GRAY SANDOVAL woke to three things, all at once: The taste of iron in his mouth. The weight of a rough rope biting into his wrists. And the low-slung gloom of a room as dead as his future. He blinked twice, the second time fully awake. His hair crusted with something sticky, maybe sweat or worse. His head throbbed in layers, like someone had wrapped his brain in a foam helmet and slammed the door repeatedly. He tried to speak, but the words came out as dry as gravel crunching underfoot.
Where am I, again?
He spat. A small trickle of blood coughed up with the saliva. Felt his lips: swollen, split. Checked his fingers. One was numb. He tugged on the rope. It didn't budge. Great. The room looked abandoned. Bags of cement stacked in a corner, a broken lamp swinging lazily from the ceiling, so old the bulb could drop at any moment. Thick spiderwebs stretched between support beams and empty shelves. Dust motes floated in the air like mourners at a funeral. Same idea, probably.
On the far side of the room, a single man leaned against a crate. Grimy white shirt halfway unbuttoned, torn jeans spattered with mud. His face pressed close to a flip phone, one finger tapping out messages. He looked... happy. Almost like someone who just scored a date. Then he noticed Gray. He glanced up, and his smile cracked wide.
Gray gave him a slow, sarcastic bow, tongue still tasting blood. "Well, well, I see I'm en vogue this evening. To whom do I owe the honor?"
The other guy paused his texting, still grinning. He called on the phone. "Hey... he's up." He snapped the phone closed and shook his head. "Too many enemies, you don't know who's who, huh?"
Gray squinted. "Is that a question or sympathy?"
The man shrugged. "Ice me." Gray froze only for a second before the gravity of what that meant registered. The man produced an ice pick. Long, thin, and wicked. He ran the tip over with his fingertips like he was counting ants. Gray's heart raced, not out of fear, but for the drama. If life were a movie, this would be the part where the hero gives the world a speech on redemption.
But Gray wasn't a hero. Only a survivor. Still, the textures of this moment, howling from his bones, told him this was serious. He rolled his eyes. Pain stabbed across his face, jaw and lips, as if someone lit him on fire. He blinked, tasting blood again.
The man leaned close, his face a few inches away from him. The ice pick hovered above Gray's eyes. "Where did you hide the money you stole from the warehouse, Sandoval?"
Gray backed his face away as the guy's breath entered his nostrils. "Is that fish?"
Gray shifted, slow, careful, working on the ropes behind him. The knot was simple, but the man couldn't see the manhandling from the other side. He smiled. The man cursed and slapped Gray hard. His ring cut into his lip, blood dripped. He tasted it again, familiar, rotten. Gray blinked, coughed. "So, Andong Crew," he said, sounding bored. "Silence. That's a yes, then."
The man scowled. "Do you really think someone small like you can steal from us and remain unscathed?"
Gray scoffed. He glanced at their ragged surroundings. "First of all, dirty money is still money. Evil crooked fish still found their scales worth selling." He chuckled. "And for evil people like us... don't you think I deserve some?"
The man cracked. Gray sensed his victory. The man's face twitched. Anger, amusement. Then he lunged. Steel white heat jagged through Gray's chest as ice met flesh. His vision flickered. He cursed, snatched the ice pick's tip between finger and thumb, sharp as sin. Then he kicked out.
The man staggered. Gray yanked backward, the knot loosened enough to slip a hand free. Blood spiked warm. He dropped to the floor sideways, held up one fist.
"A fight isn't all about fists. Move. Let the body flow with the strike." Gray remembered his grandfather taught him when he was young. They trained in the open-air gym under coconut palms. The feint-and-counter dance he learned echoed inside his chest, the rhythm of two bamboo sticks clashing, dust flying, ankles pivoting. Lolo's face was stern as he whispered: "Lean but strong, apo."
Gray didn't hesitate. He surged forward with a violent grace, fist cocked and ready. The punch landed square on the man's cheekbone with a dull, satisfying crack. It echoed in the room like a punctuation mark. The man staggered back, stunned, clutching his face. Gray didn't give him time to breathe. He followed up with another blow, faster this time, then one more to the gut. The man doubled over, wheezing. Gray drove his knee into the side of his ribs and, with one hard twist, yanked his arm free from the loosened ropes. The coarse fibers burned his skin, but he welcomed the pain. Pain meant he was still in control.
He stood up. Slowly, deliberately. Blood smeared his chin, and sweat dampened his collar. His muscles ached, but the rhythm of movement grounded him. There was clarity in chaos. He took a deep breath through his bruised nostrils, and the stink of mildew and rust flooded his senses. It was enough to make someone else gag. For Gray, it just reminded him he was still alive.
