Midnight hung over the district like a predator. Streetlamps flickered, casting uneven light over damp asphalt. In the distance, the warehouse stood silent, oblivious to the storm about to break. Inside, the Razorbacks laughed, unaware that the hunter they thought dead had returned.
[Kyle's POV]
I crouched on the rooftop across the street, hood pulled low, eyes scanning. Every ventilation grate, every shuttered window, every doorway was a potential threat—or an opportunity. My breath came steady. Heart steady. Mind cold.
Tonight wasn't about vengeance alone. It was about sending a message, protecting the innocents, and making sure no one survived to tell the story wrongly.
I dropped silently, landing in shadow beside a rusted dumpster. The rear entrance was unlocked—foolish arrogance.
[Third Person POV — Civilians]
In the back of the warehouse, a small group huddled behind crates: a mother, her young son, and a teenager who had been taken weeks ago. They had learned to be quiet, hearts hammering whenever the gang roared with laughter or cracked jokes. The smoke of cigarettes and the metallic smell of grease made the room feel smaller, heavier.
The mother whispered, "I don't think anyone's coming…"
The teenager shook his head. "We have to stay hidden."
[Kyle's POV]
Inside, chaos waited. My senses stretched. One guard leaned against the bar, unaware of the shadow sliding silently behind him. I grabbed his neck, twisted. One silent crack, and he collapsed. I pressed the body into darkness and moved on.
The others didn't hear him fall. Not yet.
[Third Person POV — Razorbacks]
A man with a chain, drunk and careless, was the first to notice something was off. His eyes flicked to the shadows—then widened. He raised his chain, but it was too late. Another shadow struck him from behind. The sound of breaking bone was muffled, quick, efficient. He crumpled without a scream.
"Who—?" another muttered, spinning toward the sound, but all he saw was the glint of a knife.
[Kyle's POV]
I didn't pause. Step by step, room by room. Fists broke jaws, elbows cracked ribs, knives met hands before they could swing. Every blow precise, controlled, silent as death itself.
I reached the civilians' hiding spot.
"Move," I whispered, voice calm but firm. "Stay close, follow me. Don't scream."
They nodded, wide-eyed, trembling but alive. I guided them through a side corridor, pulling them down low, away from the main hall. Every second counted. Every shadow could mean a new attacker.
[Third Person POV — Razorbacks / Panic]
The gang realized their numbers were dropping. Javed, the scarred leader, finally saw the chaos: bodies strewn across the floor, some barely breathing, others still moving—but all attacked with surgical precision.
"What the hell is happening?" he barked.
A man swung a machete wildly toward a shadow in the corner. The shadow caught his wrist, twisted, and he fell backward, unconscious before hitting the ground.
Javed's mouth twisted in rage. "He's back… he's… it's him!"
[Kyle's POV]
No words. Just motion. I cleared the hallway. Knife to the throat, punch to the temple. One by one, they fell, never screaming, never begging—too shocked, too slow.
A door opened—another civilian taken for leverage. I slammed it shut behind me and moved toward them, striking any hand that reached for a weapon. They were terrified but unharmed.
[Third Person POV — Civilians]
The mother clutched her son as Kyle led them past bodies lying in unnatural positions, eyes wide, unable to comprehend the precision and ruthlessness of the man guiding them. Smoke curled in the air; small flames licked the wooden beams overhead.
"Kyle…" the teenager whispered. "He… he's killing them all."
I didn't answer. My focus was only the exit, only survival for them.
[Kyle's POV]
I reached the inner stockpile—fuel, crates, machinery. One match, one flare, and the warehouse would announce my return in fire and blood. But first, the last of them.
Javed tried to block me. A blade in hand, arrogance still stubborn.
I met him with a punch to the stomach, sending the breath out of him, followed by a knee to the chest. He fell, but I kept moving, driving my fist into his jaw as he tried to rise.
The others charged, knives drawn, but I was already moving past, taking each in turn: wrist snapped here, jaw crushed there. Every strike calculated. No hesitation. No mercy.
[Third Person POV — Razorbacks / Survivors]
The survivors' eyes darted from shadows to fire. Their confidence shattered. They hadn't trained for this—none of them had trained for a man who could strike like a ghost and disappear before they could react.
Javed crawled to a wall, blood dripping, eyes wide with fear. He realized too late that their numbers meant nothing. The warehouse had become a tomb, every exit blocked, every route calculated.
[Civilian's POV]
The mother noticed the symbol beginning to appear on the wall: a vulture, wings outstretched, claws digging into nothing, drawn in blood and fire from the fallen. She gasped. The teenager squeezed her arm, whispering, "He… he's leaving a message."
The boy didn't fully understand. Survival was all that mattered.
[Kyle's POV]
I set the flare. Timing perfect. Smoke rose, fire licked at the edges. Bodies lay scattered, the symbol clear, unmistakable: the Black Vultures were back.
The civilians were safe, cornered in a protective shadow as the flames began to roar. I ensured no one else could threaten them.
[Third Person POV — Razorbacks / Final Panic]
The remaining men scrambled, trying to reach windows or doors. Every attempt met with calculated force—knees into chests, elbows to faces, hands twisted painfully. By the time the fire truly took hold, the warehouse itself seemed to convulse with death and destruction.
Javed crawled to the outer wall, watching flames engulf his empire. Smoke filled his lungs. He realized Kyle had done what he said: no one survived. The city had witnessed a ghost reclaiming its territory.
[Civillian's POV]
The mother clutched her child, eyes wide, unable to comprehend the carnage. The teenager shivered, holding his hands to his ears. They were alive—miraculously, impossibly alive. Outside, the fire lit the district in a hellish orange glow, the symbol visible even from the street.
[Kyle's POV]
I led them out through a side door, unburned, silent. Once outside, I dropped to my knees in the alleyway, letting the civilians scatter to safety before disappearing into shadows.
Behind me, the fire consumed the warehouse and all inside. My message was clear: no one would survive to challenge me. Not Razorbacks. Not anyone foolish enough to forget.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt it: control, precision, inevitability.
I was back. The city would bleed. And everyone watching would understand that Kyle was no longer a boy with a gang. Kyle was a weapon.
[Third Person POV ]
From distant rooftops, windows, and alleys, whispers began. Some saw the flames. Some saw the symbol. Others caught only a shadow, a black coat moving through smoke and fire, disappearing as if swallowed by darkness.
One thing was certain: the storm had returned.
Kyle had returned.
And the streets would never forget.