Rain hit the rusted steel like a funeral drum.
Each drop sizzled against warm brass shells scattered across the rooftop, steam curling into the gray twilight like smoke from a dying fire. The neon sign a floor below flickered on and off, its buzz half-drowned in the distant echo of sirens. "HOT WINGS & GIRLS," it read. A lie, now. The bar had been abandoned for months.
He crouched by a rusted generator, one knee buried in broken gravel, his breathing steady despite the bullet lodged in his thigh. A long-barreled marksman rifle rested in his hands, lovingly maintained, like a relic from another war. He adjusted the scope without blinking. Every movement was efficient—calculated.
Today was the day he died.
Not because he wanted to.
Because the world had finally run out of places for men like him to hide.
His name wasn't important anymore. Maybe it never was. Somewhere, on some black site's most-wanted list, he was still "GHOSTHAND"—a name whispered in mercenary circles, in hushed tones over burnt coffee and blood-soaked cash.
He'd fought in wars before anyone admitted they were happening. Coup in Caracas. Corporate genocide in the Congo. The Dubai Uprising. If it paid, he bled for it. But he'd always been smart enough to walk away when the job got too loud.
Until Lena.
Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Lena. Blonde hair like sunlight on bone. He remembered the first time he met her—patching his shoulder up in a moldy safehouse in Odessa. She'd smirked and called him "Old Man." He never corrected her.
They ran jobs together for six years. Laughed. Fought. Slept side-by-side in bunkers and bunk beds, through gunfire and grenades.
And when the bounty on him hit two million… she turned him in.
It had been clean. A single encrypted call. A confirmation ping. She never even faced him. He saw the record in a stolen database later—her voice, cool and calm, listing his last known location, his known safehouses, his habits.
He never blamed her.
That was the job.
Now he was down to his last few mags, a bag full of explosives, and a cracked blade he hadn't had time to fix. The building he holed up in was a condemned high-rise in the east end of D.C.—the kind of place even drug dealers skipped. The air stank of piss and mildew. Where even the rats wore Kevlar.
Below, boots hit concrete. The stairwell echoed with clipped commands and static whispers.
He raised the rifle.
The scope flickered green.
Four men. North stairwell. Pattern sweep. Tight formation.
Crack.
The lead man dropped before the others even noticed. His body slammed into the wall, blood painting a trail down the concrete.
The others scattered—too late. A second shot, lower, through the thigh of the second. Then the third turned and screamed—
—Crack.
Three down.
He rolled backward, ducking behind a stack of broken HVAC units as return fire ripped across the rooftop. Concrete shattered. Sparks flew. A bullet grazed his forearm, and he hissed, but didn't falter.
He pulled the rifle's bolt back with a smooth click and slung it across his shoulder.
Time for something louder.
He drew the matte-black combat shotgun from its sling and snapped it open. One in the chamber, one in ghost, six in the tube.
He starts making his way to the doorway down, peeping the entry with a piece of a broken mirror. Four more were coming up the stairs, and he had one hell of a welcoming for them. He kicked down the door and put the shotgun to the point man's chest.
Boom. One shot—clean. A man went flying backward. His spine hit the metal rail.
Boom. Boom. Two more, hitting center mass. Ripping through bone, flesh, and organs as blood sprayed.
The last one fell back and hit the stairs hard, rolling down them before stopping with a twitch, moaning. From the looks of it, a rookie, a young one at that. No more than 25 and could potentially have had a long fruitful life.
The mercenary stepped closer, boots wet with blood. The man's hands clutched his gut as he looked up at him trembling, eyes full of fear and pain as he started to realize the mistake he made, thinking he could get out of a fight with GHOSTHAND alive or unscathed.
He looked down at him, impassive. "You don't belong here."
Then he crushed the kids skull with the heel of his boot, picking up his com link and wiping off the blood. He puts it in getting an ear full of screaming commands and static.
