The city sprawled behind him in dim neon silence, but Ren didn't care. His slipper clicked along the sidewalk, his katana brushing lightly against his side. His eyes didn't scan the streets—they pierced through them. Purpose burned in every step, cold and steady.
He wore no armor. No syndicate sigil. Just simple black: shirt half-unbuttoned, collar flipped, trousers and he wore slippers. A canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Nothing special.
But there was nothing casual about him.
This wasn't a rescue.
This wasn't a mission.
This was a hunt.
And if that masked freak Y was telling the truth, then finding this boy was a key. Not to save him. Not to protect some innocent life. Ren didn't care about any of that.
He only cared about killing Y. This was for the syndicate. The only reason he existed. If he couldn't do anything for the syndicate then there was no point of him living. Even if it meant doing what went against their wishes.
He walked with that exact thought. No distractions. No detours. Just a quiet, simmering rage, layered beneath the marble of his expression.
The warehouse stood like a rusted corpse on the edge of the district—steel bones jutting out from cracked walls and shattered glass. It was abandoned in every sense, the air still with a stench of rot and time.
Ren slowed as he reached the front entrance, crouching beside a rusted beam. No lights. No movement.
Just silence.
But silence never meant safety.
His fingers hovered over the hilt of his blade as he moved along the perimeter, eyes trained on the cracks in the structure. Then, tucked along the side, he spotted it—a smaller door. Metal. Hinges partially broken. Just barely ajar.
His instincts screamed.
Too easy.
He didn't rush. Every footstep was deliberate. Silent.
Then—
A sharp shift in the wind.
Ren ducked, twisted, and pivoted on instinct. A flash of movement shot down from behind.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew.
Ren parried, his blade catching the tip of a dagger aimed for his spine. He countered with a vicious kick that snapped the attacker's ribs like dry twigs and sent him flying across a rusted shelf.
Then the warehouse roared to life.
From the upper beams, a group dropped—fifteen at least. Shadows in tactical black. Blades gleamed. Some carried blunt weapons. One had a long chain wrapped around his arms.
Ren didn't wait.
He moved.
The first one charged from the left. Ren side-stepped, pivoted mid-stride, and sliced upward—katana splitting jaw to crown, brain matter spraying the wall. Another leaped from above. Ren slammed his elbow into the attacker's gut mid-air, then drove his blade through the man's spine, pinning him to the floor like paper.
Two came at him with clubs from either side.
He ducked, spun on his heel, grabbed one by the throat and used him as a human shield—crack—club smashed through the man's skull. Blood splattered Ren's cheek. He didn't flinch.
He jammed his sword through the survivor's armpit, then yanked it free through the neck. Blood spurted like a ruptured pipe.
Another came from behind with a blade—
Too slow.
Ren turned his wrist, flipped his katana in a reverse grip, and plunged it back blindly. The attacker gurgled, blade slicing through gut and out the back.
The rest hesitated.
That was their last mistake.
Ren charged.
The combat blurred into carnage. Steel clashed. Bones broke. Blood coated the cracked cement floor. Ren was a phantom—every move a lesson in efficiency and brutality.
One man tried to flee.
Ren hurled a rusted crowbar straight through his spine.
The fight didn't last more than sixty seconds.
Fifteen trained killers, all dead.
Ren barely breathed heavier.
He stepped over the corpses, their blood soaking into the warehouse floor, and approached the door. The smaller one tucked in the corner. A rusted latch hung from the frame. He kicked it open.
And stopped.
Inside was a room. Small. Cramped. Damp. And dimly lit by nothing but the sickly glow of a flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling.
There, at the center—
A boy.
Maybe ten years old.
Sitting on a pile of corpses.
Not crying.
Not screaming.
Just… sitting. In the middle of blood, torn limbs, severed arms, eyes wide, blank.
Ren froze.
Something in him twisted violently. A sharp jolt behind his ribs. Like something ancient clawing its way out.
A memory.
Faint. Fragmented.
Blood. Screams. A boy—alone. Sitting among corpses. Just like this one. Staring. Silent. A small, shaking hand curled around a bloodied blade.
But the face—he couldn't see the face.
His breath caught. It wasn't fear. But it was close. Something colder. Something buried.
His hand trembled for a brief second.
He crushed the feeling, stuffing it down like he always did.
Emotion was a liability.
He stepped into the room, staring at the boy.
Malnourished. Pale. Hair matted with dried blood. His eyes were cold—not broken, but empty, like something already gone.
"You're coming with me," Ren muttered.
The boy didn't move.
Ren crouched to grab him—
"Did you do this?"
but the boy just sat there and said nothing.
"Tch—fuckin' brat."
He grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt and shoved him into the canvas duffel, ignoring the kicking and struggling.
"You'll live. For now."
He zipped the bag closed, slung it over his back, and walked out of the room.
Back through the warehouse.
Back through the blood.
Back into the night.
But something lingered in his mind.
That memory.
That boy in the blood.
And as he walked into the shadows, his jaw clenched, his voice low:
"What the fuck… was that?"
He didn't care about the boy. Not really.
But whatever this was—it was getting deeper.
And for the first time in a long time, something unsettled him.
But there was no turning back.
If this boy led him to Y, then every drop of blood spilled tonight was worth it.