If there was one thing Ryan hadn't accounted for, it was just how dark small towns could become after sunset. Beyond the occasional flicker of a weary streetlamp, the world had fallen into pitch. The shadows seemed to stretch endlessly, swallowing the tree line like a living thing. The wind threaded through the pines, whispering through the needles, bending brittle branches with eerie creaks.
His Mustang sat parked alone in a crumbling lot at the town's edge, beside what might've once been an inn. Its windows were now boarded up. Some half-hanging from rusted nails while vines clawed at its paint-flaked walls. The only illumination came from a single leaning lamp post, casting a sickly amber glow that flickered above a few stubborn moths.
From the driver's side, a trail of smoke drifted into the air, curling from the tip of Ryan's cigarette. He sat with one hand dangling out the window, the mountain chill stinging his fingers and lungs as he took another slow drag. His eyes narrowed, lost in thought.
Rathbone Manor. Nelson. Swanson. The missing children. The factory. All of it played in his mind like a puzzle missing half its pieces. He took another puff, the cigarette crackling softly as it burned down to ash. Something didn't add up. Too many coincidences. Too many vague answers. But the one question that gnawed at him more than the rest was why.
Why muggle children?
Not muggle-borns. Not wizarding blood. Just ordinary kids, plucked from ordinary homes. If it was to avoid suspicion, that only raised more. Human trafficking didn't fit the profile. Wizarding folk had no market for it, and certainly no use for children they couldn't control. Labor? Maybe. But there were far easier places for that. Cheaper, too. War-torn countries, refugee zones. Places where kids vanished without anyone noticing. They didn't need Dementors for that. Just coin.
But here?
Here, they were using creatures bred from nightmares to do their bidding. If that didn't make Ryan's skin crawl, nothing did.
Whatever this was, it wasn't about profit.
It was something darker. Something worse.
A chime drew Ryan's attention to the dashboard screen. The icon of a ringing phone pulsed. He flicked his cigarette out the window, rolled it up with a hiss of glass, and tapped the console. A cartoon squirrel munching an acorn blinked onto the display—then cut to Kurumi.
She was bathed in the soft glow of her monitor, her room swallowed by darkness. An oversized T-shirt draped off her shoulder, lollipop tucked into her cheek, hair tousled like she hadn't slept in days.
"Konbanwa, Ryan-oniichan," she sang with a mischievous grin.
Ryan groaned, rubbing his temple. "Seriously? Could you not?"
Kurumi giggled. "C'mon, it wouldn't kill you to learn some culture. Anime's in. You want recs? I've got playlists."
"And become a shut-in freak like you?" Ryan scoffed. "Pass. I'll stick to baseball and bourbon."
"You're such a fossil," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Whatever. Anyway—" She swiped a new window onto the screen. A map appeared, lit up with dozens of red pins stretching across Britain.
"The thing you asked about? Yeah, it checks out. Kids are disappearing. All muggles. Mostly from small towns, villages. Moving south from Edinburgh… straight down to London."
Ryan leaned forward, jaw tightening. "How many?"
Kurumi sighed. "Close to a hundred reported. Maybe more. Orphanages, group homes, street kids—places nobody asks questions. You know… kids like us."
His eyes flickered. "Yeah."
A silence hung between them for a beat.
"Find anything on that cannery?" he asked.
Kurumi nodded, popping the lollipop from her mouth as she dragged another window into frame. "Soulstar Canneries. Used to run out of Fraserburgh. Went bankrupt two years ago—investor fraud."
"Factory was liquidated?" Ryan asked, squinting.
"Yup. Sat dead for a while. Then, a year ago, someone came in and bought up the assets. Moved everything to Carsley. Whole thing's back up and running."
Ryan frowned. "Too clean. So, they swoop in, grab the site, and suddenly this backwater plant's alive again—right as kids start going missing."
"Exactly," Kurumi said. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Ryan leaned back in his seat, arms folded. "That it's a front. Something foul, nasty… and illegal as hell." He snorted. "And I'm not just talking about the fish guts."
Kurumi leaned in, her face lit only by the screen's glow. "Is it true?" she asked quietly. "They've got Dementors? Actual Dementors—black robes, skeletal hands, soul-sucking wraiths playing kidnapper?"
Ryan's expression darkened. "That's what the witnesses say. But it's all whispers and secondhand scraps right now. Nothing the Watch can act on. Until we've got hard proof, Four's not getting the green light."
