The first thing was breath—ragged, desperate, like a man who’d been held underwater too long and finally clawed his way back to the surface. His chest heaved, his lungs burned, and his throat felt raw like he’d been screaming in his sleep. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know anything, really.

  The second thing was the dark. Not just the absence of light, but a thick, choking blackness that pressed in on him like a second skin. His pulse pounded in his ears, the rhythm frantic and out of sync with the slow drip of a leaky faucet somewhere nearby. His fingers curled against damp sheets—cheap, scratchy fabric, tangled around his bare legs. The mattress beneath him was stiff, stained with sweat, and the pillow smelled like stale cigarette smoke and something metallic—blood, maybe.

  A siren wailed in the distance, swallowed by the steady patter of rain against glass. The window was open a crack, letting in the sour, electric scent of the city, the smell of neon burning against damp pavement. The breeze slithered through the room, carrying the faintest trace of something old—spilled whiskey, cheap perfume, something rotten.

  He sat up too fast. The world spun.

  His stomach lurched, his vision swam, and for a moment, everything fractured—memories slipping like sand through his fingers. He clutched his head, breathing deep, trying to chase down the pieces of himself before they scattered completely. But there was nothing.

  No name. No past. Just a flicker of something—a room, two voices murmuring in the dark. Something about a race. A contest.

  And a name. Saoirse.

  It flared in his mind like a dying ember, familiar and distant all at once. A name he should know. A name that mattered. But the second he reached for it, it was gone—slipping away like smoke.

  His hands ran over his own skin, searching for something—a scar, a mark, anything that might tell him who the hell he was. His muscles were lean, strong, but not fresh. This body had seen work. His knuckles were rough, his wrists bore faint impressions like he’d been shackled once, long ago.

  The room was spinning less now. Just a slow, sick sway.

  He swallowed, let the breath steady in his chest, and blinked hard against the dark. He wasn’t dead. That was something. Now he just had to figure out who the hell he was.

  The bathroom door stood half-open, the kind of open that felt off—not an accident, not the absentmindedness of a man too tired or drunk to close it all the way. The kind of open that meant something was waiting. No light spilled out onto the grimy carpet, just a gaping black maw that swallowed what little glow came from the neon bleed outside. His pulse slowed, not sped up. His mind was still static, a radio caught between stations, but something deep inside him tightened—an instinct sharpened by things he didn’t remember learning.

  The air carried a faint tang of copper.

  He turned toward the window, needing a second, needing to breathe. The glass was smeared, greasy from years of hands that had no business touching it. An alley stretched below, a narrow throat choked with garbage and shadow. Overhead, a thick quilt of clouds smothered the sky, and whatever moon was up there tonight was lost to the dark. Just like him.

  He pushed away from the window, swallowing down the hollow feeling creeping at the edges of his ribs. There was no point looking out when the problem was in here. His bare feet moved without sound across the thin carpet. His hand ghosted over the rough wood of the doorframe. He knew this was a bathroom. How he knew, he couldn’t say—just like he knew the city outside was Kuroyami City, without remembering ever setting foot in it.

  Then he saw it. A body. His fingers brushed against a switch on the wall, and when he flicked it, a dim, sickly yellow light sputtered to life, pushing back just enough darkness to make things worse. Sprawled on the tiled floor, limbs twisted like a marionette with its strings slashed. Young. Sharp-dressed. Dead. His brain took it apart the way a mechanic takes apart an engine—piece by piece.

  First, the knife.

  A long, thin stiletto, buried deep in the man’s throat. The kind of blade made for slipping between ribs, for silencing a man before he had the chance to make a sound. How he knew this he did not know.

  Second, the face.

  Shock frozen into sharp lines. Wide, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling like they might still find answers there.

  Third, the ink.

  Peeking from the cuffs of his crisp white shirt, curling along the edges of his collar—black dragons, kanji, symbols wound like living things along the length of his arms. Yakuza. He knew that. He knew it the way he knew the bathroom door was a bathroom door. The way he knew the weight of a gun would feel right in his hand.

  But he didn’t know how he knew. And that was the part that set his teeth on edge. He stared down at the corpse, waiting for something to rise in him—revulsion, fear, maybe even some distant whisper of guilt. Nothing came. Just silence. Just the sound of rain tapping against the window like fingers on glass.