"Still think I'm worth two million?" he said, voice low, rough like gravel soaked in whiskey.
A moment of silence.
Then: "It's not personal, you know."
Her voice.
Lena.
He paused, expression unreadable.
"I know," he replied, dropping the comm down the shaft. "Neither is this."
The building groaned under its own weight—an old industrial tenement half-gutted by time and bullets. Water dripped from exposed pipes overhead as he made his way through, the hallways stank of mildew and gunpowder, and somewhere deep inside, rotors buzzed.
Drones. Three of them.
He could hear them weaving through the structure—hunting. Precision killers, small enough to maneuver inside tight spaces, but lethal enough to clear entire safehouses.
He checked his weapons.
Shotgun: Five shells left.
Revolver: Nine rounds, three unchambered
Body: Bruised. Bleeding. Breathing heavy—but nothing broken. Yet.
Click-click-click.
The sound of the drones closing in.
He moved fast, hugging the walls, ducking through broken doorframes and weaving past overturned furniture. The glow of red optics flashed at the end of the hallway.
First drone. Close.
He dropped to one knee and let the shotgun bark.
BOOM.
The slug punched through drywall and tore straight into the drone's chassis, sending it tumbling back in a shower of sparks.
One down.
He moved again, fast and low. The second drone wheeled around a corner ahead and opened fire—smart rounds shredding the corridor.
He rolled into a side room, plaster dust raining down as bullets tore the air apart. He counted—three seconds of fire, one-second recharge. Standard model.
He slid across the floor and popped out on the other side.
BOOM.
Another shell, straight to the underbelly.
The drone jerked and crashed into a rusted filing cabinet, twitching.
Two down.
The last drone zipped in from above—smarter, faster. It hovered near the ceiling, trying to outmaneuver him.
He dropped the shotgun—no time.
Drew the revolver.
Bang. Miss.
Bang. Glance.
Bang.
The third shot clipped the rotor.
The drone dipped just low enough for him to lunge forward, grab it mid-air, and slam it against the concrete wall, once, twice, until the core cracked.
He exhaled, backing away from the wreckage, heart pounding, lungs aching. But he was still standing. Still sharp. He quickly reloaded the last three rounds he had.
And then the wall at the far end of the hallway exploded outward.
Brick and dust erupted as a figure stepped through like a walking apocalypse.
The brute.
Eight feet of engineered muscle packed into black tactical plating. Masked. Eyes glowing blue. Government insignia etched on its shoulder like a mockery of justice.
The brute moved fast—too fast.
A blur of motion, baton sweeping.
He ducked low, but the follow-up kick caught him in the ribs and launched him through a doorway.
He landed hard, coughing, but didn't hesitate. He rolled behind a heavy desk and waited.
Heavy footsteps. Getting closer.
He popped up and fired.
BOOM.
Direct hit to the chest plate. The brute staggered but kept coming.
He dodged right, slid across the floor, and took cover behind a shattered support beam.
The brute tore through it like paper.
He switched back to the revolver.
Bang. Shoulder hit—no effect.
Bang. Knee—minor stagger.
The brute reached out, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him into the wall.
Vision swam. But this was familiar. He'd taken worse.
He grunted and jammed the barrel of the revolver beneath the brute's arm plate—the joint.
Bang.
The arm jerked back, sparking.
He dropped, grabbed his shotgun and spun.
The brute turned too late.
He fired point-blank into the brute's helmet.
The blast knocked the brute back, staggering it—but not down.
The mercenary reached into his coat and pulled a flash-flare—not lethal, but meant to disorient. He clicked the cap, tossed it at the brute's feet, and turned his head.
FWASH.
Blinding white filled the room.
The brute roared, blinded, stumbling backward through a support column.
That was his chance.
He shouldered the shotgun, even though it was empty, and charged.
Full-body tackle.
The brute went down with a metallic crash, and before it could recover, he'd drawn the revolver again and emptied the last three rounds into its exposed side joint.
