The Dock exhaled mist like the lungs of a dying beast.
Arkellin stood in the clearing between two towering walls of containers, knife still wet in his hand, breath steady. Beside him, Myra pressed against the steel wall, eyes wide, knuckles white where she clutched the edge of her skirt.
The sound came first—boots against asphalt, dozens of them. Then the silhouettes thickened in the fog. One by one they stepped into the glow of the sodium lamps: fifteen, maybe twenty men, their faces hidden by scarves and shadows, hands heavy with weapons scavenged from the street.
Batang besi glinted. Knives caught the faint light. Wooden bats scarred with old blood swung lazily in practiced hands.
The ring closed around them.
Arkellin shifted his stance, weight balanced, knife reversed in his grip. His voice cut through the fog, calm, dangerous.
"Which one of you dies first?"
A ripple of laughter, coarse and ugly. One man, younger than the rest, rushed forward with a baseball bat raised high.
Arkellin moved.
He stepped into the swing, not away. The bat cracked across his forearm, pain shooting up bone, but he was already inside the attacker's reach. His knife sliced across the man's ribs; the scream came a second later. Arkellin wrenched the bat free as the body crumpled.
Now armed with steel and wood.
Two more came at once, shouting. Arkellin pivoted, swinging the bat low. It connected with knees—bone shattered with a sickening crunch. As the man dropped, Arkellin reversed the knife and drove it into the second attacker's shoulder, twisting just enough to disable, not kill. The weapon clattered to the ground.
The circle hesitated.
Arkellin's eyes burned cold through the mist. His shirt was already streaked with blood, some his, most not. The baseball bat dripped at one end, the knife glistened in the other.
"Next," he growled.
They obeyed.
Four men rushed him together, two with pipes, one with a machete, one with another bat. Arkellin ducked under the first pipe swing, bat snapping upward into a jaw—teeth and blood sprayed. He twisted, used the falling man's weight as a shield, catching the machete's downward arc against bone instead of his flesh. Sparks flew as steel scraped steel.
With brutal efficiency, Arkellin jammed his knife into the side of the machete-wielder, yanking it free in the same motion to slash at the pipe-swinger's forearm.
The last one hesitated, bat trembling.
Arkellin's glare found him in the fog. One step forward, and the man broke—bat clattering to the ground as he stumbled back into the mist, vanishing like he'd never been there.
---
Behind him, Myra gasped for breath. She had pressed her back against the container, eyes fixed on him, horror and awe mingling. The fog painted his figure into something unreal: a silhouette of muscle, blade, and resolve, surrounded by broken men.
She whispered, voice barely audible: "You're… not human."
Arkellin didn't answer. He rolled his shoulder once, the ache from the first bat strike already numbing under adrenaline. His eyes swept the ring of shadows still waiting, still circling.
This was only the first wave.
He raised the bat, balanced the knife, and stepped into the mist again.
"Come and try."
The Dock swallowed his words, and the next charge began.
Shadows surged from the mist, steel and wood cutting the air. Arkellin met them head-on, not as prey but as the storm itself. His knife was no longer a blade—it was punctuation. Each movement a statement, final, undeniable.
The first attacker lunged with a hunting knife, wide swing aimed for Arkellin's ribs. Arkellin sidestepped, twisted his wrist, and let the man's momentum drive the blade into the side of a container with a screech of metal. In the same motion, Arkellin rammed the baseball bat across the man's temple. Bone cracked; the knife dropped, and Arkellin kicked it into his free hand.
Two knives now.
Another man rushed him, katana raised high. The blade gleamed dull orange in the sodium light, its edge chipped from years of rust and misuse. The swing came down heavy, reckless. Arkellin stepped forward instead of back, crowding the man's range, slamming one knife into the attacker's wrist. Fingers spasmed, katana slipping free. Arkellin caught it mid-fall, reversed the hilt, and drove the pommel into the man's jaw.
Katana in hand.
The fog filled with curses, boots, and desperation. Three more came at once—two with pipes, one with a fresh bat. Arkellin dropped the knives, gripping the katana two-handed. His body moved in clean arcs: slash low, cut through a thigh; pivot, blade ringing against pipe; twist, driving the bat into another skull. Blood sprayed across the container walls, streaking rust with crimson.
The wooden bat cracked against his shoulder from behind. Pain flared white, but Arkellin didn't stumble. He spun, catching the attacker's wrist with one hand, twisting until bone popped. He wrenched the broken bat free, jagged splinters jutting like teeth, and rammed it into the man's throat.
The scream cut short.
Myra pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, half to silence her sob, half to keep from crying out his name. Her eyes burned wide as she watched him dismantle men twice his size, faster than her mind could follow. Blood clung to his shirt, his face, his hair—mist turning scarlet where droplets fell.
But Arkellin's eyes were cold. He fought without hesitation, without pause. He was not surviving this; he was finishing it.
One attacker hesitated at the edge of the mist, pipe trembling in his hands. Arkellin advanced slowly, katana dripping in his grip.
"Your turn," Arkellin said, voice low, almost a growl.
The man dropped the pipe and ran.
Arkellin didn't chase. He turned instead, scanning the fog, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. His katana hung loose in one hand, the broken bat in the other. Around him, bodies lay sprawled—moaning, bleeding, silent.
The Dock smelled of iron, salt, and gunpowder waiting to happen.
And yet Arkellin knew. This wasn't the end. The circle hadn't broken completely. There were still more. Always more.
He spat blood to the ground, rolled his wrist, and braced himself.
"Send the rest," he muttered into the fog.