  The mirror was cracked, a jagged web of fractures distorting his reflection, but not enough to hide the man staring back at him. Dark eyes, sharp and watchful, the kind that had seen too much—or maybe not enough, considering the hollow space behind them. A jaw set tight, like it had been clenched for hours. Knuckles raw, skin scraped and bruised, like he’d either hit something or someone… maybe both. His body was all lean muscle, built for speed, for precision. Not bulky, not heavy, but efficient—something meant to move, to react. Like a blade made for cutting rather than breaking. But his mind?

  Blank.

  No memory. No history. Just a heavy silence in his skull where there should’ve been something. His gaze dropped from the mirror, back to the floor. Back to him—the dead man sprawled on the tile, a knife sunk deep into his throat. He felt nothing for him. Not fear, not disgust, not even curiosity. Just… nothing. That should’ve scared him. Should’ve made his gut twist, his breath catch. But it didn’t. His eyes flicked to the man’s belt. A wallet. He crouched down, slipping it free, fingers moving like they’d done this before—practiced, quick, careful. Like he wasn’t rifling through a dead man’s pockets for the first time.

  Inside: An ID card. His face. A name. His name? MALIK. No last name. His grip tightened around the leather, his own name feeling foreign in his head. Was it even real? Could a man just wake up in a room with no memory and be handed his name like a lost set of keys? He didn’t know. But he knew one thing. Malik or not—he was here, and he had to move.

  The stink of blood was getting stronger. Malik didn’t know how long it had been since the man on the bathroom floor had stopped breathing, but the room was starting to turn sour with it. He couldn’t stay here. That much he knew. What he didn’t know was who the man was, why he was here, or why his own mind felt like a busted radio—just static where the memories should be. He knew things, could recognize things, but he didn’t remember them. Like a man who could read a book but had never learned to write. It made his skin itch.

  His gaze swept the room, searching. The place was a dump—walls stained yellow from cigarette smoke, carpet worn thin and sticky underfoot. Shadows pooled in the corners, and now that the bathroom light was on, he could see too much. He almost wished he hadn’t.

  Against the wall, next to a rickety wooden chair, he spotted a battered old suitcase. The kind with brass latches and travel stickers slapped across its hard shell, marking places he didn’t recognize. His fingers ghosted over the names, reading them like a language he’d once known but had forgotten.

  Then, in the bottom corner—Paradise Valley. A picturesque frontier town, a river winding around it, painted in warm, hopeful colors. It was a lie. Malik didn’t know how he knew that, but the certainty sat deep in his gut. It wasn’t a paradise, and it wasn’t much of a valley, either.

  He clicked the latches open. Inside: a black suit. Tailored. Sleek. The fabric was smooth beneath his fingers, expensive. Malik held the jacket up, measuring it against his frame. His. He didn’t need to think about it—it fit before he even put it on.

  There was a coat rack behind the door, one he hadn’t noticed before. Hanging from it was a long trench coat and a wide-brim fedora. The kind a man wore when he wanted to blend into a crowd but still command attention when he spoke. He took his time dressing, shrugging into the crisp shirt, fastening the buttons, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the coat. It felt right. Like slipping into muscle memory. He moved, testing the fit, and the suit moved with him, flexible, familiar.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Then he heard it. A faint, rhythmic tick. His eyes flicked back to the bathroom. The dead man’s wristwatch was still running. Malik stepped over the blood, crouched down, and unfastened it from the stiffening wrist. It was a nice watch, expensive, the kind a man didn't just throw away. Not that it’d do the corpse any good now. He slid it onto his own wrist, fastening the clasp. It felt heavy, but not in a bad way. Then he stood, flexed his fingers, took one last look around the room.

  It was time to go.

  The knock came heavy—three solid thuds against the cheap wood. The door shuddered in its warped frame, rattling the chain lock. Malik froze. For a second, his mind went blank, static buzzing in his skull. Then something sharp cut through the fog—not a memory, but a feeling. A raw jolt of adrenaline shot through his veins, snapping his instincts to life like a current through a dead wire. Then came the voice. Low. Authoritative.

  “Police. Open up.”

  His gut twisted. Wrong. Something about it was off. Too flat. Too cold. He didn’t hear sirens. Didn’t see the flash of red and blue bleeding through the curtains. Just the steady drum of rain against the window and the hum of neon from the street below. He should’ve heard sirens. Should’ve seen lights. That was the first reason he didn’t believe them. The second? The peephole showed him nothing but shadows. His pulse slowed, but not from calm. From focus. A deep, prowling focus that settled into his bones like it had always been there.