Kurumi bit her lip, her brows knitting with worry. "I don't like this. Dark wizards are bad enough, but Dementors? That's another level. They don't follow orders—they follow power. Whoever's pulling their strings..."
"Has to be a serious heavyweight," Ryan said, rubbing the side of his jaw. "Voldy kept them in line because he could scare the hell out of them. If someone else is doing that now? Then we've got a new monster at the table."
Kurumi was quiet for a beat. "You think this ties back to Rathbone? And Rookwood?"
Ryan nodded slowly. "I'd bet my life on it. Rathbone got too close, started asking the wrong questions. And Rookwood… he's just a puppet. I'm after the one holding the strings." His gaze darkened. "Once I get that rat bastard to talk, we'll know who's really behind this, and whether we're looking at the next Voldemort."
Kurumi exhaled, then brought up another screen. "Alright. I'll keep tracing the pattern. I'll cross-reference the towns, see where the clusters are forming."
"Good," Ryan said. "I want hotspots mapped. If they're still active, we might be able to predict where they'll strike next."
"I'm on it." She paused, her teasing tone gone now. "And Ryan… be careful, okay?"
Ryan gave a faint smile, tired but sincere. "Aren't I always?"
Kurumi rolled her eyes. "Not even a little."
He chuckled, then the screen dimmed as the call ended.
A sudden noise broke the stillness outside. Sharp, violent, like a sheet tearing through the wind.
Ryan's head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing into the darkness beyond the pool of amber cast by the flickering lamppost above his Mustang. The overhead bulb sputtered with a warning hum, casting erratic shadows across the lot.
He drew a sharp breath and reached for the ignition. The engine roared to life, deep and guttural, like something stirred from a long sleep. Headlights blazed through the mist, cutting across the overgrown lot as the Mustang pulled out, its tires crunching over gravel and broken glass.
He didn't look back.
****
Ryan pushed through the warped wooden doors, wincing as they creaked open. The damp wood clung to his palm, and he wiped it on his slacks with a grimace. Inside, the tavern breathed age. Faded alabaster walls, wooden beams pocked with old rivets, iron-lined tables, and stools worn to shine. Rust mottled every steel fixture like scabs left too long in the rain.
Framed black-and-white photographs lined the walls. Men in denim overalls, faces sunken and teeth stained from pipe tobacco. The cannery in its heyday. The music in the background was soft and rustic, but the moment Ryan stepped in, it faltered—along with the conversation.
Dozens of eyes turned his way. Most of the patrons were men in their thirties and forties, dressed in styles a decade past. Their eyes, glassy blues, weary greens, studied him like a foreign object. Ryan, dressed sharply in a dark three-piece suit, stood out like a sore thumb polished to a mirror shine. The bartender behind the counter gave him a blank look, lazily drying a pint glass with a clean white rag.
Ryan didn't return the stares. His gaze swept the room, calculating, then slid past them to a narrow hallway on the right. At the end of it was a wooden door with a frosted glass pane and a brass plaque that read Inn.
He walked briskly toward it, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
The air was different here. Still, and thick with cloying perfume. Not pleasant, not floral. It smelled like an attempt to cover something up. The lobby was barely the size of a broom cupboard, with faded wallpaper and a tiny wooden reception desk tucked against one wall.
Behind it sat an older woman with silver hair wound in a bun, reading from a worn paperback. She adjusted her round glasses and finally looked up as the door clicked shut behind him.
"Good evenin', welcome to the Broken Broomstick," she greeted, her accent gentle but sharp with age.
"Hi," Ryan said with a polite smile. "Looking for a room. Best one you've got. Top floor if it's available."
Her eyes narrowed curiously as she set the book aside and opened the heavy ledger in front of her. "You've a strange accent, love. American, aye? Don't get many of your kind in Carsley." She traced a finger down the page, pen ready. "So, what brings you out to our wee corner of the world, Mister…?"
"Ashford," he replied smoothly. "Ryan Ashford. And yeah, I get that a lot. I'm here for an interview—position at the cannery."
The scratch of her fountain pen suddenly turned jagged, dragging off the line as her hand jerked. She adjusted her glasses again, trying too hard to look casual.
"I… see," she said after a pause. "And how long d'you plan to stay?"
"A few days," Ryan answered easily. "It's a long interview."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Aye. I imagine it is."
Ryan leaned casually against the reception desk, his shoulder pressing into the polished wood. His eyes flicked over his shoulder. Toward the door he'd just come through. "Quite the crowd you've got back there," he said, brow raised. "Didn't expect to see the younger lot piling into a place like this. Funny thing, though—I didn't spot a single one of 'em while I was driving through town earlier."
