Ryan's mouth twitched into a dry smile as he leaned back, folding one leg over the other. "Oh, so we're playing that game," he said. He laced his fingers together and rested them on his knee. "Fine by me. Just know I've got the patience of a shark… and I bite just as hard."
His gaze remained locked on Emerson.
Even now, with a trio sitting uninvited at his table and bloodied sunglasses before him, Harold Emerson remained statue-still. Pristine bowtie, hair in place, expression glassy and unreadable. To Ryan, he looked less like a man and more like a finely-dressed golem, charmed to mimic the appearance of humanity. His instincts itched.
"Three words," Ryan said. "Factory. Kids. Missing." He tilted his head, watching for the faintest twitch. "Any of that ring a bell?"
Emerson reached for his water, took a measured sip, then carefully aligned the base of the glass with his cutlery. "I'm afraid not, Mister Ashford," he said, the words clipped and precise. "My employers deal exclusively in canned fish. Children, I assure you, are hardly a marketable product. Unpalatable, wouldn't you agree?"
Ryan's grin stretched. "Depends on the seasoning. You strike me as the type who enjoys a little finger food. Real fingers included. Proper Hannibal Lecter type."
"How very flattering." Emerson dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Strange what passes for humor in your country."
"You want humor?" Ryan's smile was gone. "Here's a good one. You trying to limp home after I blow out both your knees."
Harry shot him a look. Maxine tensed beside him.
Emerson, to his credit, did not blink. "I suppose you're under the impression threats will intimidate me."
"No." Ryan's tone was calm now. Flat. "I'm under the impression you already know exactly what's happening out there. You just think we're too dumb, or too slow, to catch up. And maybe we were," he said. "But we're here now. Watching. Digging. And you've got just enough of a pulse left to answer the next question straight."
The air between them stilled. The diner around them faded, until it was just eyes and tension.
Emerson didn't move. But something—something small—flashed behind his eyes. A twitch. A flicker.
Ryan caught it.
And smiled again.
Emerson let the silence linger.
Then, with a slow breath, he smiled.
Not warmth. Not amusement. Just precision, like the glint of a scalpel before the incision.
Emerson offered a cool, tight-lipped smile. "My sincerest apologies. I suppose it was rather naïve of me to attempt such a pedestrian charade as feigned ignorance." His expression hardened, words now edged with something far colder. "I should have known better than to insult the intelligence of the one and only Nosferatu."
Ryan's jaw clenched. The name landed like a trigger. Across the table, Maxine glanced at him, puzzled. Harry's eyes narrowed, silently sharpening.
Emerson turned.
"And of course… The Boy Who Lived." He regarded Harry with a polite nod. "I must extend my congratulations. For you to have reached this point. This table, this conversation. You've clearly stitched together threads I'd taken great pains to unravel. I underestimated you. That was a mistake."
His gaze shifted to Maxine, who nearly flinched beneath the sudden weight of it.
"Though, I must admit, I'm particularly impressed with you, Miss Misslethorpe. Fine detective work, if I do say so myself," Emerson said smoothly. "Following in the footsteps of your forebears. Your grandfather may have traded in hardline journalism for the soft indulgence of gossip columns and fluff pieces, but you. You come from a line that once knew how to wield truth like a weapon."
He gave a faint scoff, the kind that barely carried past his breath. "Refreshing, really. To see something resembling actual journalism crawl its way back into the wizarding world after it's been dragged through the muck by bottom-feeders like Skeeter."
Maxine said nothing, but her jaw tensed.
Harry leaned in slightly. "Then I suppose there's no longer any need to keep up the act. You know why we're here, and judging by how well you seem to know each of us, I suspect you've known for some time."
Emerson nodded, lifting his glass again with measured ease and took a sip. "I like to stay informed, Mister Potter. Knowledge, after all, is power. A tired phrase, I'll grant you, but no less accurate for its repetition." He set the glass down and aligned it precisely with his knife. "And yes. I know why you've come. You believe my employer is behind the disappearances. The children. The factory."
Maxine leaned forward. Her words were low, even, but seething just beneath the surface. "We don't believe. We know. Every lead I've followed, every dead end I pulled apart. Every one of them pointed back here."