This time, it stayed down—shuddering, twitching, then still.
He stood over it, blood in his mouth, lungs burning, sweat pouring from his brow.
But alive.
Still alive.
Then he heard it—boots. Fast. Disciplined.
A full fireteam. Six men.
Closing in from the stairwell below.
"Of course they sent more," he muttered.
His shotgun was dry. Revolver empty.
But the brute's gear?
He dropped to one knee and yanked free the shock baton, sparking faintly but still usable. Then he pulled the brute's compact SMG from its back holster, checking the mag—18 rounds.
It would do.
He didn't wait for them to find him. He moved.
The soldiers breached the second floor in two squads—three clearing left, three to the right, communicating with clipped radio bursts.
The lead saw movement—too late.
He was already behind them.
He jammed the baton into the rear guard's neck, sending crackling electricity through his spine. The man seized, dropped.
The others turned—too slow.
Tat-tat-tat.
The SMG barked. The second soldier dropped with a ruined knee, screaming.
He lunged at the third, kicked the rifle out of his hands, and slammed the butt of the SMG into his helmet until it cracked.
Three down.
The other half of the team came rushing in, tactical and fast. One of them fired—
Crack!
A bullet grazed his arm. Pain flared, but he didn't stop. He threw the empty SMG at the shooter's face, then dove low, grabbing the fallen rifle at his feet.
He rolled, came up firing.
Crack-crack-crack.
Two more soldiers fell in the hallway.
The last one—a squad leader, from the way he barked orders and moved like a predator—dropped low and lobbed a gas canister down the corridor.
Smoke exploded outward, thick and blinding.
But he'd already memorized the floor plan.
He moved around through a side room, flanked left, and came in behind the last soldier.
The man turned, saw the flash of movement—too late.
He ripped the combat knife from the dead brute's gear and drove it between the soldier's ribs, then yanked the rifle free as he fell.
Silence returned. Heavy. Final.
He stood amidst the bodies, chest heaving, one hand slick with blood. His coat was torn. His arm burned. But his eyes were sharp. Alive.
He scavenged two rifles, a fresh sidearm, and a grenade belt. Enough for one more war.
He moved on—deeper into the building, toward whatever came next.
And behind him, the bodies cooled.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time blurred. He bled from several different places. His left eye swelled shut. His breath came in wet rasps.
But he walked.
He climbed the stairs again. Back to the rooftop. Back to the sunset.
The sky had turned molten gold, the clouds softening from gray to fire-orange. Rain still fell, light now. Gentle.
His last rifle was empty.
His knife—lost.
He had nothing left but his name, and even that felt like a ghost.
The chopper approached—sleek, black, unmarked. Silent as a whisper.
Figures stood along the adjacent rooftops, rifles raised.
He walked to the edge, arms spread.
The wind caught his coat.
"Go ahead," he rasped. "Take the shot."
He looked across at a single sniper on the opposite roof as a flash of that unforgettable blond hair glistened, she was here and she planned to end him.
A breath.
A single gunshot.
The bullet shattered his chest, tearing through muscle and bone. Blood sprayed into the cold rain, his vision darkening as the rooftop swayed beneath his boots. He felt the wet slap of his own blood on his tongue, the bitter taste of iron and smoke.
Then… nothing.
No pain. No ground beneath his feet. Just a deep, echoing silence, heavier than any grave.
He opened his eyes—or thought he did—and found himself suspended in a vast, endless expanse. There was no up or down, no sky or ground, just an infinite stretch of gray mist, broken only by the distant flicker of green fire.
He blinked, his pulse racing, but his body felt… different. Younger. Stronger. He raised his hands and flexed his fingers, half expecting to see the familiar scars, the rough, calloused skin. But they were smooth, powerful, unblemished.
A sound broke the silence—a low, rumbling hum, like the grinding of stone against bone.
He turned, muscles tensed, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.
