The underground safe house smelled of damp stone and old whiskey. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the room. Ochieng sat on the worn leather couch, a whiskey glass balanced between his fingers, his mind replaying the night's events.
Someone had set him up.
The question was—who?
Veronica leaned against the table, her dress still torn from the fight, her gun resting near her hip. Her eyes were locked on Ochieng.
"We need answers," she said.
Ochieng took a slow sip, his mind already working.
"There's only one person who plays this kind of game," he murmured.
Veronica's eyes sharpened.
"…Shen Tao?"
Ochieng nodded. "But I doubt he's the only one. This attack felt desperate."
The door creaked open before Veronica could respond.
A man stepped inside.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A scar running from his left temple to his chin.
Ochieng's fingers tensed on his glass.
"You're alive," the man said, voice rough.
Ochieng smirked. "And you still have that ugly scar, Victor."
Victor.
An old ghost.
An assassin who had vanished three years ago.
And now, he was standing here, alive.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Ochieng asked.
Victor chuckled, stepping closer. "Warning you."
Ochieng's smirk faded.
Veronica straightened, fingers brushing against her gun.
Victor sighed, shaking his head. "Relax, I didn't come to kill you. But someone else will."
"Who?" Ochieng's voice was steel.
Victor hesitated.
Then—"Your past."
Ochieng's blood turned cold.
---
Ochieng didn't sleep that night.
Victor's words echoed in his head.
Your past is coming for you.
That meant only one thing.
Someone who knew his real name.
Someone who knew what happened before he became Ochieng.
He stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror of the safe house bathroom.
For years, he had buried that identity.
The boy who had been nothing.
The boy who had crawled from the dirt and taken everything.
Now—someone wanted to take it all away.
He clenched his fists.
Not a chance.
He would hunt first.
---
By sunrise, Ochieng and Veronica were already on the move.
The city was waking up, oblivious to the war brewing beneath its surface.
Ochieng had only one destination in mind—the underground fight clubs.
If anyone had information, it was there.
Veronica walked beside him, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.
She glanced at him.
"…You're different today."
Ochieng didn't answer.
He just kept walking.
Because for the first time in years—he felt the past breathing down his neck.
And he knew.
This was just the beginning.
---
The underground fight club was packed.
A circle of men surrounded a bloodstained ring, cheering as two fighters beat each other senseless.
Ochieng pushed through the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces.
He was looking for one person—Wei Lang.
A fixer. A rat. And a man who knew everyone's business.
Veronica spotted him first. "There."
Wei Lang was perched on a barstool, sipping a cocktail like he didn't belong in a place where men were breaking bones for entertainment.
Ochieng strode toward him.
Wei Lang looked up, his smile fading. "Oh… hell."
Ochieng grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the bar.
"Who sold me out?"
Wei Lang coughed. "Ochieng, man… I don't do that anymore."
Ochieng's grip tightened. "Try again."
Wei Lang hesitated.
Then he whispered, "A woman."
Ochieng stilled.
His mind raced through the possibilities.
Then—
"She said you'd know her when you saw her."
Ochieng let go, stepping back.
A woman from his past?
His pulse pounded.
This was bad.
Very bad.
Because the only woman who could do this to him was supposed to be dead.
---
Ochieng and Veronica left the fight club in silence.
But Ochieng's mind was far from silent.
He could still see her face.
The woman he buried.
The woman who once whispered in his ear, "I'll never let you go."
And now—she was back.
A chill ran down his spine.
Because if she was back—
It meant the war had already begun.
---