The warehouse was quiet, too quiet.
Evan crouched on the rooftop across the street, his breath forming soft clouds in the night air. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the rusted metal doors below. No guards. No lights. Not even a single surveillance camera. Either someone wanted this place to look abandoned, or they thought they were untouchable.
He cracked his neck.
Fine by him.
Evan jumped down, the soles of his boots landing in a silent crouch. His coat flared slightly as he moved through the alleyway, every step calculated, every sense alert.
This wasn't just about vengeance anymore. It was about unraveling the web — thread by bloody thread.
He touched the sigil burned into his palm, a remnant of the other world. A pulse of warmth answered.
The magic was still alive inside him. Dormant, but potent. If needed, he could burn this entire street to ashes.
But not yet. He wanted answers.
The metal door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside: dust, crates, shadows.
He moved like a phantom through the maze of forgotten storage, his eyes adjusting fast.
Then he saw them — five men in suits, sitting around a poker table. Whiskey, cigars, stacks of bills. All laughing like the world didn't matter.
They didn't notice him. Not until the air changed.
Not until the chill rolled in like death.
Not until Evan stepped into the light.
"Evening," he said, his voice low and cold.
The laughter stopped. One of them reached for his waist — a gun, probably. Dumb move.
Evan moved faster than thought.
In one fluid motion, he was across the room, his hand driving into the man's throat and slamming him into the concrete wall.
Bones shattered.
The others scrambled to their feet.
"Who the fuck—?!"
"Crowe?!"
Evan's smile was the kind you see in nightmares — slow, cruel, sharp.
"I want answers," he said. "About Arden Pharmaceuticals. About Project Latchkey. And about who ordered the purge."
One man, a rat-faced bastard with slicked-back hair, raised his hands. "I-I don't know anything! I swear!"
Evan grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it into the floor.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"I wasn't asking if you knew," Evan said. "I'm telling you to remember."
The man whimpered.
Another guy — younger, dumber — pulled a switchblade and charged.
Evan barely twitched.
His hand shot out, fingers glowing faintly with mana. He grabbed the kid's face mid-swing and whispered an incantation.
The boy screamed as his skin blackened, steam rising from his eyes.
He dropped like a bag of meat.
The room fell silent again.
Rat-face was crying.
"I-I can get you files! Names! Just—don't kill me, please!"
Evan leaned in close. "Talk."
And the man did.
Every word was like a nail driven into Evan's bones. Secret projects. Human testing. Cover-ups. And behind it all — someone called The Oracle.
A name that wasn't just whispered, but revered.
Evan took it all in. Didn't flinch.
When the man finished, Evan stood up straight.
Then he stabbed him through the chest.
No second chances.
He left the warehouse burning.
Let the city wake up to smoke and screams. Let the bastards who ran this system piss themselves knowing he was back — and he remembered everything.
He walked into the night as the fire crackled behind him.
The world had forgotten who Evan Crowe was.
He'd remind them, one corpse at a time.
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