The old woman didn't miss a beat as she reached beneath the desk. "Aye, I'd reckon not," she said. "Most of 'em don't stir till sundown. They're all on night shift at the cannery. Hard work, long hours. Need their rest, or what little they can get."
"No doubt," Ryan muttered, tilting his head slightly, watching her hands.
She turned to the board behind her. A wall of old iron hooks, each holding a heavy, tarnished key with a rusted brass tag. Her fingers traced across the labels before plucking off one marked 626. She placed it on the counter with a soft clink.
"Top floor, just like you asked," she said. "Though you'll want to give me an hour or so to air it out, make sure the linens are fresh. Might I suggest grabbing a pint while you wait?"
Ryan nodded and picked up the key, its tag cold in his hand. "Appreciate it. And thank you kindly, Miss…?"
"Gretchen," she replied with a small smile. "If you need anything—tea, towels, or trouble—just ring the bell."
Ryan gave her a lazy salute with the key, sliding it into his jacket pocket. "I'll keep that in mind."
With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, eyes once again glancing toward the bar and the patrons still watching like statues.
****
Ryan slid onto the barstool at the far end, away from the others. He rested his elbows on the worn oak counter, the scent of stale beer and old varnish thick in the air. The bartender ambled over broad, heavyset, with arms like firewood and a chest dusted with wiry hair peeking from the undone buttons of his shirt beneath a black apron. He stopped in front of Ryan, expression flat, eyes cool.
"What'll it be?" he asked.
"Budweiser," Ryan said, then quickly raised a finger, his gaze sharp. "And God help you if you ask me whether I like the taste of piss."
The bartender stared for a beat, unimpressed. "Hate to break it to you, lad," he said dryly. "This isn't London. We've got the usual. Local stuff."
Ryan exhaled and shrugged. "Then pour me the usual."
With a grunt, the man slung a towel over his shoulder, grabbed a pint glass from beneath the counter, and moved to the tap. As amber liquid filled the glass, Ryan's eyes drifted to the corner of the room. A group of young men. Mid-thirties, maybe younger. Sat hunched around a table, muttering in low voices. He couldn't catch the words, but it wasn't English. Their glances toward him weren't subtle.
Suspicion. Bitterness. And one or two with the glint of mischief in their eyes.
Ryan's gaze narrowed slightly.
A sharp clack snapped him out of it. The bartender had set the full pint down in front of him. Foam curled neatly at the rim.
Ryan took it by the handle, raised it slightly. "Cheers." He took a sip. Smacked his lips once. "Huh. That's not half bad."
The bartender started to turn away when Ryan called out, "Hold up."
The man paused, looking back. Ryan gestured for him to come closer.
As the bartender leaned in, the group of men stood from their table. Ryan tensed, eyeing them as they shuffled in his direction. Shoulders squared, faces hard. But they didn't stop. They passed him in a tight pack, pushing out the front door and disappearing into the night.
Ryan let out a quiet breath.
He turned back to the bartender. "You're the one behind the bar. That means you've seen things. Heard things."
The man folded his arms. "Depends. My jaw's a wee bit tight these days. Not exactly the gabbing type."
Ryan smiled faintly. "Yeah, I figured." He slid a crisp hundred-pound note between his fingers and held it up like bait. "But maybe you'll feel mighty talkative tonight."
The bartender gave the note a glance, then a subtle look around the room. With a quiet grunt, he plucked it from Ryan's hand and leaned in again.
"All right then," he muttered. "What is it you want to know?"
Ryan's tone dropped, flat and serious. "The factory. Down on the edge of town. Tell me everything you've got."
Ryan had expected surprise. Maybe even a flicker of nerves. Instead, the bartender just gave a slow shrug, like he'd been waiting for the question.
"Not much I can tell ye, I'm afraid." He jerked his chin toward the black-and-white photos hanging behind Ryan. "Factory's been there for generations. Me da worked it. His da before him. And his da before that. It was the life's blood of Carsley, that place."
He picked up a cloudy pint glass and tugged the rag from his shoulder, polishing in slow circles. "Back when I was a lad, this town was somethin' else. Folk on bikes, old timers callin' out your name from across the street, men piling into this pub every night after the final horn. Busy, loud, proper alive." His gaze dropped to the counter. "Those were the days."