  He moved back from the door, quiet, controlled. His breath came steady, but he could feel his heartbeat thrumming low in his ribs. He didn’t need to remember anything to know the truth. This wasn’t a rescue. It was a trap.

  The air outside hit him like a slap—cold, wet, heavy with the stink of rain-soaked concrete and neon-burnt ozone. Malik barely noticed. His mind was too sharp, his instincts too loud. He gripped the suitcase tighter, pulling his coat close as he slid through the fire escape window without a sound. The metal grating groaned beneath his weight. Rust flaked beneath his fingertips, the rail slick with rain. But he moved fast, quicker than he had any right to—skipping steps, dropping low, body fluid as shadow. His boots landed on wet pavement, knees bending to absorb the impact without a sound. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

  He turned back, heart pounding steady, eyes sharp. A shape moved behind the window, a shifting silhouette in the dim glow. Malik pressed deeper into the alley’s shadows, breath slow, controlled.

  No alarm. No shouting. They hadn’t seen him.

  After a long second, the figure drifted from the window. That was his cue. He adjusted his coat, yanked the collar high against the night’s chill, and set his hat low over his brow. Then, without hesitation, he stepped out of the alley and into the living, breathing chaos of Kuroyami City.

  The city didn’t sleep. Not really.

  It pulsed—like a heart, like a thing alive. The streets were slick with rain and neon, reflecting pinks, blues, and sickly yellows in a world of glass and steel. Tall buildings loomed like silent sentinels, their windows glowing with a thousand unseen lives. Steam curled from the gutters, twisting through alleyways, coiling around flickering streetlights.

  The air was thick with movement. Cars rolled slow and heavy down avenues cluttered with neon signs in kanji and English, blinking half-broken promises of cheap rooms and late-night eats. The clatter of heels, the murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter or the sharp snap of a cigarette lighter—all of it wove together into something restless, something hungry.

  Kuroyami City. Jewel of the world. But that was just the lie it told itself. Malik didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. The real city lay beneath. A city of whispers and sharp knives. Of law and justice worn so thin you could see the rot underneath. And somehow… somehow he knew it like an old lover. Knew its curves, its flaws, its hidden places. Knew that no matter how bright the neon glowed, the shadows always ran deeper. For the first time, he felt alive. And at the same time—hunted.

  He moved with the crowd, letting it swallow him whole. He became part of it, but separate. Just another face, another shadow slipping through the night. Yet something inside him whispered that he could do better. And so he did what felt natural. He checked his back trail. He moved with purpose, but not too much. Blended without looking like he was trying. He let his gaze slide over reflections in glass, caught movement in puddles, read the ebb and flow of the street like a second language.

  No tails. Not yet. But Kuroyami City had a way of catching up to you. And something told him—he wasn’t running fast enough yet.

  The weight of a few bills in his pocket didn’t mean much when he first found them. At the time, money was just paper, numbers on a card, a thing with no weight in his empty head. But as he moved through the city, saw the flickering neon signs screaming prices in kanji and English, it started making sense. Not much. But enough. Then, his stomach twisted—a hollow ache pulling at his ribs. Hunger. Not just a passing thought but a real, gnawing emptiness. The kind of hunger that made a man mean if he let it go too long.

  Kuroyami City smelled like a hundred different things, all of them strong. Oil and spices. Fried noodles sizzling on a hot plate. Sweet soy sauce caramelizing over an open flame. Skewers of grilled meat, wrapped in thin paper, handed off with a nod. The smells mixed together, thick as the night air, making it damn near impossible to ignore the hunger any longer. Then he saw it. Flatbread, split open and stuffed with grilled meat and crisp vegetables, the edges dripping with some kind of sauce. He didn’t think—he just knew that was what he needed.

  Malik stepped up, laid out some of his cash, and watched the vendor work. The bread was hot, slightly charred, the scent of seared meat filling the air as it hit the open grill. He ordered a beer to go with it. The vendor didn’t ask questions—just took the money and slid the bottle across the counter.

  He took his seat on a low stool at the vendor’s counter, back to the street but angled enough to see. His hands moved on instinct, wrapping around the food, tearing into it. Greasy, hot, packed with flavor. It was the kind of meal that could only be good on a street corner, eaten fresh while the city moved around him.

  But his focus wasn’t just on eating. He was watching. No one was following him—not that he could see. He scanned faces, watched the flow of foot traffic, looking for something—someone—that felt off. And then he saw him. A man. Dressed in black. Long coat, wide-brimmed hat. Too familiar. The way he moved, the way his body leaned slightly to one side, his hand clutching his stomach.