Emerson regarded her for a long moment before offering a slight incline of his head, almost like a nod of respect. "I don't doubt it. I'm sure by now you've deduced the when, the who, the where, and perhaps even the how."
He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel heavy.
"What you lack," he said finally, "is the what and the why. The last two pieces of the puzzle."
"That was easy," Ryan said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So how about you be a good little boy and spill the beans for us? 'Cause frankly, I'm about two bad cups of coffee away from burning this Silent Hill knock-off to the ground."
He leaned back, loafers tapping lightly against the floor as he spoke.
"So here's the deal. You tell us all about the sneaky little backdoor dealings you and your puppet-masters have been cooking up in this half-dead corner of the world, and maybe, just maybe, we call in the cavalry, light a match under the whole operation, and you get a one-way trip to Azkaban. Few years of soul-crushing regret, maybe a book deal if you're lucky."
He pointed a lazy finger across the table. "You get to live. We get to go home. I get to sleep in a bed that doesn't smell like mildew and grave dirt. Everybody wins."
"That's not much of an offer, is it?" Emerson said flatly, his tone as unreadable as his expression.
Ryan snorted. "Yeah, well, it's the only one you're goanna get." His jaw ticked. "Speaking of which, I had a run-in with a couple of your goons yesterday. Heard they were offered a hundred bucks to knock my teeth in." He shook his head. "A hundred. I mean, come on. I'm worth at least triple that. But hey, I'm flattered they thought it'd be that easy."
He tilted his head. "So, here it is. Either you take what's on the table, or I start rearranging your pretty little face with it until you do. Your choice."
Emerson gave a slow blink, steepling his fingers just above his plate. "Ah, Americans… always so fond of finalities. First they demand, then they threaten, and then they strike," he said. "Your kind has littered history with fire and fury and dressed it all up in the language of liberty and justice."
He paused, just enough to let the contempt simmer. "Your Magical Congress, I've noticed, fares no better. Loud, brash, utterly convinced of its own righteousness."
He took a breath before continuing.
"That being said, Mister Ashford," he said smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve, "you've sadly mistaken me for a man who trades in fear. After all, men like you, blunt instruments wrapped in bravado, tend to confuse conviction for noise. But here's what I know."
He folded his hands.
"When I go to bed, my locks are triple-warded. My windows etched in runes from four dead languages. My home rests under contracts written in blood and protected by names no longer spoken. I don't sleep because I'm afraid someone like you might come knocking."
He paused, letting his eyes meet Ryan's.
"I sleep well, Mister Ashford… because I own the nightmares."
A beat.
"Now," he said coolly, sitting back with poise, "you can posture all you like, but we both know you're not here to harm me, let alone kill me. Not yet. Because deep down, you suspect I'm more valuable breathing than bleeding out on this quaint little floor."
He picked up his fork again, eyes not leaving Ryan's. "And you'd be right."
Harry began, "Alright, that's enough. Tell us what you know or—"
He didn't get far. Ryan let out a low, wicked chuckle. Quiet at first, but laced with something darker.
Harry stiffened. There was something feral behind Ryan's stare now. Not the calculated gaze of a hunter, but something worse. A predator savoring the kill before it came.
"Cute," Ryan muttered, like the creak of a floorboard before the door gets kicked in. "Really. That little speech? Real pretty. Bet you practiced it in front of a mirror every night, right before slipping into your silk pajamas and whispering sweet nothings to your teddy bear." His elbows rested on the table, fingers steepled. "Hell, you probably even rehearsed the bit where you look impressed."
Emerson said nothing, but his posture stiffened.
"I've always been fascinated by your kind," Ryan went on. "The long-winded ones. You always follow the same pattern. First act, you strut. You puff your chest, play God, try to impress everyone in the room. Then the second act kicks in, when you're on the floor, choking on your own blood, crying, begging, pissing yourself." His eyes narrowed. "That's when the real honesty comes out."
Emerson's fingers subtly tightened around his fork.
"You know," Ryan said slowly, "you remind me of someone. Antonin Dolohov."
Harry's grip clenched on his chair. Maxine glanced between them, wide-eyed. The name lingered like smoke, bitter, poisonous.
Ryan let the silence stretch, then continued. "He strutted too. Thought he was untouchable. Slippery bastard, like a sack of rats stuffed into a suit. Gave the Ministry a hell of a chase. Least, until his file landed on my desk." His smile curled upward. "And mercy? Wasn't on the checklist."
