Nolan's gaze shifted, boring into Dmitri's eyes with cold intensity.
"Yesterday you got beaten up. Today my restaurant got robbed." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "Dmitri, do you really think I'll believe that's just a coincidence?"
Before Dmitri could respond, Nolan stood suddenly.
He planted his boot on Dmitri's chest.
Then he began applying his full body weight, slowly and deliberately.
Dmitri's face contorted in agony. His lips went white. Beads of sweat the size of pearls erupted across his forehead, streaming down his temples.
He screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice breaking into a wail.
"Nolan, please believe me! I really don't know anything! Besides occasionally bullying classmates and some drug dealing, I've never done anything else illegal!"
Nolan said nothing. He reached into his bag and pulled out the massive, narrow Catachan Fang. The movement was slow. Methodical. Terrifying in its calm certainty.
He leaned down, blade in hand, and positioned the tip directly above Dmitri's eye.
Dmitri, paralyzed on the ground, could feel the coldness radiating from the razor-sharp edge. It hovered inches from his pupil, steady as death itself.
Terror split him open. He didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe.
Then Nolan began counting. Cold numbers dropping from between his teeth like stones.
"Three."
"Two."
Under this overwhelming psychological pressure, Dmitri's composure shattered completely. His voice broke into a desperate, ragged shout.
"It must be Sergei! It has to be him! His cousin is in a gang! Sergei told me their whole family has criminal connections!"
A smile flickered across Nolan's face, brief as lightning.
His grip on the knife remained unchanged, the blade still hovering dangerously close. But the pressure on Dmitri's chest reduced significantly.
"I thought Sergei was just bragging," Dmitri continued, words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "Everyone knows a few shady people, right? But I didn't expect he'd actually participate in it. And rob your restaurant..."
Tears streamed down Dmitri's face. His expression twisted with what looked like genuine grievance.
Nolan fell silent, thinking. Then he asked suddenly, "Why do you think it was Sergei?"
"I'm not completely sure..."
Dmitri's expression shifted rapidly, anger bleeding through his fear.
"But Sergei didn't come to the hospital to visit me this afternoon! And the embarrassing story about my injury has spread through our entire social circle! Only Sergei knew about what happened! He was the one here with me yesterday!"
He swallowed hard, continuing.
"One more thing. Sergei's been obsessed with guns since we were kids. But his shooting skills were terrible, so bad he was embarrassed to show off. He only mentioned it to me!"
Sergei. The blond man from yesterday's delivery.
Nolan took a deep breath. After brief consideration, he made his decision.
He slowly withdrew the Catachan Fang and lifted his boot from Dmitri's chest.
"His full name?" Nolan asked.
"Sergei Petrov Jr.," Dmitri answered immediately.
"Where does he live?"
"Somewhere in Brooklyn, probably? I really don't know the exact address! I've never been to his house!" Dmitri's brain worked frantically, trying to provide anything useful. He was terrified Nolan wouldn't believe him and would resort to violence again.
Nolan studied Dmitri carefully, then nodded with satisfaction.
Dmitri was too frightened to lie now. He really hadn't been involved in the robbery.
Nolan's eyes swept the room and landed on Dmitri's phone, discarded on the sofa cushions. He stepped forward, picked it up, and tossed it to Dmitri.
"Call Sergei. Ask where he is."
Dmitri caught the phone with trembling hands. He carefully scrolled through his contacts and dialed the number.
The phone rang. And rang. Only a monotonous dial tone answered. No one picked up.
Dmitri's expression turned ugly. He held his injured neck gingerly and looked at Nolan with a bitter, apologetic smile.
"No one's answering."
Nolan nodded, his face expressionless.
This was within his expectations.
He took the phone from Dmitri's hand and turned toward the exit.
The long night was just beginning.
Just as he was about to step out of the apartment, Nolan stopped. He looked back over his shoulder.
"Do you know the rules for staying alive?"
Dmitri, still trembling on the floor, answered quickly.
"I won't call the police! I won't tell anyone! I'll try my best to be a good person!"
"Thank you for your patronage."
Nolan nodded with satisfaction and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Only after his footsteps faded completely in the corridor did Dmitri manage to push himself up, groaning with every movement.
"What a disaster," he muttered bitterly. "A completely unnecessary disaster."
Traffic clogged the street, a dense river of metal and exhaust. Horns blared in an endless chorus of urban frustration.
Night had fallen. Neon lights blazed to life, painting the sidewalks in garish colors. The glow reflected off pedestrians hurrying home from work.
It also illuminated Nolan's stern face as he scrolled through Dmitri's social media accounts, searching for clues about his next target.
Then a Twitter post tagging Dmitri appeared on the screen.
Nolan clicked it. A photo from Sergei Petrov slowly loaded.
The image appeared to have been taken in a dimly lit nightclub booth. Sergei faced the camera shirtless, his expression wild with excitement, eyes burning with manic energy. Two scantily clad women posed beside him, their backs arched provocatively.
But Nolan's focus locked onto something else entirely.
Fistfuls of cash clutched in both of Sergei's raised hands.
Nolan calculated quickly. Over two thousand dollars visible in the photo alone.
Could a poor guy who could barely afford takeout suddenly become rich overnight? Such miracles might exist in the world.
But they didn't happen to Sergei Petrov Jr..
He was definitely one of the robbers who'd hit the restaurant this afternoon.
Nolan's expression shifted. A cold sneer crossed his face.
"Found you."
He pocketed the phone, gripped his bicycle handlebars, and began speeding down the street.
Brooklyn. Blueberry Nightclub.
Sergei, completely without caution or awareness, was spending money wildly and enjoying the night.
Perhaps to rub his success in the injured Dmitri's face, Sergei had even thoughtfully tagged the nightclub's address in his photo.
That drastically reduced the difficulty of Nolan's search.
Nolan rode through the night, passing through pools of streetlight, heading directly toward his target.
But first, he needed supplies.
Equipment to begin this bloody midnight carnival.
Nolan scanned the storefronts along his route and soon spotted a small supermarket. By the time he finished shopping, the cash in his pocket was almost completely gone.
A steel pipe, finger-thick and over a foot long.
A roll of duct tape and two boxes of nails.
Black and green face paint and a pair of heavy combat boots.
Additionally, because the supermarket was running a promotional lottery, Nolan unexpectedly won a prize for his purchase.
A red men's bandana.
Under the dim streetlight, Nolan stared at the crimson fabric in his hand.
He couldn't help but smile coldly.
Perfect.