Blood stained the pavement behind him with every unsteady step he took.
His left arm hung uselessly at his side, and two of his fingers had long since gone numb. Every movement sent fresh pain shooting through his body, but he kept going.
Atlas’s men had held him for three days. Not because they planned to kill him, it was because they wanted answers.
Broken fingers. Dislocated joints. Skin carved away whenever they grew bored instead of drawing blood. Somewhere between the second day and the third, he’d stopped keeping track.
A rough laugh escaped him, sounding more like a cough than anything else.
Still...
He hadn’t said a word. Not once.
At some point, the pain had stopped mattering. So had the blood he’d lost. The only thing keeping him on his feet was the thought of making it back.
Another street came into view through his blurred vision.
Almost there.
Just a little farther.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
Only one pair.
The others had split off during the chase. Only the stubborn one was still following.
A laugh rang out from somewhere behind him.
"You’re finished."
The spy didn’t answer. He staggered around the final corner before finally slowing to a stop.
The man chasing him frowned.
"...Given up?"
Still no response.
Instead, the spy slowly lifted his head, his eyes settling on a small black security camera tucked beneath the corner of a nearby building.
A weak smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Found it.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the pavement.
Inside the surveillance room, one of the operators frowned.
"Hold on..."
He leaned closer to the monitor, his expression changing almost immediately.
"...No way."
Another operator looked over.
"What?"
"Zoom in."
The image expanded.
Blood covered the man’s face. His clothes hung in tatters, and one of his arms bent at an angle no arm should.
Even so...
There was no mistaking him.
"...Holy shit."
The room fell silent.
"That’s Hawk."
Every chair scraped across the floor as people shot to their feet.
"He disappeared three days ago."
"Sound the alarm!"
"He’s alive!"
"And someone’s right behind him!"
The quiet surveillance room erupted into chaos and overlapping chstter. The Atlas goon finally caught up.
Grabbing the wounded spy by the shoulder and yanking him upright, he spoke,"Thought you could run?"
The spy didn’t answer.
He only smiled.
Something about it made the man’s stomach tighten. It wasn’t the smile of someone who’d lost.
It was the smile of someone who knew something he didn’t.
A voice drifted calmly through the empty street.
"...Is he dead?"
The pursuer spun around.
A young woman stood several metres away with her hands tucked into the pockets of an oversized jacket, looking almost bored. Beside her was a man dressed entirely in black, his expression as blank as stone.
"...Is he dead?" she asked.
Smoke barely glanced at the unconscious spy.
"No."
Mist clicked her tongue.
"Pity."
Her gaze drifted lazily from the wounded spy to the man standing before her.
"They called both of us..." She sighed. "...for one target."
"They want him alive," Smoke replied, already walking forward.
Mist rolled her shoulders with obvious disappointment.
"They never let me have any fun."
"The pay’s the same."
She considered that for a moment before shrugging.
"...Fair enough."
The pursuer instinctively took a step back, tightening his grip on the knife.
"...Who the hell are you?"
Neither of them answered.
Smoke kept walking while Mist followed a step behind him, almost as if she were out for an evening stroll instead of a rescue.
"I said—"
The words never left his mouth.
Smoke disappeared.
For the briefest instant, the street looked empty.
Then something slammed into the back of the man’s neck.
Pain exploded through his body as his vision lurched sideways. His knees buckled, but before he could hit the pavement, a hand caught him by the collar.
Mist.
She looked down at him with clear disappointment.
"...That was quick."
Smoke adjusted one of his gloves without looking back.
"He wasn’t very good."
Mist sighed dramatically.
"I didn’t even get to touch him."
She sounded genuinely disappointed.
Smoke bent down and hoisted the unconscious spy over one shoulder as though he weighed nothing. Mist grabbed the captive by the collar and dragged him behind her, leaving a faint trail of blood across the pavement.
"You know..." she muttered, "...I still think one of us would’ve been enough."
"It might have been."
She shot him a look.
"Then why send both of us?"
Smoke turned his head just enough to glance at her.
"In case one of us got carried away."
Mist stopped walking.
"...Are you implying something?"
"I didn’t say a name."
She stared at him for a long moment before clicking her tongue.
"...You’re lucky you’re my brother."
By the time they reached the warehouse, word had already spread.
The moment Hawk was carried through the doors, several men rushed toward him.
"Hawk!"
"Easy!"
"Get the doctor!"
"He made it back..."
