The morning cracked open like a fragile shell, spilling golden light over a city that didn't deserve such beauty.
In the heart of the crumbling West District, smoke still curled lazily from distant fires. Broken glass littered the narrow streets. The once-proud banners of the Crimson Order now hung shredded and forgotten on lampposts, fluttering pitifully in the gentle breeze.
Fred stood on the rooftop of an abandoned post office, his coat flaring behind him in the cool wind.
His dark hair was dry now, swept back, revealing a cut on his brow that he hadn't bothered to clean. His sharp, intense eyes scanned the sleeping city below — a predator waiting for his prey to stir.
The others were gathering behind him, one by one.
Amelia first — her leather boots silent on the rooftop gravel, her steel-gray eyes matching the sky.
Tielen, lean and quiet, chewing a toothpick and watching the streets with the casual tension of a loaded gun.
Jeff and Linet, speaking in low murmurs about supply lines, maps tucked under their arms.
Wendy, Joseph, Nick, and Gloria trailed in moments later, each bearing fresh scars, fierce smiles, and silent promises of more battles to come.
The city below had no idea the noose was tightening around its neck.
---
As Fred gazed over the landscape, his mind wandered — just for a heartbeat — back to where it had all begun.
A dusty afternoon.
A forgotten village.
The smell of baked earth and old wood.
He remembered being a boy, barefoot, with dirt-smudged cheeks, watching the men of the Crimson Order swagger through his home like they owned it.
He remembered the day they took everything.
And he remembered the promise he made over his father's broken body:
"One day, you will kneel to me."
The air around Fred seemed to hum, charged with the heavy weight of the past.
He breathed once, deeply, tasting the memory like bitter wine — then exhaled it into the wind.
---
Fred turned, his long coat slicing the air.
He addressed them without raising his voice — because power didn't need to shout.
"This is only the beginning," he said. "Phase two is exposure.
We strip them.
We make them visible.
We tear down their shadow."
Tielen cracked his knuckles, the faintest smile playing at his lips. "About damn time."
Jeff pulled a battered notebook from his pocket — a list of names. Betrayers. Collaborators. Spies.
One by one, they would fall.
Linet, adjusting the black leather gloves on her slender fingers, nodded. "I've been waiting for this."
"Where do we start?" Wendy asked, her bright eyes gleaming beneath the rim of her cap.
Fred's gaze flickered southeast — toward a part of the city where glittering towers rose like false promises, hiding rot behind polished glass.
"With them," Fred said.
"Their money. Their seats of power.
Their lies."
---
The group descended from the rooftop under a burning sunrise, the sky a fierce clash of orange and violet.
The air smelled of wet asphalt, gasoline, and something electric — the scent of change.
As they moved through the backstreets — a river of black coats and silent intentions — Fred thought about the others still out there:
— Sophie, embedded deep within the political web, feeding them information drop by drop.
— Paul, manipulating financial networks like puppet strings from behind a computer screen.
— Joseph and Nick, building alliances with street gangs and mercenaries alike.
Their war wasn't fought only with blades.
It was fought with whispers, secrets, betrayals.
Fred knew the time was coming when all of them — every friend, every enemy — would be forced to show their true faces.
---
By midmorning, they arrived at a glittering café called Verity, nestled at the crossroads of the wealthiest part of the city.
It was a gilded cage where the corrupt sipped imported wine and laughed behind their diamond smiles.
Fred observed from the shadows.
The man they were after — Senator Marcus Velcroft — was seated near the window, wrapped in expensive silk and surrounded by bodyguards who wore suits but stank of fear.
Fred's lips curved into something that almost resembled a smile.
"Begin," he whispered.
Tielen and Jeff melted into the crowd, blending like smoke.
Wendy took up a position near the kitchen door, flashing a shy smile at the oblivious waitstaff.
Gloria leaned against a lamppost across the street, crossbow hidden beneath her flowing coat.
Fred moved last.
He entered Verity like a ghost.
Every step calculated.
Every glance unnoticed.
When Senator Velcroft lifted his wine glass to toast his own corrupt victories, he found Fred standing quietly at the end of his table — dripping shadow and intent.
Velcroft's mouth opened to protest, but Fred moved faster.
He seized the senator's wrist, squeezing just hard enough for the man's wineglass to shatter in his hand.
Blood mingled with red wine, dripping onto the spotless white tablecloth.
Fred leaned in close, so only Velcroft could hear:
"Your time is over.
Run if you want.
It won't change how this ends."
Velcroft's bodyguards surged forward — only to find their guns missing, their knives gone.
Tielen grinned from behind them, twirling a stolen pistol on one finger.
Outside, the café's glass exploded inward — Gloria's signal.
Screams erupted. Patrons scattered.
In the chaos, Fred, Tielen, and Jeff dragged Velcroft out into the street, ignoring his protests, his bribes, his desperate gasps.
Justice wasn't something Fred negotiated.
It was something he delivered.
---
The rain returned in a fine mist as they tossed the senator into a battered black van.
Fred slammed the doors shut, locking him in darkness.
Above them, the clouds churned like a living thing, heavy with the promise of storms to come.
Fred turned his gaze south again, where the high towers stood — the last bastions of the Order's corrupt might.
He could almost hear the thunder rumbling in the distance.
They were coming for all of it.
For every lie.
For every sin.
And this time, Fred wasn't alone.