The city slept fitfully under a feeble moon, streets quiet but uneasy. Smoke still clung to the wreckage of the night before, curling over blackened out warehouses and shattered windows. In the distance, a howling siren screamed—a reminder that the underworld never slumbered.
The predator stood on the roof, coat flapping in the cold night wind, eyes scanning the horizon. The captive leaned against the railing beside him, quiet, still shaken from the bloodshed the day before. He no longer looked fragile—if anything, he bore the weight of knowing too much, having seen the predator at full dominance, and survived.
A soft hum. An isolated phone ringing in the predator's pocket. He pulled it out, reading the message in a flash of amusement—and terror.
"Congratulations. You won the first round. But the game is far from over. —Unknown."
He lowered it slowly, allowing the words between them to hang. He said nothing. He didn't need to. The prisoner understood: this was no longer a battle for control or ground—it was personal, a shadow war bleeding into every corner of the city.
The predator's gloved hand passed over the captive's arm. Not comforting. Not gentle. Possessive, purposeful, reminding him that he was living in a world where trust was a tool and attachment was a weakness.
A wind carried on the darkness brought the distant howls of sirens and engines, of men planning and preparing. Another figure in the darkness observed, scheming. A better rival, more deadly than any who had preceded them.
The predator's eyes narrowed. "They're coming," he snarled, low enough for the captive to understand.
The captive's heart pounded, but he did not back away. He did not run. He had survived bullets and bombs and the predator's merciless world. And he knew now—whatever was coming, they would face it as one.
For a moment, there was silence over the city—a nervous pause before the storm. And in that pause, both men knew the game was underway.
The night held its breath.