That's when the door burst open behind him, banging hard against the wall. Two more men flooded into the room, thick-shouldered, tattooed, eyes twitching like they weren't sure if they were hitmen or cleanup crew. Gray didn't wait to find out. He grabbed the nearest thing his hands could find, a small wooden chair, and lifted it high over his head. With a roar, he hurled it across the room. It slammed into the first guy's arms with a heavy crunch, as he tried to cover himself with it, knocking him flat. The man collapsed under the weight.
Then the room exploded in motion.
Crates toppled over. Bags of cement burst open and spilled across the floor in gray clouds. The lamp above them gave up and shattered on the floor in a pop of glass and sparks. The second thug lunged at him. Gray ducked low, twisting just in time to avoid the fist aimed at his jaw. He grabbed the man's shirt mid-momentum, yanked him forward, and smashed his forehead into the guy's nose. The crunch was instant and wet. The man crumpled.
Now the guy with the ice pick was already back on his feet, weapon in hand, eyes burning with hatred. The blade caught the light as he lunged again. Gray turned his body, pivoting on his heel, and slammed a roundhouse kick across the man's ribs. The ice pick clattered to the floor, spinning once before settling near a bag of spilled nails. The attacker dropped to one knee, wheezing, hand clutching his side.
Gray barely had time to register the hit when the last thug rushed him from the side, swinging a rusty pipe with full force. Instinct kicked in. Gray raised his arm to block, and pain shot through him like lightning. The metal slammed into his forearm with a sickening thud, and he bit down on a scream. The agony lit up his nerves, but he didn't buckle. He stayed rooted, trembling, teeth gritted.
He grabbed the attacker's wrist before the man could swing again, twisted hard, and swept his leg. They both crashed backward into a cluttered corner of the room, taking down a shelf loaded with cleaning supplies. Brooms clattered down around them like rain, a bottle of bleach exploded at their feet, and for a moment, all Gray could smell was chemicals and his own sweat.
He paused just for a second as the roar in his ears turned inward. His heartbeat thundered inside his ribcage, not just from exertion, but from the reminder that he was still here. Still standing. Still fighting. One breath. Then two. He turned, sensing movement to his right. The guy with the ice pick was rising again, eyes narrowed to slits, lips pulled back in a snarl. Relentless bastard, Gray thought. The blade glinted as he raised it high, then stabbed upward toward Gray's stomach.
With pure instinct, Gray dropped low, and the two collided. The impact knocked them both into a metal shelf, sending it toppling. Gray grunted, the steel jabbing into his ribs. He twisted, elbowed the guy in the neck, and then punched him square in the jaw. The man's head snapped back. Gray didn't stop. He rolled, dodged a wild swing, and scrambled across the detergent-slick floor.
Somewhere in the haze, a memory surfaced. Lolo's voice, low and patient: "Grace in every strike, apo. Power isn't in the punch, it's in the purpose."
Gray's hand found something, long, wooden, with a frayed sponge on the end. A mop.
He didn't question it. He spun it like a staff, the way Lolo used to spin sticks during practice. One clean arc across the back of the man's shoulders sent him stumbling forward. Another blow to the back of the knee, and the guy collapsed. The ice pick slid from his fingers and clinked to the floor, spinning away into a shadowy corner. Both of them froze, panting.
Gray stood there, mop in one hand, bleeding from half a dozen places, eyes locked on the guy as he lay there trying to breathe. They stared at each other, the space between them charged with heat and silence. Gray didn't need to say anything. That last blow had spoken for him.
He exhaled slowly, letting the ache settle in. His knuckles were torn open, and his left arm was numb from the pipe hit. But he was standing. That was enough. In the distance, there was something, faint and faraway. Sirens maybe. Or the screech of some heavy truck outside the compound. Engines roared and echoed somewhere beyond the walls.
He glanced down at the other two men, the first one still groaning, the second coughing blood into the dust. The guy with the pipe was trying to crawl. Gray stepped over him and kicked the pipe away for good measure.
Without ceremony, he grabbed a jacket that had been thrown over a box and pulled it on. Found his old hoodie stuffed beneath the chair, a little bloody but still wearable. He checked his pockets. Empty. No cellphone. No ID. Nothing but the ice pick, which he grabbed and slid into his belt. Might as well return the favor.
His body ached with every step. He limped to the door, pausing once to spit blood onto the cracked tiles. The air in the room was thick, like it had soaked in everything ugly that had just happened. But outside?
Outside was life. Movement. Escape. Gray pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked against rusted hinges.
