he's locked up in some underground cell. The boss?" Lance's eyes hardened. "He's gone. Victor Reyes took over."
My stomach dropped.
"Victor?" I hissed.
"Yeah. Bloodhound himself," Lance said bitterly. "He swept in right after the job went south. Took over what was left of Black Sun. Now? He's running things with an iron fist."
Victor Reyes. I knew that name all too well.
A ruthless tracker. An Awakened with a deadly gift—Sanguine Tracker. He could track anyone through their blood and manipulate his own blood to create deadly weapons.
Victor was efficient. Merciless. And he never left a job unfinished.
"Why would he take over?" I muttered. "He hated Black Sun. Always thought we were small-time."
Lance shrugged. "Power vacuum. Black Sun was weak after your death. He saw an opportunity and took it. Now he's using it to expand his own empire."
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of it all.
Victor had been a freelancer—one of the best trackers in the city. But he never played by the rules. He didn't follow orders. He made his own.
And now he was running what was left of the crew I called family.
"Where is he now?" I asked, my voice colder than I intended.
Lance hesitated.
"Leon…"
"Where. Is. He?"
Lance sighed. "He's set up shop in the old steel mill. Uses it as his base now. But listen, man—going after him isn't smart. He's got half the city under his thumb."
"Good," I muttered, standing up. "Then he won't be hard to find."
"Leon," Lance said, his tone warning. "You're not the same guy who used to run with Black Sun. You've been dead for three days. And Victor? He's not playing games anymore."
"I know," I said quietly.
And that's exactly why I had to do this.
Lance followed me to the door, but before I could step out, he grabbed my arm.
"Wait," he said. "You're not going after him empty-handed, are you?"
I glanced at him.
"You got something better?"
Lance's lips curled into a grim smile. "Always."
The old steel mill looked exactly how I remembered it—cold, rusted, and dead. But tonight, it was alive with activity. Men patrolled the perimeter, their movements sharp, disciplined.
Victor's men.
I stayed in the shadows, my senses sharp. Ghost Step hummed in my veins, ready to be used at a moment's notice.
Then I saw him.
Victor Reyes.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a sleek black suit that looked out of place in this industrial graveyard. His face was hard, angular, with eyes like a predator's—cold and calculating. His left hand casually twirled a knife, the blade shimmering with a faint red glow.
Blood. His own.
He was using it to coat the blade, ready to turn it into a weapon at any moment.
> [Warning: Hostile Awakened Detected.]
"Bring him out," Victor said, his voice carrying across the mill.
Two of his men dragged someone forward—a bruised, bloodied figure.
Damien.
I felt my blood run cold.
"Damien…" I whispered.
Victor crouched in front of Damien, his knife twirling lazily. "You're tougher than I thought," he murmured. "But everyone breaks eventually."
I clenched my fists, rage bubbling under my skin.
This was no longer about revenge.
This was a war.
To be continued...