Ryan took a sip, eyes still on him. "That's funny. Old lady out front said your regulars were factory boys."
"Aye," the bartender said, glancing toward the mostly empty pub. "We get some. But it ain't what it used to be, is it? Barely a dozen now."
"A dozen?" Ryan's brow twitched. "That's a hell of a small crew for a factory that size. Doesn't add up."
"I said the same," the bartender muttered, still wiping the glass. "But the lads told me most of it's been automated. Fancy gear, machines do the work now. Only need a few hands for packin' and shippin'."
"Shipping fish, you mean," Ryan said, eyes narrowing.
The bartender paused. Checked over his shoulder. "That's just it. I don't know if it is fish anymore."
Ryan's fingers tightened around the handle of his glass.
"Had a mate lives just up the hill from the place. Same house thirty years. Said back in the day, you couldn't breathe for the stink. Reeked of fish for miles. Got in your clothes, your skin, everything. But when the factory reopened… nothin'. Not a whiff."
Ryan's expression sharpened.
"Something changed," the bartender said quietly. "And here's the odd bit. You'd think, even with new machines, there'd be signs of life. Rubbish trucks. Spoiled goods. Scraps. Bones, skins, bins full of waste. But that place? No bins. No blood. No rot. No nothing." He leaned in closer. "Too clean, lad. Far too clean for a cannery."
Ryan didn't speak at first. He didn't have to. His silence said it all.
After a beat, he finally leaned in. "One more thing. Lord Rathbone. What do you know about him?"
"The old Lord up on the hill?" the bartender asked, already pouring himself a splash of something dark. "The one they found face-down in his own rose garden? Not much. Folk around here always called him the town's patron, said he looked out for us, but truth is, he rarely came down from that great manor of his. Sent his staff in his place. That butler of his especially. Can't have a highborn soiling his boots among the common folk, can we?"
"Figures," Ryan muttered. "What about the son—Nelson?"
"Ah," the bartender said, brightening a little. "Now he's a different sort. Still got that silver spoon stuck in his gob, sure, but the lad's got his heart in the right place. Always shows his face in town. Talks to people. Tries to help where he can." He set down his glass and shook his head. "Was dead set against the factory reopening, too. Him and the old man had rows over it. Proper blowouts, from what I've heard."
"So, what, the old man wasn't quite the saint everyone painted him to be?" Ryan asked, eyeing the barman.
"Depends on who you ask, mate." The bartender leaned against the counter, folding his arms. "Older folk worshipped him. Thought the sun rose out his arse. Would've kissed his boots if he let 'em. Younger lot? Not so fond. Especially after all those kids started disappearing… and that fat bastard Swanson kept insisting nothing was wrong."
"Yeah," Ryan said dryly. "Had the pleasure of meeting him. He told us the parents just… packed up and left."
The bartender gave a hollow laugh. "Did he now? Let me guess—he forgot to mention why?"
Ryan raised a brow. "I'm listening."
"Word is, they all got the same package one morning," the barman said. "Fat wad of notes inside. Enough to buy a new life and then some. Along with a note: Leave Carsley. Don't come back."
Ryan blinked. "How convenient."
"Too convenient," the bartender said. "Didn't make it into the reports, o' course. But I've got mates. Ones who still know people. Some of the families took the deal and legged it that very night. Those who didn't?" He leaned in closer. "Got a visit. Men in coats, hats, like something outta an old film. Ten minutes at the door… and next thing you know, they're gone too."
Ryan's jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah. That tracks."
The bartender shook his head. "Whatever's goin' on in this town, lad, it's been goin' on a lot longer than most care to admit. And someone's makin' damn sure no one asks questions."
The bartender tilted his head, just slightly. "Bit like what you're doin' now, eh? Stirrin' pots that don't want stirrin'. If I were you, lad, I'd keep my wits sharp and my back to a wall."
Ryan smirked and raised his tankard. "Appreciate the advice." He took a deep gulp, draining the last of it before setting the glass back on the counter with a solid thunk.
The bartender hesitated for a beat. "By the way, hope you don't mind me sayin'. If you were tryin' to keep a low profile, maybe don't go waltzin' into town with the Boy Who Lived."
Ryan's grin faltered. Just slightly. "Hogwarts?"
"Slytherin," the barman said with a crooked smirk. "Obviously, graduated long before the war kicked off proper. You?"
"Ilvermorny," Ryan replied. "Thunderbird."
