FOUR YEARS LATER
The city had changed. The world had moved on. But Michael hadn't.
He stood alone in a forgotten warehouse on the edge of the city, the dim light of flickering bulbs exposing the story written across his skin. Every inch of his body was carved by scars: old bullet holes stitched closed by fire and alcohol, knife cuts running like rivers down his arms, jagged burns etched into his back. His chest bore a long diagonal scar — the kind that should've killed him.
But he was still here.
His breathing was heavier than before, a rasp that never left his throat. He was stronger, yes — years of war had turned his muscles into armor — but there was a weight in his eyes. A weight no fight could shake.
On a rusted table beside him lay a photograph, edges curled and stained with dried blood. Faces blurred with time. He ran his finger across the image slowly, pausing at one spot.
It was her, Crystal.
The only name he ever let himself whisper anymore.
He closed his eyes. For a moment, her smile lit the darkness, warm and gentle, like a life he could have lived. Then it was gone, swallowed by shadows, like everything else.
[flashback]
Michael was sitting in the same warehouse, his scarred body barely holding together. A courier dropped a folded letter on the table and left without a word.
He opened it slowly, hands trembling. The words were blunt, almost cruel in their simplicity:
Crystal is gone.
For a moment, he didn't move. His breath caught. His eyes traced the letters again and again, as if the ink might change if he willed it hard enough.
Then the paper slipped from his fingers.
Michael's chest heaved as the weight crashed down. The chair screeched back as he staggered to his knees, clutching his head like the world was splitting apart.
Michael (hoarse, whispering):
"No… no… You can't… You can't be gone. Not you…"
His voice cracked, tears mixing with the dirt and blood on his face. For years, he had been abandoned, left behind, but she was the one name he whispered in the dark, the one light he still clung to.
And now even that light was gone.
Inside his chest, someone laughed.
Unknown
"There. Do you see it now? They all leave. They all die. I'm the only one that remains."
Michael slammed his fists against the floor, cracking the concrete. His roar shook the warehouse. His scars burned as if the Demon's fire was pouring out of them.
Michael (screaming):
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"
But the Demon was louder this time, wrapping around his grief like chains, feeding on his despair.
[flashback ends]
------
Four years.
Four years of battles in back alleys, underground rings, and blood-soaked streets. His reputation had grown into legend, whispered as a curse. The Demon Without Chains. Hunters came for him. Assassins came for him. Whole organizations tried to crush him.
And every time, he was still standing when the smoke cleared. But never once did anyone come to his aid. Not the brothers he bled beside. Not the ones he once called family.
In the end, no one reached for him.
Michael dragged himself toward a cracked mirror nailed to the wall. He stared at the reflection — older, harder, barely recognizable. His hair longer, face rougher, eyes shadowed with something almost inhuman.
The faint glow of red lingered deep in his pupils, the Demon never letting him forget what he'd become.
He pressed his hand against the mirror, leaving a streak of dried blood.
Michael (low, bitter):
"…It's just me. Always me."
Silence answered.
The world outside roared with life, but here in the shadows, Michael stood as a monument to everything lost. A man alive, yet forgotten.
So in the end, I couldn't do anything with all this power. I was really pathetic in the end.
He closed his eyes in deep thought. Its enough is enough, I have nothing to lose now. It is just kill or get killed. I'm fed up with all this. He then picked up the gun, which was hung up on the wall.
"Only you are left with me," Michael whispered to the gun.
Michael stared at it for a long time, jaw clenched. His hand trembled as he picked it up, then steadied with cold resolve. He dialed a number.
The line rang. Once. Twice.
Finally, a voice answered-
Voice (low):"…Michael? Thought you were dead."
Michael's tone was ice, carrying years of suppressed fury.
Michael: "You'll wish I were. I need something."
A pause. The man on the other end shifted uneasily.
Voice: "You only ever call when blood's about to spill. What is it?"
Michael leaned forward, shadows sharpening his face, eyes burning like embers.
Michael: "The Upper Table. They are all again in one place now, right? Where"
The other end went quiet—too quiet. Michael could hear only faint breathing.
Voice: "…That's suicide. You know what you're asking? Those people aren't kings, they're gods in this world."
Michael's hand tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked.
Michael: "Gods will bleed today. Tell me where."
Silence again, then a sigh of defeat.
Voice: "… In Kyoto. Under the old imperial quarters. But Michael… once you step into that circle, there's no coming back."
Michael's gaze dropped for a moment. On the table beside the phone was a worn photograph—Crystal's smile frozen in time. He reached out, brushing it with his dried fingers.