"It was Moscow. Two years he'd been ducking every net. But when men like him get cocky… they start to slip. That's when I found him. And just like you, he gave me a speech. Yours has more polish, I'll grant that. Guy had the thesaurus of a Second Grader. But his was longer. Lots of screaming near the end."
Ryan's gaze flicked down to the silver knife beside his plate.
"Oh, he laughed," he said softly. "Until he didn't. See, he loved cruelty. Loved pain. Thought it made him powerful. Turns out, I love pain too. Difference is, I'm a whole lot better at it."
Ryan reached for the knife.
He turned it slowly in his fingers, the silver glinting in the low light as he held it up in front of his face, just long enough for the table to fall quiet.
"As for what happened to that son of a bitch?" he said, smooth and sharp. "I won't spoil it. It's not redacted, not buried. Hell, I want it out there. I want every bastard who wore that skull tattoo to see it. And more importantly…" His eyes locked on Emerson. "I want people like you to know exactly who I am—and what I do."
He laid the blade down gently on the table. The steel clinked.
"I've heard it all," Ryan continued. "Men claiming fear is a myth. That they've transcended it. Untouchable. Unbreakable." A pause. "I've seen that same swagger on everyone from Voldemort to the roaches that clung to his boots."
"But I've hunted death cults through the burning sands of Sudan. I've butchered pure-blood fanatics in the belly of the Amazon. I've razed dark fortresses filled with killers, a thousand strong—and I hung their tinpot tyrant from his own tower using nothing but his entrails."
His voice turned cold.
"So go on. Tell me, with everything you know about me… do you really think I'm going to lose sleep over some paper-pushing parasite with a wand wedged so far up his ass he can floss his teeth with his own spine?"
"You think you own the nightmares, Emerson?" Ryan sneered. "You borrowed it. I'm the one who builds it. Pay a visit to Saint Mungo's Criminally Insane Division. Plenty of em' still scream my name in their sleep."
He leaned in close. "Nos-fe-ra-tu." Drawing out the syllables with chilling precision. "Burn it into your memory… 'cause that's the name you'll be choking on every time you wake up screaming for the rest of your miserable life."
A long, brittle silence settled over the table. The restaurant, normally alive with the clatter of cutlery and low murmurs, now felt suspended, airless. The only sound was the ticking of the cuckoo clock above them, each click of its hour hand cutting the quiet like a metronome of dread.
Emerson exhaled slowly, a breath more weary than indifferent. "Fascinating," he murmured, his gaze half-lidded. "I can't say I've ever met a man who so thoroughly enjoys the resonance of his own voice, Mister Ashford. Your anecdotes might dazzle the feeble-minded, but I found nothing in them, neither substance nor value."
He gently laid his knife down, aligning it to perfection beside his plate, then folded his hands with deliberate calm. "Still… you strike me as oddly sentimental. A surprising trait for a man in your profession. And frankly, a disappointing one."
His eyes sharpened.
"I never understood the appeal of such indulgences. Sentimentality. Nostalgia. Rage." His tone grew cooler. "All that fire you carry for people long buried. For strangers. You exact vengeance on behalf of ghosts, as if butchering and mutilating men like Dolohov somehow balances a scale no one's seen."
He gave a small, pitying sigh.
"But tell me, what has it bought you? Closure? Catharsis?" He tilted his head. "You call it justice. I call it weakness. And as a wise man once said, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. You think you're different from the monsters you hunt, but what are you really, Mister Ashford… if not the next turn of the cycle?"
"Well then," Ryan said, "I guess that's your mistake, isn't it?"
Emerson's brow lifted faintly.
"I'm not different. And I'm sure as hell not better," Ryan said. "See, we learned a long time ago that good doesn't beat evil. Not because it can't, but because it won't. Good holds back. Hesitates. Talks itself in circles about morals and lines while evil keeps moving, keeps taking. Because it knows something good doesn't: that conviction wins wars, not conscience."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"So no, don't call me good. Don't even try to call me a hero. I've seen 'good' retreat. Compromise. Fold. I've buried the consequences of their inaction. That's why the line had to be drawn, and we were the ones who stepped up to draw it. That's why we exist."
