Revenge tastes sweet, but it demands more.
The flames of Dock 17 still lingered in John's mind. The screams, the heat, the raw satisfaction of crushing a piece of his uncle's empire. But as dawn broke over the city, he knew this was just the beginning.
Alex and Victor were waiting in the strategy room, a map of the city spread before them, red marks circling warehouses, offices, and estates.
"Emeka was a pawn," Victor said, tapping the map with his pen. "But his death will shake the board. Your uncle will tighten security, close ranks. That's when we strike hardest."
Alex leaned forward, his sharp gaze on John. "But before the empire, we must deal with the roots. There are two men—your uncle's dogs. They were the ones who ordered the guards in prison to make your life hell. Do you remember them?"
John's jaw clenched. Memories came flooding back—beatings in the dark, whispered threats, food poisoned, nights when he thought he wouldn't see the morning.
"I remember," he said through gritted teeth.
Victor slid two photos across the table. "Chief Samuel Olisa. And Musa Danladi. Both on your uncle's payroll. Both still walking free."
John's eyes burned into the photos. These weren't just names. They were scars.
Alex's tone hardened. "This isn't just about killing them, John. This is about reclaiming yourself. Men like this believe they're untouchable. Prove them wrong."
That evening, John shadowed Samuel Olisa's convoy. The man was a politician now, hiding behind tinted cars and bodyguards in tailored suits. Victor's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Two Mercedes-Benz. Six guards. Standard formation. You'll need a distraction."
John's pulse quickened. In the mirror of a bike helmet, his eyes looked different. Colder.
The trap was swift. A truck swerved across the road, blocking the convoy. Guards leapt out, guns raised—only to be picked off one by one by silenced shots from the shadows.
John smashed through a window, dragged Samuel out by the collar, and pressed him to the ground.
"You remember me? John hissed. You misused your power and authority as chief guard of Blackridge Prison. I shall spare you nothing but death today."
Samuel's eyes widened. Recognition. Fear. "It—It can't be—you're supposed to be—"
John's blade silenced him. Quick. Clean. Final. Blood stained his hands, but for the first time in years, John felt lighter.
Across town, Sophia sat at a crime scene. A blackened car, bullet casings littering the ground, and a politician's corpse under a white sheet. Her partner spoke beside her. "Looks like another hit. What's your take?"
Sophia's gaze lingered on the blood, on the precision of the attack. This wasn't random. This was surgical. She muttered under her breath, "This is no street war. Someone is hunting them." Her instincts screamed. Someone out there was cutting through corruption with blade and fire. And sooner or later, she'd find out who.
Back at the compound, John washed the blood from his hands. His reflection stared back at him from the sink.
"Another one down," Victor said, leaning against the doorframe. "You're becoming a natural."
But Alex's voice was colder. "Careful, John. Revenge is like fire—it warms you at first. Then it consumes everything."
John dried his hands, his expression hard.
"Then let it burn."