Chicago was a graveyard of rust and concrete, and Aaron Hughes moved through it like a ghost.
He kept his hood up, head down, boots crunching against broken glass and cold asphalt. The South Side was quieter now—quieter than it should be. That meant something was wrong. Chicago never slept. Not really. But tonight, it held its breath like the city knew something was coming.
Aaron knew that feeling well. It crawled in his spine, a cocktail of fear and instinct sharpened by eleven years of meth and pain. He hadn't used in four days. The ache behind his eyes felt like a knife twisting deeper every hour. But he needed to be sharp. Bishop was making moves again. He could feel it.
He ducked into the alley behind a boarded-up liquor store, pistol tight in his palm. He hadn't slept, but his senses were razor-edged. That was the tradeoff. Restless nights for a faster trigger finger. And lately, he needed both.
Bishop had taken everything once. His sobriety. His future. His humanity. And now, Aaron could feel him circling again, like a vulture waiting for the last tremble before the kill. But Aaron wasn't the same man anymore. He wasn't a broken junkie in an alley praying to stay invisible. He was fire now. Fire and ghosts.
A metal clatter echoed across the alley.
Aaron froze, shoulder pressed to the brick wall, breath tight. A figure stepped out of the darkness—a runner, lean and fast. Not a threat. Not yet.
"Aaron," the runner gasped. "It's Leon. He found something. You need to see this."
Aaron didn't ask questions. He just moved. He didn't trust anyone—not really—but Leon had been there when the world fell apart. And if Leon said it was important, it meant blood was coming.
The game had begun again. And this time, Aaron wasn't playing defense.
He was coming for the king.