  He was hurt.

  Malik took another bite, kept his eyes half-lidded, casual, but he tracked the man’s every movement. The man stopped, glanced around, and—satisfied he wasn’t being followed—slipped into an alley not twenty feet from where Malik sat. Something about the whole thing didn’t sit right. Malik finished the last of his food, washed it down with the beer. Stale. Bitter. But it did the job. He set the bottle down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood. Slow. Casual. Like he had nowhere to be.

  He moved toward the alley, pausing at the entrance. Checked his back. No one watching. Then, with a quiet exhale, he stepped into the dark. The air in the alley was thicker, heavier. Blood. He wasn’t alone. Malik barely made out the shape of the man—slumped against the brick wall, head dipped forward. A cough rattled from his chest, wet and ragged, blood bubbling at his lips.

  Malik stopped a few feet away, hands loose, body ready. He didn’t know why, but something told him this man was dangerous. The old assassin lifted his head. His eyes locked onto Malik’s, and for a brief second, there was recognition. But the gun in his hand never rose. A sleek, black pistol. Silenced. Well-maintained. But it dipped lower with each breath, too heavy in his grip.

  Malik’s eyes flicked to his belt—black tactical harness. The kind of gear only professionals used. And that was when Malik knew. The man was too old for this life. Too many wounds—some fresh, some ancient. A man who had survived too much, but not enough to get out. The assassin’s mouth moved, voice barely a whisper.

  "I found you."

  Malik took a step closer.

  "Didn’t think I would... they got me." A shudder ran through his body, his frame rattling like a man already half in the grave. "Tried to stop them… tried to—” A sharp spasm cut him off, his face twisting in pain.

  Then, with a shaking hand, he shoved the pistol and a slip of paper into Malik’s chest.

  "Go to this address." His voice rasped, breaking apart. "Find the case. Deliver it."

  Malik hesitated.

  "They will try to stop you. You can’t let them." A slow exhale. His last breath. "The fate of the city... maybe even the world…"

  His body sagged, his grip on the gun going slack.

  And then—he was gone.

  Malik stared down at the pistol in his hands. It was cold, smooth, familiar. He didn’t know who the hell this man was. Didn’t know what game he’d just walked into. But he was in it now. And something told him—he’d been playing this game a long, long time.

  The weight of the pistol in his hand felt natural—too natural. Like it belonged there, like it had always been there. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Two dead men in the span of a single night.

  Was this just the shape of his life? Bodies piling up around him while he moved forward, always forward? He glanced at the scrap of paper in his other hand. The address was scrawled in thick, uneven pencil, the pressure deep enough to nearly tear the page. A desperate hand had written it. He tucked it into his pocket, his mind already turning over what his next step should be.

  Then—footsteps.

  Not the even, hurried steps of some pedestrian cutting through an alley. No, these were deliberate, heavy, filled with intent. And then came the breathing. Low, steady. Controlled. Malik turned slow, smooth, letting the motion speak for itself—no sudden movements, no tells. The moment his eyes landed on them, he knew exactly what he was dealing with.

  The speaker was small, a wiry man in a pinstripe suit, an expensive overcoat draped over narrow shoulders. His trilby was cocked at a sharp angle, the brim casting a shadow over a sharp, rat-like face. He held a cigarette between two fingers, flicking ash with a casualness that didn’t quite match the glint in his eye. Behind him, two bruisers stood like a pair of trained dogs waiting for their master’s word. They were big, thick in the arms and neck, their suits barely containing their bulk.

  The one on the left, a real mountain of a man, had a voice that didn’t fit his frame—high-pitched, almost whiny. He tilted his head like a confused dog. “Hey, boss. Who do you think he is?"

  The one on the right just grunted. No words, no interest in them. The strong, silent type.

  The boss took another drag from his cigarette, then let out a slow, amused chuckle. “Well, that’s obvious.” His voice was slick, the kind of voice that oozed confidence and venom in equal measure. He exhaled a plume of smoke and smiled wide and mean. "He’s a dead man walking."

  A slow nod, and the bruisers moved.

  "You know what to do, boys. Make him hurt—then make him dead."

  The high-pitched one cracked his knuckles, rolling his neck like this was some warm-up routine. The grunter reached into his coat, pulled free a short, mean-looking billy club. Malik exhaled slow. Figures. The night wasn’t done with him yet.