Victor Kane had made a mistake.
The kind of mistake powerful men like him weren't supposed to make.
The kind that came back not just to haunt you—but to bury you.
He had been so sure.
So certain.
Damien Voss was finished. A ghost from the past, buried beneath betrayal and time.
But ghosts have a nasty habit of returning.
And Damien… Damien didn't just return.
He rose.
Victor stood alone in his private office, the soundproof doors muffling the fading echoes of the extravagant wedding reception still raging below. Laughter. Music. Clinking glasses. All of it felt like an insult now—a farce in the face of what had just happened.
The room smelled of aged whiskey, Cuban tobacco, and stress.
Books lined the mahogany shelves, ancient and unread. The kind of collection that said look how cultured I am without requiring anyone to actually turn a page.
Victor wasn't reading tonight.
His eyes were glued to the swirling amber in his glass, jaw tight, temple pulsing.
How?
How the hell is he alive?
His fingers tapped a jagged rhythm on the desk, mind spiraling.
Who helped him?
Who covered for him all these years?
And most importantly—why now?
A sharp knock shattered his thoughts.
"Enter," he barked, the tension in his voice sharp enough to cut.
The door creaked open.
Ivan Morelli stepped in, dressed in black from collar to toe. Clean-shaven. Cold-eyed. The kind of man who never blinked twice at blood.
Victor didn't stand. He just stared at Ivan like he was already holding the trigger to something.
"I assume you saw what happened," he said coldly.
Ivan gave a curt nod. "The whole goddamn city did."
Victor slammed the glass down, liquid sloshing over the rim. "That bastard humiliated me. Crashed my daughter's wedding like some low-rent specter. In front of every ally, every enemy, every camera."
His voice dropped, low and venomous. "That cannot go unanswered."
Ivan's expression didn't change. "You want him gone."
"No," Victor hissed, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with something dark and dangerous. "I want him erased. Like he never existed. I want every trace of Damien Voss wiped clean. Burned. Buried. Forgotten."
He stared out the tall window behind him. The skyline glittered like a lie.
"I don't even know how he survived the first time. We made sure he was dead. I paid for certainty."
Ivan's lips twitched. "Then you were overcharged."
Victor's eyes snapped back to him, fire blazing. He pulled open a drawer and slid a thick envelope across the desk.
"Tonight. No mistakes. I want him gone."
Ivan didn't even glance inside. He took the envelope, pocketed it, and nodded once.
"It's already done."
Midnight.
The city slept, but the streets beneath it didn't.
They pulsed with shadows—hunters wrapped in silence and steel.
Six men moved like phantoms through the alleyways. No chatter. No hesitation. They weren't thugs or street rats. These were trained killers. Black ops ghosts turned mercenaries. They had executed senators in their beds, warlords in bunkers, billionaires in boardrooms.
Tonight, their mission was simple.
Eliminate Damien Voss.
Their intel led them to the outskirts of the city—an abandoned warehouse wrapped in rust and darkness.
Graves, their leader, gave the signal. They fanned out, guns drawn, silencers fixed. No mistakes. No noise. Get in, kill, get out.
Easy.
The doors creaked open, moonlight spilling through the cracks.
But something was wrong.
Too quiet. Too still. The air inside was thick—not with dust, but with intent.
Graves frowned. "No movement. Move in."
They advanced.
Step by step.
Then—
CLANG.
A heavy metal door slammed shut behind them.
Lights flickered on overhead with a thunderous hum, illuminating the concrete floor in a flood of cold white.
And there, in the center of the room, like the eye of a storm—
Stood Damien Voss.
Not hiding. Not running.
Waiting.
He was dressed in black. No armor. No visible weapons. Just presence. Power. A slow, cold smirk carved into his face.
"You boys took your time," he said, voice calm. Smooth. Dangerous.
The assassins raised their weapons in unison.
But it was already too late.
Damien moved first.
A flash of silver—
A spray of blood.
A scream.
One man dropped, clutching his neck, gurgling as life poured from him.
The next turned—too slow. Damien was behind him in a blink, arm wrapped around his neck. One brutal twist—crack. The body dropped.
Panic rippled through the remaining four. Their training kicked in—but instincts wavered. This wasn't some washed-up survivor. This wasn't even human.
Damien was a storm in human form.
He disarmed the third man with brutal efficiency, driving his elbow into his jaw, then spinning and firing the dead man's own pistol.
BANG. Headshot. Clean.
BANG. Two more shots, two more bodies.
Only Graves remained.
He dropped his gun.
Dropped to his knees.
Hands shaking.
"Please…" he whispered. "Mercy…"
Damien walked forward, boots echoing like war drums.
He knelt.
Grabbed Graves' face like it was already dead weight.
"Mercy?" Damien's voice was quiet now. Measured. "Did they show me mercy when they fed me to the wolves?"
Graves couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink.
Damien leaned in closer, his words slow and deliberate.
"Tell your master…"
A pause.
"…The Crimson King has returned."
Then the room went black.
A single shot echoed into the silence.