Ryan's stare turned cold.
"You can dress it up in all the philosophy you want, Emerson, but I sleep just fine knowing I'm the monster that monsters fear. Because when they put one of ours in the hospital?" he asked. "We put two of theirs in the woodchipper. That's The Chicago Way, and we sure as Hell don't stop until the rest are too scared to crawl out of their holes."
"The… what?" Maxine raised an eyebrow.
"Movie reference," Harry muttered with a tired sigh. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it."
His gaze shifted, green eyes settling coldly on Emerson. "That being said…" He adjusted his glasses. "I, on the other hand, have never met a man so thoroughly convinced he's above all forms of law or consequence. Except, perhaps... Cornelius Fudge."
There was the faintest flicker in Emerson's brow, just enough to show he hadn't expected that name. Ryan, by contrast, glanced toward Harry with something closer to intrigue than surprise.
"You're probably wondering why I'd mention Fudge and not Voldemort," Harry went on. "And that's fair. The Dark Lord believed himself untouchable, and I'll admit, though it makes my skin crawl, he had the power to justify that arrogance. Most wizards feared him, and with good reason." He leaned back in his chair, the words gaining a measured weight. "But Fudge? Fudge was different. A man with no extraordinary gifts. No vision. Just a name, a desk, and a title he clung to like a lifeline."
He paused. "He abused power and called it bureaucracy. Twisted the law against those actually trying to stand against the dark, all while letting that same rot seep into the cracks of the Ministry until it had eaten through the foundation."
Harry's words dipped, colder now.
"And that's exactly what you are. Just another Cornelius Fudge. Just another coward in a suit, so utterly convinced the world will stay at heel because he believes something bigger, something stronger, will always be there to shield him."
His gaze sharpened.
"But that's not strength. That's fear. The fear of knowing that the moment you're no longer useful, that power will cast you aside without a second thought. And when the hounds finally darken your doorstep, you'll do what all men like you do."
Harry exhaled, sharp and low, the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
"You'll run. Or at least, you'll try. Just like Augustus Rookwood. Just like Dolores Umbridge. All those Death Eater recreants who were so eager to dish it out, only to collapse in tears the moment the weight of their crimes came crashing down."
Emerson's jaw shifted, his stare hardening, but Harry pressed on.
"Now, I won't pretend I agree with Ashford's methods. I joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement because I believed justice without due process was just vengeance dressed up in finer robes."
His tone lowered, steadier now.
"But I know what it's like to feel powerless. To watch monsters destroy the lives of people you love. Not all of us have the strength. Not all of us have the stomach. And that's the cruelest part of it all, because when you're faced with the darkness, sometimes there's only one line left between you and the abyss."
His gaze narrowed, the green in his eyes darkened with memory.
"So I understand Ashford. More than I'd like to admit. I've stood at that edge, ready to throw everything away for one moment of retribution. And I still don't know if I made the right choice by stepping back, but as they say, when justice falters, when the world turns a blind eye, someone, eventually, stops asking permission."
He paused, then, continued.
"I don't know exactly what's going on behind those factory gates. I don't know what your endgame is. But I do know that children are missing. Muggle children, with no knowledge of our world, no means of defending themselves." Harry's fists clenched against the arms of his chair. "And if it turns out you had even the slightest hand in that. If the truth is anywhere near as horrific as I suspect, then forget Azkaban."
His eyes flicked sideways toward Ryan.
"I'll let him handle it in the only way he knows how. And who knows, maybe I'll conveniently forget I'm still bound by my oath as an Auror."
Maxine glanced between the three men as the tension grew thick enough to choke on.
Ryan's expression slackened briefly. Then, with a quiet breath, he let out a low chuckle. He reached into his coat, slid out a silver cigarette case, and flicked it open. One cigarette tapped loose between his teeth. He lit it with a flick of his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the hard glint in his eye. Smoke curled lazily above his head as he exhaled, his gaze settling on Emerson with the slow burn of a fuse.
"You heard the man," Ryan muttered, the cigarette shouldering between his fingers.
Emerson sighed, long and theatrical, before removing the napkin from his lap and setting it neatly on the table. He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket with a quiet precision. His eyes stayed downcast at first, chin slightly dipped, posture immaculate. Like a man addressing a room beneath him.