Smoke lowered him onto a stretcher, and the doctor immediately checked his pulse.
"...He’s alive."
A collective sigh swept through the room.
Barely.
But alive.
Mist released the captive’s collar.
He hit the concrete with a dull thud before someone hauled him back onto his knees.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
He laughed.
"...So this is home."
One of Reagan’s men drove a fist into his stomach.
The prisoner folded over, coughing up blood.
Still...
He laughed.
"Keep laughing."
Another punch landed.
Then another.
Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head back.
"Who sent you?"
Silence.
"How many men does Atlas have in the city?"
Nothing.
The interrogator slammed his face into the metal chair.
The crack echoed through the warehouse.
Blood splattered across the floor.
The captive spat out another mouthful before grinning through broken, bloodstained teeth.
"...Your man..."
He coughed, drawing a ragged breath.
"...He was tougher than I expected."
Nobody spoke.
"He never said a word."
A weak laugh escaped him.
"...I’ll give him that."
One of the men kicked him hard enough to send both him and the chair crashing onto their side. They dragged him upright again without a second thought.
The captive slowly looked around the room, smiling despite the blood running down his face.
"...One more day..."
His grin widened.
"...and he’d have begged me to kill him."
Silence settled over the warehouse.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Several men surged toward the prisoner.
"You bastard!"
"I’m going to kill you!"
Smoke stepped between them without a word.
That alone was enough to stop them.
The captive laughed harder, blood running freely down his chin.
"That’s it," he rasped with a grin. "Get angry. It’s all any of you know how to do."
The beating resumed.
It went on for several more minutes before someone finally called them off.
By then, he barely resembled a man. One eye had swollen shut, several teeth were gone, and every breath came in wet, uneven rasps.
Still...
He was smiling.
Outside, a black SUV rolled to a stop.
One of the guards hurried over and opened the rear door.
Reagan stepped out.
"What happened?"
His right-hand man fell into step beside him.
"We recovered Hawk."
"He’ll live."
"And?"
"We caught one of Atlas’s men."
As they walked toward the warehouse, the man continued.
"He isn’t talking."
"He keeps laughing."
The faintest crease appeared between Reagan’s brows.
"Does he?"
"Yes."
His right-hand man clicked his tongue.
"Honestly... the guy can still smile after all that. Him and his boss must be drinking from the same tap."
He paused.
"...Or maybe he’s been drinking Atlas’s bath water."
A few quiet chuckles rippled through the room, but they didn’t last. Several senior members shot the younger men sharp looks, and the laughter died almost as quickly as it had begun.
Reagan didn’t even acknowledge it.
He simply kept walking.
The warehouse doors swung open.
Inside, the prisoner sat slumped against the chair, bruised, broken, and drenched in blood. Slowly, he lifted his head.
His one good eye met Reagan’s.
Then...
He smiled.
A weak, crooked, defiant smile.
One of the interrogators immediately stepped forward.
"Boss. We’ve tried everything. He hasn’t said a word."
"He just keeps laughing."
Reagan looked at the prisoner for a long moment.
Then he raised a single finger.
A small flick toward the door.
Nothing more.
Everyone understood.
One by one, they filed out.
Some shook their heads in pity.
Others avoided looking at the prisoner altogether.
"...He’s dead," someone muttered quietly.
"I’d rather be shot," another replied.
Within moments, only four people remained.
Reagan, His right-hand man, The interrogator, And the prisoner. The captive chuckled, the sound rough in his ruined throat.
"...Finally."
"I was getting tired of the amateurs."
Reagan said nothing.
His right-hand man slipped the coat from his shoulders while Reagan calmly rolled up his sleeves. A pair of black leather gloves was placed in his waiting hand.
The room fell silent as he pulled on one glove and then the other. Each finger settled neatly into place before he smoothed the leather around his wrist.
Only then did he move with unhurried steps.
He stopped beside a steel tray lined with neatly arranged instruments.
His fingers hovered over them for a moment before selecting one.
Small, Slender, Almost delicate.
For the first time since his capture...
The prisoner’s smile faltered.
His breathing caught.
Reagan turned the instrument over once between his fingers before finally looking at him.
His voice was quiet.
Almost conversational.
"...You’ve mistaken brutality for skill."
The prisoner swallowed.
Reagan took one slow step closer.
"I don’t need you to talk."
Then another.
"I only need to find out..."
The tip of the instrument caught the light.
"...what you’re willing to lose before you do."
The smile disappeared.