The Chain Begins to Burn
598 Words
The office was too quiet for a man like Bruno Vale.
He was used to chaos — guns, debts, silence bought with violence. But tonight, silence had its own voice. And it was whispering danger.
A report was laid on his desk.
Target: Marvin Drezzo
Status: Paralyzed, critical.
Cause: Unknown.
Witnesses: None.
Note recovered: “Mercy is no longer policy.”
Bruno leaned back, his fingers tapping the table like a war drum.
“This isn’t random,” he muttered.
A younger man in the room, Nico, looked uneasy. “You think it’s... personal?”
“No,” Bruno said flatly. “It’s surgical. He didn’t kill. He sent a message. To me.”
Nico swallowed. “Should we respond?”
Bruno smiled, cold as winter steel. “Not yet. First... we find out what kind of ghost we’re dealing with.”
He stood, walked to the window.
And stared out at the city, lit like a playground of sin.
“Every hunter thinks he’s the only one watching.”
A Shadow Within the System
Alex returned to the rooftop above his pizza shop, where the wind always carried fewer lies.
He sat cross-legged, eyes closed.
Breathing. Listening. Feeling.
The city pulsed beneath him like a wounded beast.
He could hear the change. In whispers. In footsteps that slowed when passing alleys. In the way the sky itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then — his burner phone vibrated.
Unknown number. No caller ID.
A message blinked on the screen:
“He knows. Vale is watching. But you’re not alone.”
Alex froze.
He read it twice. Three times.
Then a second message arrived:
“Drezzo wasn’t the only one on your list, was he?”
Attached: A photo.
A face he knew.
A monster he hadn’t hunted yet.
His eyes narrowed. His breath slowed.
Somewhere out there…
Someone was helping him hunt.
But why?
The Mask of Respectability
The building stood like a palace — glass, steel, and silence.
Alex had watched it for two nights. No guards. No alarms. Just one man, walking in at 7 a.m., leaving at 9 p.m. sharp.
Dr. Felix Warrick.
Philanthropist. Investor. Child trafficker — according to the message.
No police record. No accusations.
Just… whispers.
Alex slipped through the side door.
No mask. No weapons.
Just a penlight and silence.
He didn’t strike. Not yet.
He searched.
Desk drawers. Cabinets. Laptop. Hidden USB under a fake floor panel.
Then — photos.
Faces. Young. Afraid.
Dates. Codes. Payments.
He stopped breathing for a moment.
The message was right.
And the monster wore a suit.
A Thread Pulled, A War Unfolds
Alex stood over the sleeping devil.
Dr. Warrick lay motionless in his luxury apartment, surrounded by soft jazz and imported whiskey.
Alex’s gloved hand held a syringe — a cocktail that would induce paralysis for 6 hours. Just enough time to make a man feel his own guilt… if he had any.
He looked down at the face of a man loved by cameras.
Then at the USB drive in his pocket.
“Dead men don’t warn the world,” he thought.
“But exposed monsters… they cause storms.”
He left the syringe on the table.
And walked out — into the night.
Meanwhile...
Bruno’s IT man leaned over the monitor.
“Sir… we’ve been breached.”
Bruno turned. “Police?”
“No. Someone else. Tracking Warrick. Same signature as Drezzo’s.”
Bruno narrowed his eyes. “Then we’re not chasing a ghost anymore.”
He lit a cigar.
“We’re walking into someone else’s war.”
___
- Writer