Then he saw it.
A figure, tall and thin, wrapped in a shroud of blackened, smoke-like tendrils that twisted and coiled around it like the limbs of a dying tree. Its face was hidden behind a mask of polished, cracked obsidian, the fractures glowing with a sickly, pulsing green light.
It stepped closer, each movement slow and deliberate, the darkness around it rippling with each stride. It carried something—a large, leather-bound tome, its cover cracked and charred, the pages faintly steaming, as if still cooling from some ancient fire.
"Welcome, wanderer," it said, its voice a low, layered growl, like the echo of a hundred whispered threats. "You stand in Purgatory, the space between life and eternity."
He straightened, squaring his shoulders, teeth grinding as he forced his mind to catch up with his surroundings. "Purgatory?" he growled. "So I'm dead."
The figure paused, the mist swirling around its feet, the green cracks in its mask flaring brighter for a moment.
"In a sense," it replied. "But not yet gone. Your soul lingered—unwilling to pass on, unfit for judgment. You have been… chosen."
He felt his jaw clench, muscles coiling like steel cables. "Chosen for what?"
The figure tilted its head, the crack in its mask spreading, like the first fracture in a frozen lake. "For a second chance. A new world. A new life. But first, you must choose your form—your purpose."
It extended a long, skeletal hand, and the book in its grasp creaked open, the pages rustling as if stirred by a phantom wind. Symbols and sigils crawled across the parchment, each one burning with a faint, unearthly light.
He took a step back, eyes narrowing as he studied the book. Its pages were filled with words he couldn't read, languages that twisted and burned against his mind, each one dripping with power, madness, and promise.
The figure raised its free hand, and the pages flipped faster, the whispers of a thousand forgotten tongues rising around him, filling the air with a chaotic, maddening chorus.
Finally, the pages stilled, and his eyes locked onto a single entry, the letters sharp and jagged, each stroke of ink dripping with malice.
"The Sin of Wrath."
The words struck something deep in his chest, a spark of rage, a memory of blood and betrayal. He reached out, hand hovering over the page, the pulsing green light casting long, jagged shadows across his face.
"Wrath…" he whispered, feeling the word resonate through his bones, his muscles, his very soul. "What does it do?"
The figure leaned closer, the green light from its mask casting a twisted glow across the pages. "Regeneration. No limits. The more you bleed, the stronger you become. Pain is power. Suffering is strength."
He felt a slow, wicked smile spread across his lips.
"I'll take it."
The figure's head snapped back, the cracks in its mask splitting wider, green fire spilling from the gaps like the breath of a waking dragon.
"Chosen."
The book slammed shut, the sound like a thunderclap, and the air around him erupted in green fire, the mist boiling away, the darkness splitting into a thousand shards of shattered glass.
Agony ripped through his chest, a searing, white-hot pain that burned through flesh and bone, down to his very soul. He staggered, teeth grinding, fists clenched, but he did not scream.
When the pain finally faded, he looked down and saw it—a brand, burned into his flesh, just above his heart, the twisted, jagged mark of Wrath.
He straightened, chest heaving, the faint scent of smoke and blood clinging to his skin. He met the figure's hollow, burning gaze, his own eyes blazing with the first flickers of his new power.
"And the other two?" the figure whispered, its voice a low, shuddering echo, like the last breath of a dying god.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the raw, untamed strength coiling beneath his skin, the fire in his blood, the hunger in his bones.
"I'm saving them," he growled, teeth bared. "I'll need them later."
The figure's mask twisted, the crack spreading wider, green fire spilling from its mouth.
"Very well, Wrathborn. You will be cast into the world below—a fallen angel with blackened wings and a soul bound by fury. May your rage shake the heavens and your wrath carve your name into the bones of empires."
The darkness around him shattered, the green veins bursting into blinding, radiant fire.
And then he fell—through the void, through burning stars, through the shattered bones of dead gods—
—into life.