"Figures," the bartender said, his tone a touch more respectful now. "Still had you pegged for an Auror the minute you stepped in. The suit was a dead giveaway."
"Well," Ryan shrugged, "guess we're past pleasantries then."
"Aye," the bartender said. "Just know this. There's somethin' wrong about this town. Always has been. But lately, it's… darker. Like the shadows've got teeth." He glanced toward the pub windows, as if checking the darkness pressing in beyond the fog. "And whatever's behind it all, it ain't finished yet."
Ryan's jaw tightened. He got off the stool, adjusting the jacket at his shoulders. "Don't worry. I didn't come all this way just to scratch the surface."
The bartender gave a slow nod. "Good. 'Cause if someone's gonna pull the rot outta this place, better it be someone who knows what they're doin'. Just don't take too long, lad… we're runnin' out of time."
The door to the inn creaked open again. Gretchen leaned through. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mister Ashford—yer room's ready now."
Ryan gave a short smile. "Appreciate it. Just need to grab my gear from the car."
She nodded, offering a warm, if wary look before retreating behind the door, letting it shut with a soft click.
Ryan turned back to the bar, lifting two fingers in a casual salute. "Thanks for the conversation."
The bartender gave a grunt and a nod. "Keep yer head down, Yank. This town bites back."
Ryan smirked, then pushed through the tavern doors and stepped into the cold. The night swallowed him in fog and silence, the door thudding shut behind him as the bartender watched him vanish into the dark.
****
The trunk shut with a thud, the Mustang's lights flashing once with a chirp as it locked. Ryan slung the duffle over his shoulder and started down the sidewalk, loafers tapping against the damp concrete. The town was dead quiet—unsettlingly so. Shops stood hollow and dark, their windows blank like eyes. Houses glowed faintly behind thin curtains, shadows shifting but no faces seen. Only the pub and the old inn still breathed any life at all.
Trees rustled softly in the wind, their creaking branches swaying like slow-moving hands. Ryan's eyes scanned the dark stretch between the buildings, something deep in his gut tightening. It was the kind of quiet that didn't feel empty. It felt watched.
His grip firmed around the strap of the duffle. The gun strapped beneath his jacket felt solid, grounding. But deep down, he knew it'd be useless if what he sensed was really out there. A gun might stop a man. It wouldn't stop a Dementor.
A voice broke the stillness.
"Oi!"
Ryan's head turned. Across the narrow street, leaning against the brick wall of the opposite building, stood the same group from the pub. Five of them now, spread out like wolves. Scruffy, lean, all different heights and builds. None older than their mid-thirties. They weren't hulking, but wiry in that dangerous way—muscle coiled around bad intent. Drunk too, by the look of their slack limbs and glassy eyes. Too drunk for night shift. Too drunk for anything that involved responsibility.
Which made Gretchen's words echo louder in his head.
Ryan kept walking, gaze ahead.
"Oi, mate!" one of them barked again—the one in front, probably the leader, stepping forward with a crooked smile. "Hold up. Just wanna have a word."
Ryan didn't break stride.
"No, you don't," he said flatly, not even glancing their way.
The breeze kicked up behind him, carrying the weight of five stares on his back like needles.
And still, he kept walking.
One of them suddenly broke into a jog, cutting Ryan off halfway down the walk.
He stopped cold.
The man standing in front of him grinned wide, lips curled just enough to make a fist itch. Ryan's eyes didn't linger. He turned slightly, casting a calm glance over his shoulder toward the one clearly in charge.
The leader stood a few paces behind, arms loosely crossed. Blonde hair slicked back in a way that tried to look careless but wasn't. His voice carried easy in the fog.
"Heard there's some Yank poking around town," the man said. "Asking questions 'bout the factory. Snooping about. That wouldn't be you, would it?"
Ryan didn't blink. "Can't say I'm surprised word travels fast in towns this small."
"See, that little cannery's the only thing keeping this place breathing. We've been bleeding for years," the man said, taking a slow step forward. "But now, things are turning around. Jobs, wages, even the pub's got decent whisky again. Last thing we need is a problem." He squinted. "Are you a problem, mate?"
"Relax," Ryan said as he held his ground. "I've got a meeting with the higher-ups tomorrow. Business. Contracts. All very boring."
The leader's brow arched. "That so? Funny. No one told us."
Ryan smirked. "Cute that the bottom rung thinks the top brass keeps them in the loop." He shifted the duffle on his shoulder. "Tell you what. Why don't you kids go clock in for shelf duty and leave business to the grown-ups, yeah?"