The Dock answered with footsteps.
The fog shifted again, heavier now, rolling over the corpses like a shroud. The ring of boots thickened. Shadows moved at the edges of light, a dozen men closing in tighter than before. Pipes scraped against containers. Steel clicked against steel.
Arkellin adjusted his stance, katana in his right hand, broken bat in his left. His shoulders rose and fell, steady as a metronome. But his eyes—sharp, unreadable—counted the footsteps, measured the breaths, tracked the distance.
Too many.
He let the katana fall, the blade clanging against wet asphalt. The broken bat followed, discarded into the mist.
A murmur of confusion rippled through the circle.
Then Arkellin reached behind him.
The motion was slow, deliberate, as though the Dock itself was holding its breath. His fingers brushed the small of his back, beneath his bloodied shirt.
And he drew it.
A pistol—matte black, old but well-kept, its weight familiar against his palm. The weapon had slept there, hidden, patient, waiting for this moment.
The men froze.
Arkellin chambered a round with a crisp snap. The sound cracked through the fog like lightning. He raised the barrel, eyes cold, stance unshaken.
The first man rushed anyway, screaming with a pipe raised high. Arkellin didn't move until the last second.
BANG.
The bullet tore through the man's chest. He dropped instantly, body twitching once before silence claimed him.
The Dock erupted.
They charged from all sides, rage overtaking fear. Arkellin's hands moved faster than thought.
BANG. A kneecap shattered. The man fell screaming.
BANG. A head snapped back, crimson spray bursting across the mist.
BANG. BANG. Two chests caved under the force, their bodies spinning before collapsing into puddles.
The pistol barked fire again and again, echoing against steel and sea. Muzzle flashes split the fog into fragments of light and death.
Arkellin stepped forward, each shot precise, controlled. He didn't waste bullets. He didn't hesitate. Every squeeze of the trigger was final.
Men dropped around him, weapons clattering to the ground, blood soaking into the wet asphalt. The survivors faltered, eyes wide, courage dissolving into horror.
Arkellin lowered the gun for a heartbeat, smoke curling from the barrel. His voice cut through the silence, calm and lethal:
"Run. Or join them."
Half the circle broke instantly, shadows scattering into the mist. The rest lingered a breath too long.
BANG. Arkellin dropped another.
The last two fled, boots pounding into the distance.
Silence returned.
The Dock was littered with bodies—some groaning, most not. Blood steamed faintly in the cold air, mixing with the tang of gunpowder. The mist carried it, sour and metallic.
Arkellin stood alone in the clearing, pistol still raised, chest rising steady. His shirt clung to him, soaked in sweat and crimson. His face was unreadable, cut from stone.
Behind him, Myra finally moved. Her knees shook as she stumbled to his side, clutching his arm, her eyes locked on the gun still smoking in his hand.
He glanced at her briefly. Just long enough to see the fear, the awe, the raw fire in her gaze.
Then he turned back to the fog, scanning for more.
But there were none.
For tonight, the Dock was finished.
The Dock was quiet now. Too quiet.
Only the drip of blood against wet asphalt remained, mixing with the faint hiss of the tide slapping against steel pylons. The fog had thinned just enough for the sodium lamps to paint cruel halos over the carnage—bodies strewn like broken dolls, weapons abandoned where they fell.
Arkellin lowered the pistol at last. Smoke curled from the barrel, caught in the damp air before vanishing. His arm ached, his shoulder burned from a dozen strikes, but his stance never wavered. He scanned the mist once more, listening, waiting.
Nothing.
For tonight, the Dock had no more to give.
Behind him, Myra pressed forward. Her hands trembled as they reached for his arm, gripping the blood-streaked fabric of his shirt. She was pale, her breath uneven, but her eyes—wide, luminous—never left him.
"You…" Her voice cracked, hushed. "You killed them all."
Arkellin turned his head slightly, the streak of white in his hair catching the dim light. "They would have killed us."
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she clung tighter, burying her face briefly against his shoulder. His shirt was damp, smelling of gunpowder and iron, but she didn't flinch. She needed the solidness of him, the proof that he was still standing.
He let her. For a moment, he let her.
Then, gently, he pried her back, just enough to meet her eyes. "You shouldn't have followed me," he said, voice low, rough.
Tears glittered at the corners of her lashes, but she shook her head fiercely. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't have seen what you carry. What you fight. What you are."
Arkellin's gaze hardened, but something flickered behind it—something tired, raw, unguarded.
Myra swallowed, then whispered, almost pleading, "Don't leave me tonight. Not after this. I can't—" her voice broke, "—I can't be alone with these images in my head. Stay. Just stay with me."
The Dock's silence pressed heavier at her words.
Arkellin looked at her, really looked at her—her trembling form, the bruise already blooming on her cheek from the slap, the defiance still burning in her eyes despite fear. She had walked into his war, seen its cost, and still reached for him.
His hand lifted, almost against his will, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. She leaned into the touch instantly, eyes closing, as if drawing strength from the contact.
He didn't promise. He didn't speak. But the way his hand lingered, the way his shoulders finally eased, gave her the answer she needed.
Myra's lips curved in the faintest smile, fragile but real. She caught his hand in both of hers, pressing it against her cheek, and whispered, "Come back with me. Just tonight."
Arkellin's jaw clenched. He said nothing. Yet when he finally lowered his pistol, sliding it into the back of his waistband, and turned toward the car waiting in the shadows, he didn't let go of her hand.
Myra followed, step for step, their shadows merging into one as the Dock disappeared behind them.