"We're done here," he said coolly. "Regardless of whatever dramatized assumptions you've made about my relationship with the law, I assure you, both muggle and magical, I am well-versed."
His gaze flicked to Ryan with a touch of disdain. "And I hardly think even you, Mister Ashford, are so deluded as to believe life operates like one of your American action films. The sort where some muscle-bound lunatic barrels through the front doors, guns blazing, and walks away unscathed while the orchestra swells."
He adjusted the lapels of his coat and his bow tie.
"As far as anyone is concerned, we run a legitimate enterprise. Every license, every permit, every parchment in order. If you'd like a tour of the premises, by all means, do make an appointment." His lips curved faintly. "Though I expect it will be a dreadful waste of your time. If you insist on anything further… well, as the saying goes, do come back with a warrant."
He began to step away, but turned one last time.
"And do be sure to keep your wits about you," Emerson said. "You know what they say about small towns... charming, yes, but dreadfully unkind to those who don't belong."
He inhaled slowly, as though savoring the moment, then turned on his heel.
Maxine opened her mouth to speak, but the cold warning in Ryan's and Harry's eyes made her stop.
She watched as the wiry man stepped through the door. The bell above jingled softly, and just like that, Emerson vanished into the misty streets beyond. She spun back around, her brow furrowed as she looked between Ryan and Harry.
"Alright," Maxine huffed. "Can someone kindly explain what that was supposed to achieve? Because from where I'm standing, we're no better off than when we walked in."
Ryan tapped the ash from his cigarette into the crystal dish before snubbing it out. His smirk lingered, faint and unreadable.
"Little lesson, Maxy," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Pain breaks most people. Pressure breaks the rest. Some spill their guts because it hurts. Others 'cause it feels good. But there's a rare breed. Men without fear. Men who don't flinch, don't fold, don't give you the time of day."
His eyes found hers.
"My old man used to say Death Eaters were just pathetic little pricks who got scared, found other pathetic little pricks, and called it a revolution. Their loyalty wasn't to Snakeface himself. It was to fear. To indulgence. Take away the fear, the privilege, and they crumble."
He paused. "But Emerson? He's a whole different animal. You don't get a man like that unless he believes in something. Something deeper than ideology, darker than devotion. Doesn't have to be God. Just conviction so warped and absolute that nothing rattles it."
"What Ashford's trying to say," Harry cut in, drawing Maxine's attention, "is that we never came here expecting answers. We knew the moment Emerson opened his mouth that he wasn't going to give us anything willingly." He leaned back slightly. "We came for confirmation."
Maxine frowned. "I don't follow."
"Oh, he thinks he told us nothing," Harry continued, a slight smirk creeping into his expression. "But in truth? He told us everything. That factory's hiding something, and whatever it is, it's tied to the missing children."
Her eyes narrowed. "And you deduced that from… what exactly?"
"From what he didn't say," Ryan answered with a short scoff. "You see, men like Emerson, they don't plead innocence because they don't think they're guilty. They're arrogant. They believe the law can't touch them, and right now, he's probably right."
He tilted his chin toward Harry. "Potter here's got a badge, a process, paperwork miles long. Getting a warrant through the Ministry would've taken weeks. By then, whatever's going on in that factory? Gone."
He paused, gaze sharpening.
"But me?" He cracked a grin. "I'm not Ministry. That's the variable he didn't count on, and the only one that's got him shaken up worse than a glass of martini."
Maxine's eyes widened. "Wait, what do you mean you're not Ministry?" she asked, startled. "Aren't you an Auror?"
"Long story," Ryan said, brushing it off. He reached across the table and speared a piece of Emerson's half-eaten fish with his fork. "For now," he added, "we head back to the inn and regroup. I'm sure Weasley's waiting for us."
He popped the bite into his mouth, chewed twice, then immediately froze. His eyes widened with horror before he grabbed a napkin and spat it out.
"Jesus Christ," he groaned, dabbing his tongue with the cloth. "That was offensive. What kind of sociopath ruins fish like that?" He shook his head, exasperated. "You know, for a country that invaded half the world for spices, you lot sure don't know how to use them."
Tossing the napkin on the table, he stood and made for the door, muttering something under his breath about culinary war crimes.