A few of them chuckled, until the leader shot them a look sharp enough to cut glass.
"Smart arse, huh?" he muttered. "Think you're clever? Think you're better than us?"
"All the time," Ryan said, deadpan. "You should try it sometime."
The man's jaw tightened. He took another step forward, the others closing in behind him.
"Alright, listen up," the leader said. "I'm feelin' generous tonight. So, here's how this goes. You take your fancy shoes and your Yank arse, you get in that shiny car of yours, and you drive until this town's just a speck in the mirror."
Ryan tilted his head back slightly, meeting the man's stare without flinching.
"And if I don't?" he asked.
The tension thickened. A long pause. The wind rustled the leaves above them. Ryan's hand tightened around the strap of the duffle.
The air felt one wrong word away from breaking.
Ryan sighed, then turned. Fully facing the leader.
"Alright," he said, casually rolling his shoulders. "Guess the jig's up."
His eyes locked on the man. "This isn't some backwater high school flick where the local tough guys try to run the outsider outta town 'cause your pricks are two inches short of the national average. No, you lot were waiting for me. Clocked me back at the pub."
He scanned their faces. "Let me guess, suit at the cannery slipped you a few bills to play scare-the-tourist. Fifty quid?"
"Hundred," one of them muttered.
"Don't tell him that, you damned wanker!" the leader snapped.
Ryan barked a humorless laugh. "A hundred?" He scoffed and shook his head. "Jesus. That's what I'm worth to you?" He took a breath and let it hang. "Hell of a bargain."
Then the grin vanished. His posture straightened.
"I've had a long day," he said flatly. "A lot of driving, a lot of talking, and not nearly enough patience left for your brand of dumb."
His voice dropped.
"You laid your cards on the table, so he's mine. Turn around, walk away, and clock in at the factory like good little boys. Or…" He tilted his head slightly, eyes cold now. "You try me. And I promise, you'll be clocking in from a hospital bed. That's if I'm feeling generous."
A silence settled. Heavy. The wind stirred. No one moved.
The leader then burst into laughter, a cruel, mocking sound, and the others followed like hyenas.
"You gone daft, mate?" he sneered between laughs. "You're about to get the beating of a lifetime. When we're done, you'll be pissing blood 'til Christmas."
Ryan exhaled, slow and measured, then slid the duffle off his shoulder. It hit the pavement with a dull thud.
"Nah," he said, straightening up, eyes cold. "I'm just gonna beat the absolute shit outta four dumb bastards."
The leader cocked his head, still grinning. "You daft and blind, yank? There's five of us here."
Ryan's gaze didn't waver. "Well, one of you's gotta drive to the hospital."
The leader scoffed—then lunged. A wild haymaker cut through the air, but Ryan leaned back, letting it miss by inches. He snapped forward, drilling a punch straight into the man's nose. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. The thug howled and reeled back.
Ryan didn't stop.
He turned, slammed his fist into the next one's jaw. Left, right—once, twice—then drove a boot into the man's gut, folding him over and sending him staggering. Another rushed him. Ryan pivoted and drove a fist into his mouth, teeth clacking, before seizing him by the collar and slamming his forehead down into the bridge of his nose. The man dropped like a sack of bricks.
Ryan whipped around just as the thug from before lunged at him. The man swung. Wide, sloppy punches born more of anger than skill. Ryan ducked under the first, leaned away from the second.
Then came the hook.
Ryan stepped into it, spinning with the momentum. His elbow snapped up and crashed into the man's jaw with a brutal crack. The thug's head whipped back, eyes dazed. Without hesitation, Ryan grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and drove his knee into the man's face. Cartilage crunched, teeth flew, and the man let out a garbled scream before collapsing.
Ryan shoved him aside, letting the body hit the ground in a heap.
The leader came again, screaming as he threw a desperate punch. Ryan caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted—then stomped down on his knee. A sickening crack echoed as the man collapsed with a howl.
One left.
Ryan turned. The last thug stood frozen, eyes wide, backing away.
"I—I know the way to the hospital," the man stammered, throwing his hands up.
Ryan said nothing. His breath slowed. Calm. He bent down, grabbed his duffle, slung it over his shoulder, and kept walking.
Then came the flashing red and blue. Sirens shrieked through the night, painting the alley in strobing light. The groans of the battered men on the ground mixed with the high-pitched wail.
Ryan stopped, looked toward the source, and sighed.
"You've gotta be shitting me."