He didn't have to look up to know.
Slowly, he did anyway.
Familiar faces stared back at him. Unwanted ones.
They were the men from the alley—the ones he had laid out to save that cop. Only this time, they weren't alone.
"Well, look who we found," one of them said, grinning wide.
It was the same one who had sneaked a look at his face that day. He crushed the packet of cigarettes in his fist, knuckles whitening, as if imagining Askai's skull instead. The sound was soft, deliberate.
Askai's gaze flicked to the man behind the counter. For a brief, foolish second, he hoped the man would reach for a phone, call the authorities. With their numbers, the uniforms would be here before the receiver even hit the hook.
But the shopkeeper only leaned back, a toothpick dangling from his lips, eyes gleaming with interest as he watched the scene unfold.
Enjoying it.
Of course.
The man with the cigarettes stepped closer. "Didn't think we'd run into you again so soon."
Askai didn't answer. His fingers tightened slightly around the items in his hand. The exits were already being blocked—but he had his eyes trained on one anyway.
That's when it clicked.
This wasn't just a store.
It was a front.
A place tucked between dark, damp alleys that led God knew where—places no uniform ever patrolled unless they were invited. The walls seemed to close in as Askai took it in, the quiet hum of danger settling into his bones.
The shop was crawling with them.
And this time, there seemed to be no easy way out.
Askai moved the instant the tension snapped, the first blow came from the side—a bottle shattering against the shelf where his head had been a second earlier. Glass exploded, groceries clattering to the floor. He drove his elbow back into the nearest body, felt ribs give, then grabbed a metal rack and swung it low. Knees buckled. Someone swore.
"Get him!" one of them yelled.
Askai didn't stay to see who it was. He lunged for the back exit.
A gunshot cracked through the store—too loud and too close. The sound punched through his skull like thunder and for half a heartbeat he expected pain, heat, the wet collapse of muscle.
Nothing.
The bullet tore into the wall beside the door instead.
Askai was already moving.
He burst out into the alley, feet slamming into wet concrete, breath tearing out of his lungs as he ran. Another shot rang out behind him—wild, rushed. He ducked instinctively, shoulder clipping a stack of crates, but kept going.
Someone followed.
He could hear it now—boots, uneven, desperate. Men. Stupid enough to chase him on foot.
Neither of them dared take the main lanes. Uniforms lined the streets like steel statues, rifles slung, eyes sharp. Every time Askai glimpsed blue or black ahead, all of them veered off at the last second, slipping into side alleys, service corridors, half-collapsed walkways that smelled of rot and piss.
Authorities or gangs.
Pick your poison.
Askai's chest burned. His vision tunneled. He vaulted a low fence and landed hard, pain shooting up his leg. Somewhere behind him, a man cursed, laughed—a sharp, ugly sound.
"You run good," the voice called. "Won't save you."
Askai cut left—
—and something slammed into the back of his head.
Stars burst across his vision. He stumbled, caught himself against a wall slick with grime, teeth rattling. Whatever had hit him had weight to it. Pipe, brick, baton—he didn't know. Blood trickled warm down his neck.
He pushed off anyway.
He couldn't stop. Couldn't slow.
If he fell here, the gangs would finish him. If the cops caught him bleeding and running, they'd ask questions he couldn't answer.
His options narrowed with every turn.
Then the alley ahead erupted.
Figures dropped from shadows, fast and silent. Tattooed men—arms, necks, faces inked black and blue, moving with terrifying intentions.
Intention to kill.
One of Askai's pursuers barely had time to register them before a blade flashed.
Throat opened.
Another man rounded the corner behind him—gun halfway raised—only to have his head snapped back, a shot fired point-blank into his face. The sound echoed once, then died.
Bodies fell. Quick and Ruthlessly.
Askai skidded to a halt, chest heaving, blood pounding in his ears. There were five corpses lying around him, weapons still drawn out and he had a bad feeling that he was soon going to join them.
One of the tattooed men stepped toward him, weapon lifting.
"Wait."
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade sliding home.
"He's not one of Greg's fools."
The man hesitated.
Askai looked up.
Recognition hit him like a second blow to the head.
Leonard.
Still the same but leaner. Harder. But unmistakable. Moraine's man. One of the loyalists who had once bled beside him in the West.
Leonard stared at him like he'd seen a ghost.
In a way, he had.
Askai said nothing.
Around them, the tattooed men finished their work, dragging bodies into shadow, wiping blades clean with practiced indifference. This wasn't random violence. This was quite structured.
So this was what the news had meant by coordinated response.
Moraine's people were everywhere.
Undercover and embedded into these stray gangs, steering the chaos.
The new crime lords of Middle Nolan had no idea whose territory they were really standing on—or whose demons they'd inherited.
Askai's mind flickered, sharp despite the pain. A thought clawed its way up, unwanted but persistent.
Everyone who had ever been close to him had been… moved. Reassigned and Distanced.
Leonard. Ramsay. Maybe others like them. Pieces shifted quietly off the board.
Brendon, of course, had been the exception. Moraine couldn't afford to lose him.
The bald man at the front—head carved with swirling tattoos—snickered, unimpressed.
"Who cares?" he said lazily. "We get paid for the heads we take off."
Leonard turned slowly.
"And he'll take off yours," Leonard said flatly, "if you touch one of his men. There are plenty of his handlers roaming these streets."
Silence fell.
The color drained from the bald man's face.
Askai watched it happen, pulse still roaring in his ears. He had a faint feeling that the reason behind the terror in the man's eye wasn't Moraine.