The warehouse loomed ahead like a wounded beast, its rusted iron skin peeling under the merciless rain. Broken windows gaped like hollow eyes, and the scent of oil, old blood, and secrets soaked the cold night air.
Fred stood still for a moment outside, the wet wind slapping his dark coat against his legs. His hair was plastered against his forehead, black as the sky overhead. Lightning flashed once — a ragged scar across the heavens — and Fred's shadow stretched long and monstrous across the cracked ground.
Behind him, Amelia's breath was steady, her gaze sharp under the hood of her drenched coat. Tielen, Jeff, Linet, Wendy, and the others had melted into the surrounding darkness, forming a loose, invisible net around the warehouse.
Fred's gloved hand tightened around the handle of his blade — a sleek, matte black sword forged in silence, unseen by history. It was time.
He nodded once.
Tielen was the first to move, a blur of black disappearing into the storm. Silent takedowns followed — muffled cries, thuds against concrete, and the wet splash of bodies hitting puddles.
Fred moved forward without hesitation. His boots made no sound as he crossed the threshold into the warehouse.
Inside, the world was a different kind of broken.
Chains swung lazily from the rafters. Pale bulbs dangled from frayed wires, flickering like dying fireflies. Crates stamped with the Crimson Order's blood-red sigil were stacked haphazardly around the room.
Men gathered in clusters, guns at their sides, cigarettes dangling from lips, unaware of the specter that had just entered their midst.
Fred's voice was a whisper that cut sharper than any blade.
"You forgot me.
You forgot the storm you created."
In a blink, chaos erupted.
Fred was a shadow among them. He moved with brutal elegance — ducking low, driving his fist into a man's throat, spinning, elbowing another in the temple. A gunshot cracked the air, but Amelia's dagger flashed, slicing the barrel from the weapon before it could roar again.
Jeff was already there, grappling with two men at once, slamming one into the crate with a sickening crunch.
Linet danced among her enemies with the deadly grace of a panther, every movement measured, every strike fatal.
Wendy smiled sweetly as she ducked a wild punch, her heel snapping forward into a guard's knee, dropping him like a stone.
The Crimsons fought back desperately, but it was like trying to cage the wind.
Fred's blade sang. It cut the night, slicing through gunmetal and bone alike. His face remained impassive, cold, as if death were an old friend whispering in his ear.
In the far corner, Joseph and Nick moved together, covering each other like clockwork gears. Joseph's broad frame crashed into enemies like a battering ram, while Nick's slim figure darted and weaved, knives flashing.
Gloria — beautiful, ethereal, and deadly — stood near the shattered window, her crossbow a blur of motion. Every bolt she fired found its mark, silent death punctuating the thunderclaps outside.
Suddenly, from the upper catwalk, a booming voice barked orders.
It was Mason — one of the Crimson lieutenants, a thick-necked brute with a shaved head and cruel gray eyes. He gripped a rifle and bellowed:
"Bring me his head! Bring me Fred's head!"
Fred looked up at him, rainwater dripping from his chin.
"You can have my head," Fred said quietly. "If you can keep your own."
And with a single shot from Gloria's crossbow, Mason's rifle spun from his hands, clattering to the metal floor below. Before he could recover, Fred was already moving — leaping up the crates, scaling the catwalk with terrifying speed.
Mason barely had time to draw a knife before Fred's boot smashed into his chest, sending him sprawling.
The fight ended not with a roar, but with a whimper.
Crimson Order members lay groaning or unconscious. Rain poured through broken windows, washing away the blood, the filth, the fear.
Fred stood above Mason's broken form, chest heaving slightly, blade dripping red.
"This was just the echo," Fred said, voice low. "The real storm... is still coming."
---
By dawn, the warehouse was silent again, claimed by the ghosts of the fallen.
Fred, Amelia, Tielen, Jeff, Linet, Wendy, Joseph, Nick, Gloria — they regrouped under a flickering streetlamp a few blocks away.
Their coats were torn, their skin bruised, but their spirits burned fiercer than ever.
Fred glanced up. The sky was beginning to lighten into a pale gray, the first timid hints of morning breaking through.
"Phase one," Fred said, his voice cutting through the damp air, "is complete."
"And phase two?" Amelia asked quietly.
Fred's gaze hardened, the reflection of a rising sun glinting in his dark eyes.
"Phase two," he said, "is when they start running."
The wind picked up, carrying away the last echoes of the night's violence, and with it, the Crimson Order's illusions of invincibility.
They thought they had broken Fred.
They had only forged him.
---