A beam of afternoon light hit him, smeared onto his bloody shirt. He took a step forward. And froze. A motorcycle was parked just outside. Black matte with chrome accents. Rider's boots propped on pegs. Helmet on. Gray's spine locked. The rider removed the helmet. Shoulder-length hair, strong jaw, warm eyes.
Gray lowered his guard. "Julius."
"Gods, what happened to your face?" Julius cracked a grin. "Looks like Apolaki beat you up."
Gray laughed, coughing up another spatter of blood. "Yeah. One from the budget line."
Julius looked at his friend, alarm softening his smile. "Come on, man. What went down?"
Gray blew air through cracked lips. "Andong Crew—they set me up. Guard in white, all smiles. Said we took their stash from the warehouse."
Julius whistled. "I told you not to dip your fingers in that pond. They're the big fish."
"And uncautious." Gray grinned bloody. "Besides, we're gonna be rich."
Julius clapped his shoulder. "Let's go then. Ride?"
A sharp pop cracked through the air. They froze. It echoed, low and guttural. Like something heavy collapsing from the sky. A gunshot. No doubt about it.
Gray dropped flat without thinking, scraping his shoulder against the gravel as he rolled behind the motorcycle. Dust puffed around him. He didn't even need to look. His body had moved on instinct, a language of survival wired deep in his bones. Julius, calm as ever, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pistol. Matte black, compact. He crouched low, eyes sharp, angling the muzzle toward the yawning mouth of the warehouse.
Inside, something shifted. A figure lurched through the gloom. Julius didn't wait. He fired two quick shots into the darkness, the cracks ripping through the air like a whip. "Go!" he barked, not looking back.
Gray didn't need convincing. He swung his leg over the bike, boots scraping metal, and kicked the engine to life. It roared like a beast waking up, hungry and ready. The machine trembled beneath him as Julius leapt on behind him, gun still in hand, eyes still on the warehouse.
Then they were flying.
The world was set in motion. Wind slammed against them like a wall. Blood crusted on Gray's cheek and lips, dust stung his eyes, and every breath tasted like iron and oil. The road blurred under the wheels, loose gravel spitting behind them. Gray didn't speak. He just held on tighter, every muscle taut and screaming. Behind them, the warehouse grew smaller in the side mirror. The wide metal doors were swinging open, slow and ominous, like some great mouth about to howl. Silhouettes spilled into the daylight. Dark, twitching figures. More of them. Armed? Probably.
The wind howled like it had teeth. They tore down the highway, the tires eating up the road like it owed them blood. Trees blurred into smudges of green and gray. The scent of rain hung low in the air, thick with the threat of another storm. Gravel cracked beneath their tires, skidding now. Gray had to fight the handlebars, the front wheel jerking from every pebble. Julius leaned in behind him, one arm gripping Gray's shoulder, the other still holding the pistol close to his thigh. Neither of them spoke.
"Gray," Julius said, voice low but tense behind him, "you see that?"
Up ahead, just past the bend, a figure stood by the side of the road. No hitch in its stance. No movement. Just... stillness. Like a statue left out in the middle of nowhere, daring the living to come closer. Still. Upright. Waiting. Gray frowned, his hands tightening on the handlebars. "What the hell?" Gray hit the horn. Once. Twice. Harder.
Nothing. The figure didn't flinch. "Out of the way, freak!" Julius called, flipping the safety off the pistol.
But then everything happened at once.
The figure moved, not a sidestep or flinch, but shifted. One blink and it was suddenly in the middle of the road. Not running. Not leaping. Just... there. Gray swore. He tried to swerve, but the wheels screeched on gravel. Metal groaned as the bike slammed into the thing, and for a moment, just a heartbeat, they were airborne. The world twisted.
Gray's back slammed into the ground. Air punched out of his lungs. His head cracked against the dirt, and the sky exploded into light. Not stars, not even pain, just white, searing blankness. Something cold slithered across his skin. His vision blurred. His arms refused to move. Somewhere nearby, he heard Julius groan, metal creak, and the engine sputter out.
And then... footsteps.
Slow. Wet. Almost dragging—like bare soles through puddles, smacking against cracked tile. Gray stirred, tried to lift his head, but his muscles felt carved from stone. Something loomed above him now. A man? Maybe. It leaned in closer, the hood shifting just enough for light to catch what lay beneath. Not a face. Not really. And not shadow, either. Two yellow eyes glowed faintly under the shroud—not warm, not human. Dull like dying coals, yet alive in a way that made Gray's skin crawl. They didn't blink. Just stared. Patient. Hungry.
Gray's body went cold. Then the world cracked in half.
And everything went dark.