Harry rolled his eyes as he rose. Maxine followed, though her pace slowed. Questions lingered now. About Ryan, about everything he said. Assumptions she had long held were beginning to crack, and she wasn't sure yet if she wanted to know the answers that might follow.
****
The Mustang rumbled down the desolate road, its engine a low, feral growl that echoed between crumbling shopfronts and long-abandoned buildings. Dust-coated windows trembled in their frames as the car passed, a fleeting disturbance in an otherwise forgotten town. The windshield wipers scraped in uneven rhythm, the only sound cutting through the muffled stillness as they pushed aside the mist clinging to the glass like a second skin.
Mid-afternoon wore the disguise of evening. The sun, pale and sluggish, fought in vain against the low-hanging clouds, its light reduced to a dull, sickly glow that cast the world in monochrome. Fog hung low across the asphalt, pooling in gutters and clinging to signposts, wrapping the town in a damp, lifeless hush.
Ryan's hands gripped the wheel, steady but rigid, his gaze locked on the road ahead. Every so often, his eyes flicked toward the sidewalk. Toward the slow-moving silhouettes of passersby. Always older. Always silent. As if the town itself had aged into its final breath.
In the passenger seat, Harry stared out his window, expression unreadable. Maxine sat behind them, her arms crossed, watching the rows of sagging houses drift past. None of them spoke.
But Ryan knew they were thinking it. Emerson. The factory. The children.
And Carsley.
The further they drove, the heavier the silence became. Not just between them, but within Ryan himself. Beneath the facts and names and motives, something else stirred. Something colder. Something wrong.
He'd seen rot before. He'd faced monsters. But what lingered here. What festered in the cracks of this ghost town felt deeper. Older. It wasn't just about missing children. It wasn't just about the Rathbones or whatever deal they'd struck in the dark.
It was the feeling in his gut. The kind that whispered that once the truth came out, it wouldn't just haunt them.
It would change them.
Forever.
"Hey, Potter," Ryan said suddenly, eyes still on the road.
Harry glanced over. "Yeah?"
"That bit back at the restaurant," Ryan smirked. "Didn't know you had it in you. Real tough-guy stuff. Bit clunky, but hell, I've seen worse."
Harry blinked, then chuckled. "I took a few notes from you. Though, I've got to agree with Emerson on one thing. You talk far too much."
Ryan grinned. "That's the trick. People drop their guard when they think they're winning an argument. Get 'em talking, boasting, threatening… next thing you know, they're handing you the whole damn playbook." He tapped the wheel. "I call it the Han Shot First routine."
Harry gave him a side glance. "I've seen that film. There's no honor in cheap shots."
"Honor?" Ryan scoffed. "What is this, Camelot?" He shot him a look. "We're not knights, Potter. Honor's a fairytale. In this line of work, it'll get you killed faster than a curse to the chest. No one remembers how you survived. Just that you did." He paused. "You wanna come home to people laughing at your dumb jokes over dinner? Or you want 'em crying over your closed casket? Pick one."
"That's a rather grim outlook on life," Maxine murmured from the back seat.
Ryan caught her gaze in the rear-view mirror. "Stick to your quills and gossip columns, Miss Misslethorpe. This life? You don't want it." He gestured toward Harry. "Hell, he's barely held onto his."
He looked back to the road, then added, "Speaking of which. Back there, when you said you knew what it felt like, to be powerless. You talking about Diggory… or Black?"
Harry tensed, eyes flicking to the floor. "…Among others."
"Yeah, I've read the files." Ryan nodded slowly. "I won't pretend to know what it felt like in that moment, but I know what comes after. Pain. Rage. That helpless fury. It builds. Swirls. Until you've got no choice but to do something, anything, just to keep from drowning in it."
A heavy silence followed.
Then Harry spoke, soft but steady. "Is that why you did what you did to Dolohov? Was Emerson right? Is it really vengeance for ghosts?"
Ryan's jaw flexed.
"Yes… and no," he said finally. "I don't know half the victims. And I sure as hell didn't know the bastards I split straight down the middle in slaughterhouse down in Minsk." His tone darkened. "You probably think I'm unhinged. That I get off playing Punisher. Even my shrink says I take this all too personal."
He exhaled. "But think about it. All those lives. Futures gone. Kids growing up without parents. Parents burying children. You…you staring at the man who could've raised you, loved you… gone, just like that." His gaze narrowed. "And not for any cause. Not for war. But for sport. For cruelty."
