Hey there. My name was Shane Hex, though most people who knew me called me Hollow. Hollow Hex. It sounded edgy, I know, but in my line of work a name like that carried weight. It stuck, and eventually it became less of a codename and more of who I was supposed to be. Funny how a label can grow teeth and start biting back.
I was a mercenary. Before that, I was a Marine. Signed up young, full of piss and vinegar, thinking discipline and purpose might save me from the streets I grew up on. Turns out I was good at it. Too good. Combat made sense to me in a way nothing else ever had. Clear objectives, clear consequences, and no room for hesitation.
When my service ended, the world didn't exactly roll out a welcome mat. No family to go back to. No degree waiting for me. Just bills, hunger, and that old familiar pressure of needing to survive another day. Survival was the only rule I'd ever really learned, so when mercenary work found me, I didn't hesitate. It was a straight line from Marine to hired blade.
I got very good at it. Best in the world, if you believed the right people. I didn't use guns, which always surprised clients. They'd look at me like I was insane until the job was done. Truth was simple. I'd seen enough people torn apart by gunfire to last a lifetime. I didn't need to add more faces to that collection in my head. My hands were enough. Sometimes a knife, when distance mattered.
I'm talking about all this in the past tense for a reason. I'm dying. Right now. Bleeding out on the cold concrete floor of a warehouse that smells like rust, oil, and bad decisions. Guess I finally pushed my luck one mission too far.
The job was simple on paper. Rich business tycoon's teenage daughter gets kidnapped. Ransom situation. Discreet recovery requested. I was paid half up front, half on delivery. Standard. I tracked her to a warehouse on the edge of the city, the kind nobody asked questions about. Heavily guarded. Four dozen armed captors, give or take.
I went in quietly. I always did. Shadows, blind spots, and broken necks before screams could form. I moved like muscle memory given shape, every strike placed where it'd end a fight fast. Hands, elbows, knees. Blade when I needed to be quick. Bodies piled up behind me like discarded props.
They adapted faster than I expected. Floodlights snapped on. Shouts echoed. Gunfire cracked the air. I kept moving. Pain came and went in flashes as rounds grazed me, but adrenaline carried me forward. I was close. I could feel it.
That's when one of them got lucky.
I turned a corner and felt the world explode in my gut. Shotgun blast. Point blank. The force knocked me off my feet and slammed me into a stack of crates. I remember the sound more than the pain. A deep, wet thump, like someone hitting raw meat with a hammer.
I didn't die right away. Didn't even stop. I dragged myself up, vision swimming, hands slick with my own blood. I finished them. Every last one. Rage and momentum carried me through what my body no longer could. When it was over, the warehouse was quiet again, save for my ragged breathing and the drip of blood hitting concrete.
That's when I found her.
She was tied to a chair near the back, duct tape over her mouth, eyes wide and red from crying. She flinched when she saw me, then froze when she realized everyone else was dead. I staggered toward her and dropped to one knee. My legs were shaking, barely holding me up.
"It's okay," I said, though my voice sounded wrong to my own ears. "I'm here to get you out."
I fumbled with the rope, hands numb and clumsy. Blood kept pouring out of me, soaking into the floor. When I pulled the tape off her mouth, she gasped like she'd been underwater.
"Can you drive?" I asked.
She nodded fast. Too fast. Panic was written all over her face.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my car keys, pressing them into her trembling hands. "Good. My car's outside. Black Toyota. Get in and go."
She stared at me, then at the blood pooling beneath me. "What about you? You need help. We can call someone."
I shook my head. "No time. I'm done."
"That's not true," she said, voice breaking. "Please. I can help you."
I grabbed her wrist, not hard, just enough to make her look at me. "Listen to me. I'm already a goner. You need to worry about seeing your father again. That's the job. That's all that matters."
She hesitated, tears spilling over. I tightened my grip just a little. "Go. Now."
She nodded, sobbing, and stood. Before she turned to leave, she looked back at me. "Thank you. For saving me."
Then she ran.
Those words hit harder than the shotgun. Normally, they wouldn't have meant a damn thing. This was a job. Always had been. But sitting there, bleeding out, hearing gratitude instead of fear or obligation, it cracked something open in me.
I slumped against a crate and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. My hands pressed against my gut, trying and failing to keep everything inside where it belonged. Every breath burned. The edges of my vision were starting to blur.
This wasn't the life I wanted.
People liked to romanticize survival, like it was noble or strong. I hated it. Always had. Growing up on the streets meant every day was a fight. Food, shelter, and respect. Always swinging first because hesitation meant losing. I joined the Marines to escape that, but all I did was trade one battlefield for another.
I never wanted to die. That was the truth of it. Every fight, every mission, every risk I took was because I wanted to keep breathing. To keep going. Somewhere along the line, surviving became the only goal, and I forgot to ask what I was surviving for.
I always dreamed of a life without struggle. No alarms. No weapons within arm's reach. Just waking up somewhere quiet, worrying about nothing more serious than what I felt like eating. A cushy life. A selfish one. And I wanted it more than anything.
Turns out, chasing survival ate up all the time I could've used to build that life.
My eyes felt heavy. Each blink lasted longer than the last. I let my head rest back against the crate, my breath coming shallow and uneven. The warehouse lights above flickered, then blurred into streaks.
"What a shame," I muttered.
Darkness closed in, thick and endless. For a moment, there was nothing at all.
Then a voice cut through it. Stern. Calm. Unyielding.
"This doesn't have to be where your story ends," it said. "You can still make that dream a reality."