Michael: "I already have nothing to come back to."
He hung up.
The bulb flickered. Michael stood, grabbing his weapons, strapping them across his battered frame. His reflection in the cracked mirror showed not a man—but a demon getting ready for his last war.
after some days
KYOTO – TEA HOUSE, MIDNIGHT
The rain tapped against paper lanterns, streets gleaming under the glow. Inside a quiet tea house, whispers carried faster than the steam from the kettles.
Two men in sharp suits leaned close across a low table, their voices hushed.
Man 1: "They say he's alive. Four years gone, and now… he's walking Kyoto's streets."
Man 2: "Impossible. He bled out in New York. Even the High Table couldn't track him. Ghost stories."
The first man swallowed hard, lowering his voice. Man 1: "Then explain this. A Yakuza outpost outside Osaka was found yesterday—every guard was dead. No gunshots. Just… torn apart. And a message carved into the wall: 'Apostle.'"
The second man froze. His hands trembled slightly, though he tried to keep his cup steady. Man 2: "Red Demon…"
At the counter, an old woman serving tea overheard. She shook her head, muttering as if reciting an old curse: Old Woman: 'If he has returned, Kyoto will burn before dawn."
-------
KYOTO – UPPER TABLE MEETING HALL
The chamber was carved in black stone, lanterns casting long shadows across the round table. Figures cloaked in silk and steel sat in silence—powerful, untouchable. Yet tonight, there was unease.
A trembling messenger was dragged into the circle, forced to his knees. He didn't dare to look at their eyes.
Table Elder: "Speak. Why do you disturb us with rumors?"
{The messenger swallowed hard, voice shaking.}Messenger: "Forgive me… but he came back. The man who shook New York, The RED DEMON.Michael."
A ripple passed through the chamber. Some scoffed, others shifted uneasily.
Elder #2 (cold, dismissive): "He is just a discarded dog. A dog to frighten children. He cannot touch us."
But another voice cut in, sharp and bitter. Elder #3: "And yet—outposts have fallen. Our men were slaughtered. Messages left… personal ones. He is not here for war; he is here for vengeance. That makes him worse than Wick ever was."
The head of the table leaned forward, his jeweled hand tightening on the armrest. His voice was calm, but it carried iron.
Head Elder: "If this ghost seeks Kyoto, then Kyoto must become his grave. Double the guards. Call in the hunters. Spread word—no ally, no friend, no brother will shelter him. If he breathes in this city, the air will choke him."
Silence fell again....
Outside the massive wooden gate, etched with dragons, loomed like the entrance to another world.
One by one, the guards began to notice it—an unease. Radios crackled with static. A shadow kept slipping between the rain, too deliberate to be an accident.
Then—silence.
A body dropped from the ramparts, throat cut clean. Another guard turned, only to vanish into the black. No gunshots. No screams. Just the storm swallowing everything.
Finally, the captain of the watch approached the gate, sword drawn. His eyes swept the courtyard, nerves tightening. Captain: "Who hides in our walls?"
A scarred figure stepped into the lantern light. Coat soaked through, hair matted to his face, eyes burning. The guards froze when they saw him—rumor had taken flesh.
Michael.
He said nothing at first. His breath was heavy, but his stance was unshaken.
Captain: "Impossible… you were supposed to be dead."
Michael finally spoke, his voice low, almost swallowed by the storm
Michael: "I was."
With that, he dropped the first body at his feet—a warning, not a trophy. The guard's face was still frozen in terror.
The entire courtyard went still. Even the storm seemed to hesitate.
Michael's eyes lifted to the gate, then beyond it, where he knew the High Table sat in their circle of shadows.
Michael: "But you made me a ghost. Tonight, I haunt you."
He took a step forward, rain washing over his scars like baptism. The gatekeepers raised weapons, trembling.
---
The rain hadn't let up for hours. It beat upon the old wooden building like the heavens themselves were attempting to drown the past. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and earthy, shaking the floorboards like a warning from something older even than gods.
Then the doors swung open.
No ceremony. No fanfare. Only the creaking long and low of wood as a figure stepped within.
Alone.
Rain-soaked and blood-soaked. The coat fell from his shoulders like dead weight. A hand clutched at his side — fingers wet and shaking — and the other dangled low, curled into a fist. His boots were scuffed. His breathing is shallow. His eyes are dim.
And yet. Each step boomed like thunder.