He paused as a streak of pain reflected in Harry's expression.
"My old man. Mentor, I mean, used to say: 'There's people… and there's animals. People get arrested. Animals get put down.'" His grip tightened on the wheel. "What I do. It isn't just revenge. It isn't just about getting even. It's about sending a message. Loud and clear. To all of them."
Maxine opened her mouth to speak, but a violent crash slammed through the Mustang, jolting her words into a scream.
The rear of the car lurched violently. Metal shrieked. Glass exploded. Tires screamed across the asphalt as the Mustang spiraled into a wild spin. Ryan's eyes flared, muscles tightening as he fought the wheel, whipping it hard to control the slide.
Ahead, a black SUV skidded to a halt in a trail of smoke.
The Mustang spun once. Twice, and on the third rotation, Ryan threw his door open mid-spin. In one swift motion, he stepped out, loafer hitting the road with the grace of a trained killer. His arm came up, pistol already drawn and aimed.
The Mustang's back bumper missed his calves by inches.
The slide of his weapon snapped forward then thunder cracked through the street as he stepped closer to the SUV. Bright muzzle flashes lit the grey fog as bullets punched through the windshield. Cracks webbed across the glass, and a burst of blood sprayed behind it. One of the doors opened, but the figure barely made it out before collapsing under a flurry of bullets. The second man didn't even get that far.
Ryan's clip emptied. Without breaking stride, he ejected it, slapped in another, and kept firing.
The Mustang skidded to a stop nearby.
Inside, Harry adjusted his glasses, catching sight of another SUV pulling into the junction from the opposite side. Without a word, he yanked off his seatbelt and grabbed his wand.
"Stay down!" he snapped, throwing open the door.
Maxine ducked low in the back seat, just as four figures burst from the SUV.
Harry was already moving.
"Stupefy!" he barked, slamming the first man off his feet. The others raised their wands, but Harry's snapped to the side.
"Expelliarmus!"
Their wands flew from their grips.
"Depulso!"
The second man flew backwards, crashing into the sidewalk with a sharp grunt.
Harry turned. "Flippendo!"
The third attacker flipped clean over the hood of the SUV, landing face-first into the cracked windshield with a muffled groan.
"Avada—!" The fourth figure raised his wand, but Harry's blast caught him in the chest, hurling him backward into the bumper. Metal bent. The man crumpled.
Ryan pivoted, still firing down the street. The thunder of an approaching motorbike cut through the chaos, but before the rider could even aim, Ryan snapped his gun toward them without looking, and fired once.
The bullet punched clean through the black visor.
The motorcyclist collapsed mid-roll, skidding across the street in a broken heap. Ryan lowered his smoking pistol, scanning for movement. Nothing but blood, smoke, and silence. The ambush had lasted less than a minute.
He rounded the open driver's door just as a low groan cut through the settling quiet. One of the men was still breathing, barely. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, soaking his shirt in dark red blooms. At least six shots had hit home, but somehow, he clung to life. His eyes fluttered open, and locked on Ryan.
Ryan crouched slightly, pistol still raised, gaze cool.
"Well, lookie what the cat dragged in," he said flatly. No humor. Just cold inevitability.
His eyes drifted to the passenger seat. The other man, jaw braced, half his face bandaged, sat slumped, dead, eyes wide and frozen in the horror he'd died with.
"I told you two mooks earlier today that I don't like being followed," Ryan muttered. "You and your pal should've listened."
The wounded man coughed, his body spasming as blood filled his throat. And then, a buzz. Ryan's head tilted. A vibration echoed from the man's coat. He reached down, slipping a phone from the inner pocket. A plain burner. The screen flashed with an incoming call. Ryan answered.
"Is it done, Mister Higgins?" Emerson's voice, calm and clipped, came through the line.
Ryan's lips curled into something dark. Cruel. His whisper sharp.
"Nos-fe-ra-tu."
Before there was even time for a reply, he raised the pistol.
The wounded man's eyes widened in terror.
A flash.
The shot rang out, and the brass casing clinked against the pavement.
Ryan stood straight, brought the phone back to his ear.
"Your move, asshole," he said quietly.
A pause. Then the line went dead.