The body was still warm when Anderson got the call.
It came too early for accidents. Too early for coincidence. The name on the screen was not one he ignored, so he answered without greeting.
"It's bad."
Anderson said nothing.
"You need to come down here. Now."
The line went dead.
The street was quiet when he arrived. Empty in the way only certain streets were, the kind the city forgot unless something went wrong. A few flickering streetlights buzzed overhead, their glow reflecting off wet asphalt. He stepped out of the car and scanned without urgency. He already knew what he would find.
Blood first.
Too much of it.
It spread beneath the body in a dark uneven pool, soaking into cracks that had been there longer than either of them. The man was slumped against a brick wall layered in graffiti and old posters. His head lolled to one side at an angle that made the truth obvious.
One shot. Close range. Clean.
No struggle. No warning.
Anderson crouched. He did not touch the body. He did not need to. He recognized the work. This was not Nine. Nine punished publicly. Slowly. He made lessons out of men. This was fast. Surgical. Personal.
A message meant only for him.
The man's eyes were still open.
Anderson had known him for years. He was not loyal in the noble sense, but he showed up. He followed orders. He did not talk. That had always been enough.
Now he was dead because someone wanted Anderson to understand something.
Threatening Mia had been leverage. This was escalation.
This was Ren.
Behind him, one of his men shifted.
"You want us to do something?"
Anderson stayed crouched. His jaw tightened. He felt the familiar pressure in his chest, the same one that had not left since Molly died. The same quiet rage he had been drowning in bottles he no longer allowed himself to touch.
"No," he said.
He stood, pulled out his phone, and typed a message with steady hands.
We need to talk. Now.
He did not ask. He did not explain.
The reply came almost immediately. An address.
That confirmed it.
Anthony was already seated when Anderson arrived. Same booth. Same glass. Same posture that looked relaxed to anyone who did not know him. The bartender hovered nearby, but Anderson waved him away.
Anthony glanced up. His eyes flicked over Anderson once.
"You look like shit."
"He's dead," Anderson said.
Anthony swirled the ice in his glass. "I know."
The word landed wrong.
Anderson leaned forward slowly. "You knew before I got there."
Anthony did not deny it. He did not defend himself either. That was worse.
"You think I could stop her," Anthony said quietly.
Anderson studied him. The lack of surprise. The lack of anger. The calm acceptance. It told him everything.
"So you let it happen."
Anthony finally looked at him then. Really looked. "I did not stop it."
That was the truth. And the problem.
Anderson sat back. His hands were clenched beneath the table. "She killed one of my men."
Anthony nodded. "She wanted you to feel it."
Silence stretched between them.
Molly's face flashed uninvited in Anderson's mind. The hospital room. The stillness. The way Nine had handled it. An eye taken. A debt half paid. Mercy dressed as justice.
Ren had never accepted that.
"She is forcing your hand," Anthony continued. "And she is daring you to cross Nine."
Anderson stood.
Outside, the cold bit into his lungs. He stared out at the city. Somewhere out there was his sister, asleep and unaware that her life had just become a bargaining chip again.
He pulled his gun from his coat and checked the magazine. Full.
Not reassurance. Confirmation.
Behind him, Anthony stepped out, coffee in hand.
"Do not rush this," Anthony said. "You only get one move."
Anderson did not turn. "She already made hers."
Anthony watched him for a moment, then spoke softer. "You know what this turns into."
Anderson nodded. "Yeah."
War.
He walked away without another word.
The blood was already drying behind him.
Ren had crossed the line.
Now the ground was going to shift.