He strode not as a victorious warrior, but as a ghost who would not sleep. Water and blood dragged with each step across the spotless floor, spoiling its cleanliness. Wet earth and iron clung to him — the stench of graveyards, not battlefields.
The guards straightened. One muttered low into a radio. Another hesitated, hand on the gun concealed beneath his coat.
A voice broke from the table.
"You should be dead."
The man halted. Raised his head.
His face was scarred now. Older. Whiter than it should have been. One eye is still discolored from a fight a few days ago, lip is cleft down the middle. But it was the eyes — dark and afire — that made the table hunch forward. As if they weren't staring at a man, but at something that had crawled back up from the abyss.
He didn't bellow.
"I was."
Silence.
"But you never buried me."
He left it suspended like smoke.
Then the slightest nod from the circle. A dismissive gesture.
Click.
Blades came out of scabbards. Guns in silent simultaneity. The guards — six, then eight — advanced. Calm. Exact. Ready.
The figure didn't linger.
He stepped. As if a switch had been thrown.
The first guy hardly flinched before the figure was on him — arm across his wrist, spinning the pistol away, and butting a forearm into his throat with a crunch. The man choked, reeled, and was silenced when a knife, torn from another belt, was thrust upward into his jaw.
A gun went off. Muffled. Struck the wall. Another grazed the shoulder of the figure — flesh ripped — but he rolled, spun, and knocked the shooter down with a kick to the knee and a kick to the head.
No wasted motion.
Each motion carried weight. Each kill was not handed out, but worked for.
Two more threatened him with blades. One swung wildly. He ducked, headbutted the attacker in the nose, then grabbed the falling man's sword as he went down and plunged it into the side of the other fellow's neck in a single, vicious sweep.
Blood collected. The shining floor no longer reflected the lantern glow. Now it glistened in red.
The next door swung open. They weren't guards this time — they were executioners. Silent, in black armor, cold eyes.
One approached him with twin knives. The rhythm shifted. Faster. Sharper.
They danced across the ground, exchanging feints and blows. But the figure was hindered by his wounds, each inhalation more labored than the last. A gash split his back. He gritted. Then spun — caught a wrist in mid-blow, wrenched it until bones cracked, and plunged his elbow into the assassin's throat until the body fell limp.
Another assailant emerged from the side — bulkier, wielding an axe in both hands.
The figure did not step back.
He charged.
They crashed into each other like tectonic plates. The axe had inches to spare, striking the floor with a cracking shriek. The figure strained, hands burying into the armored neck, pulling the larger man back. They crashed into a pillar. Lanterns swayed overhead.
Fists came next.
One. Two. Three.
The axe-man collapsed.
The man dropped to one knee. Gasping for air. Blood trickling down his face. His hand shook. He blinked — slow — as if the world was catching up to him at last.
Silence returned.
The other guards were held motionless.
The ring sat frozen, but tension danced across their silhouettes.
He stood.
Staggered forward. Every step is a protest. A rebuke.
"I didn't come here to escape," he croaked. "I came here to finish it."
One of them made a gesture — a final, desperate move.
He pointed the gun he'd picked up from a fallen hand.
BANG.
A single shot.
The would-be traitor fell backward over his chair, red blooming across silk.
The figure moved into the center of the circle now. Encircled by opulence. Death at his feet. Memory in his eyes.
"This isn't vengeance," he said.
"This is your legacy. The world will remember you… like this."
Someone tried to speak.
He raised the gun again.
Bang.
Silence.
One by one, they tried to beg, to rationalize, to delay the inevitable.
But he had no more to say.
No mercy.
Only closure.
Each shot was slow. Controlled. Deliberate.
When the final one slumped over the edge of the table, their wine spilling down onto the floor, it was indistinguishable from the blood that covered the room.
He stood there, swaying.
Gun lowered.
Breathing shallow.
He dropped the weapon.
He staggered to the center of the hall. Looked up at the emblem above the table.
Then fell to his knees.
The rain outside grew heavier. Wind howled through the compound's ruined windows. The flames in the lanterns flickered, then died.
He leaned against one of the pillars, slowly sliding down to sit. Blood was soaking into the floor beneath him. Eyes closing.
No footsteps arrived. No survivors. No salvation.
He did not scream.
Did not speak.
Only breathed — slower. Slower.
Until he died.
The world would learn about it eventually.
Whispers in the underworld. Panic in the upper echelons. The impossible vindicated.
The demon was back.
And now… he was dead.
But they would never remember him.
Because the ones who constructed empires on silence… were buried in memory.