cold aweakning
1208 Words
Cold Awakening
A breath. Heavy. Tastes like rust and rot.
Jayce’s eyelids crack open to a ceiling scabbed with water stains and mold, shadows drifting like old ghosts across exposed beams. Glass grinds beneath his shoulder as he shifts—
“His limbs shake, lungs grind—his body screaming that death missed by inches.”
. No gun, no cash, no friends. Just pain. Just the sound of his own pulse, relentless, echoing against crumbling concrete and broken window glass.
He rolls over—every joint a protest—and spits blood onto the scarred warehouse floor. It paints the night blacker.
He remembers: the club’s stench of sweat and gun oil, Grim’s offer, Zion’s smirk, the way a promise fits in a whisper.
“You’ve got 24 hours, Jayce. After that... you’re just another dead street rat.”
His fingers dig into his shirt—and feel the sticky wound at his ribs. Well-packed. Not lethal. Not yet.
Outside, sirens shriek distantly, neon branding the windows in crimson and gold. The city—alive, hungry, waiting for his next mistake. Dawn is a rumor on the other side of the city.
He rises. Grits his teeth. Pain is proof: he’s not dead yet.
Tick. Tock.
Jayce limps out of the warehouse, hood up, blending into the dark arteries of the city. His pockets are empty but his mind is busy—counting enemies, debts, old favors. Most are buried. One isn’t.
He pulls his cracked burner from a fire escape where he’d stashed it weeks ago—paranoia paid off, for once. His last number dialed: Rico “The Bull” Martinez. A thick-fisted bastard who runs bare-knuckle fights under the crumbling Midtown viaduct. Once, Jayce bailed him out for murder. Time to see if Rico remembers.
The phone answers on the third ring. “Who the f**k?”
“Jayce. I need in tonight. Fights.”
Silence, then a grim chuckle. “Didn’t you die?”
“I got better.”
“Bring cash.” Click.
Jayce laughs—just to hear it. It hurts. He pulls his hoodie lower and heads east.
A basement under a pawnshop. Crowds pressed against chicken wire, shouting for blood. Rico waits, arms crossed, jaw twitching.
“You got nothing?”
Jayce peels off his jacket. “I’ve got me.”
“i***t. This ain’t a hero’s night.”
Jayce steps inside the ring. His opponent is three inches taller, muscles knotted under prison tattoos, mouth guard flashing yellow grin.
A bell clangs. A fist lashes out. Jayce ducks—pain shrieks up his side. He drops, rolls, springs up—slams an elbow home. They clinch. The world narrows to fists and fury, sweat splashing, skin splitting.
Fists smash his cheek—he tastes copper. Bites his own rage. Remembers his brother, his father, the street that made him. He jabs out—catches the man’s throat. A crack. The crowd roars. Jayce nearly blacks out.
Thirty seconds later, it’s over. He stands, swaying. Rico grins—almost proud. “Still a stubborn son of a bitch.”
Jayce blinks blood from his eyes. Rico slides him a roll of cash. “You want a gun, downstairs—the old man. You want a crew, that’s on you.”
Jayce stuffs the money into his jeans, nods, keeps his jaw set.
Supplies
Down a narrow hallway, he finds the old arms dealer, hunched and wrinkled, eyes bright. Cash on the counter, a battered Glock in his hand, and a burner phone.
Jayce loads the gun, tucks it in his waistband, slides the phone into his pocket. He stands in the night, jaw squared, city hissing vengeance.
Jayce needs more than muscle. He needs eyes. Hacks. Maya.
He rides the subway downtown, past midnight. Maya’s lair is a derelict internet café, humming with cheap fluorescent light and the stink of burnt coffee. Her hair is wild; her gaze, sharper than lasers.
“What’s the death wish, Jayce?” she says.
“Grim’s on me. Odds are bad.”
She spins in her chair. “He trust you? You trust me?”
“I trust I’m out of time.”
She laughs, high and thin. “Last time we worked together you left me stranded in Brooklyn with a pissed-off money launderer and two pounds of fake coke.”
He shrugs, wincing. “I said sorry. Help me.”
She stares at his bruised face, bloody knuckles—a calculus ticking behind her glare.
“I can wipe some cameras. I can sniff texts, block a few trackers.” She pulls out a flash drive, flicking it between two fingers. “But Grim’s got his claws deep. If I do this, you’re not half-in, Carter.
You want me? Bring me a piece of his machine. Blood.”
He nods. “Give me a name.”
She types furiously, hands jittering.
“Tonight—his runner. Call him Ghost. Moves product for Grim on 66th. You take him down, leave a message—we’re in business.”
Maya flicks the flash drive to Jayce. “Don’t die on me.”
He grins, feral. “Not yet.”
One Shot, One Message
Jayce stalks the streets, nerves thrumming, rain masking his footsteps. On the corner of 66th, he spots Ghost—skinny, mean, eyes always moving. Backpack bulging, hand always in his pocket. Grim’s product, fentanyl—enough to drown the city.
Jayce waits. Follows. The alley is perfect—dark, reeking of trash, footsteps silenced by wet asphalt.
Ghost pauses, checking his phone.
Jayce moves like a shadow, arm snakes around Ghost’s neck, Glock pressing into ribs. Ghost thrashes—Jayce hisses, “Scream and you die.”
Ghost freezes. Jayce knees him hard, spins him into the wall, pulls the bag from his grip.
“Tell Grim—”
Jayce pistol-whips Ghost. He drops.
Jayce yanks Ghost’s shirt open, pulls his knife. In careful, bloody strokes, he carves a message across Ghost’s chest:
I’m not dead. I’m coming.
— J.
He drags the backpack away, adrenaline a storm surge in his veins. Maya’s flash drive clinks in his pocket—the next step, almost within reach.
The glow of a dozen phones flickers inside Grim’s office. The runner’s body dumped in a puddle, message fresh and raw. Grim leans forward, cigar glowing. Smoke coils, tongues of fire in shadow.
He traces the message with gloved fingers, reading out loud. Face blank, eyes cold.
His lieutenant shivers, inches backward. Grim smiles—a thing full of knives.
.”Grim slams the table hard enough to shatter a glass. His hand bleeds. Then, calm as a prayer:
“Bring me his head. Slowly.”
He taps ash to the floor, breathes deep, and somewhere Jayce’s name is spoken like a curse, a promise, a challenge the whole city will hear by morning.
Jayce crouches on a rooftop, city burning beneath him, pain flaring but pride burning brighter. He dials Maya, breath hot in the night.
“You in?”
Her voice, electric: “I’m in.”
Rico’s text buzzes on the burner: You got my attention. When do we start?
Jayce grins into the storm. Hunter now.
The clock keeps ticking.
- Writer
