Captured by the Cold-Blooded Ghost

The rain in this part of the city didn't just fall; it punished. Nick pulled the hood of his faded sweatshirt lower, but it was useless. The fabric was already a cold, heavy sponge against his skin. His old delivery bike groaned as he hit another pothole, the chain rattling like a warning he was too tired to heed. It was 11:45 PM. He had one delivery left—a cold bag of greasy takeout that was destined for a warehouse near the docks—and then he could go home to the cramped apartment he shared with his sister. "Just ten more minutes," Nick muttered, his teeth chattering. "Ten minutes, and then we're done." He took the shortcut through the Pier 17 shipyard. It was a labyrinth of rusted shipping containers and towering cranes that looked like prehistoric monsters in the fog. Usually, he avoided this place at night, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach and the thought of his sister, Maya, sleeping without a heater made him reckless. The silence of the yard was shattered by the screech of tires. Nick froze, his heart slamming against his ribs. He killed the lights on his bike and skidded into the shadow of a blue container. A few yards away, two black SUVs had screeched to a halt, their headlights cutting through the mist like searchlights. He should have turned around. He should have pedaled back into the rain until his lungs burned. But fear had turned his legs to lead. From the first SUV, a man was dragged out. He was screaming, a high-pitched, jagged sound that Nick knew would haunt his dreams. The man was shoved onto his knees in the mud. Then, the door to the second vehicle opened. A man stepped out into the rain. He didn't run for cover. He didn't even seem to notice the downpour. He moved with a slow, terrifying elegance, his long black overcoat billowing behind him. Even from the shadows, Nick could feel the air change. This was Raphael. To the city, he was a myth—the "Ghost" who ran the streets with a silencer and a smile. To Nick, in this moment, he was the personification of death. Raphael walked up to the kneeling man. He didn't shout. He didn't look angry. He reached into his coat and pulled out a handgun with a practiced, casual grace. "Please!" the man on the ground sobbed, his face a mask of blood and filth. "I have a family! Raphael, please!" Raphael leaned down, his voice a low, melodic hum that barely carried over the wind. "You should have thought of them before you touched what belongs to me." Silence. The gunshot was muffled, a dull thwack that sounded sickeningly domestic, like a heavy book hitting a carpet. The man crumpled into the mud, his pleas silenced forever. Nick’s breath hitched. A small, involuntary gasp escaped his throat. In the vast, empty shipyard, it might as well have been a scream. Raphael didn't jump. He didn't startle. He simply turned his head toward the blue container, his eyes—cold, silver, and completely devoid of mercy—locking onto the exact spot where Nick was hiding. "Check the perimeter," Raphael said calmly. Nick didn't think. He dropped his bike and ran. He splashed through the puddles, his sneakers heavy with mud, his lungs feeling like they were filled with crushed glass. He could hear the heavy boots of the guards behind him, the barking of orders, but he didn't look back. He tripped over a stray cable, sprawling face-first into the grime. Before he could scramble up, a hand gripped the back of his hoodie and hauled him upward. "Found him, Boss. Just a rat." Nick was dragged back to the circle of headlights. He was thrown into the mud, right next to the cooling body of the man who had been alive five minutes ago. He looked up, his vision blurred by rain and tears, and found Raphael standing over him. Up close, Raphael was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. His features were sharp, his skin pale, and his eyes held a strange, dark curiosity as they swept over Nick’s trembling form. He didn't look like a thug. He looked like a fallen angel. "A delivery boy?" Raphael murmured, his gaze lingering on the faded logo on Nick’s hoodie. He reached out, the leather of his glove cold as he tilted Nick’s chin up with the barrel of his gun. "You chose a very bad night to be a hard worker, little bird." "I... I didn't see anything," Nick whispered, his voice shaking so hard he could barely form the words. "I swear. I was just... I was just going home." Raphael leaned in closer, the scent of expensive tobacco and rain clinging to him. He stared into Nick’s eyes, searching for something. Nick waited for the cold steel to pull the trigger. He thought of Maya. He thought of how she’d wait by the door for a brother who was never coming back. But the shot never came. Raphael lowered the gun. A slow, dark smirk spread across his lips—a look that was far more terrifying than the weapon. "You have very honest eyes, Nick," Raphael said, reading the name tag pinned to his chest. "It would be a waste to put a hole in them. At least... not yet." "You're... letting me go?" Nick gasped, hope flared like a dying ember. Raphael laughed, a dry, hollow sound. "Go? No. You’ve seen my face. You’ve seen my work. You belong to the state as a witness, and you belong to me as a liability." Raphael turned to his men, his voice turning to ice. "Throw him in the car. If he gets a single scratch on him before we get to the estate, I’ll have your heads." "No! Please!" Nick fought as the guards grabbed his arms, but he was nothing against their strength. As he was shoved into the back of the SUV, the last thing he saw was Raphael standing in the rain, lighting a cigarette. The Ghost watched him through the glass, his expression unreadable, and Nick realized with a sinking horror that the man hadn't spared his life out of mercy. He had spared it because he had found a new toy. And in Raphael’s world, toys were never allowed to break until he was finished with them.