Malik barely had a second to process before Grunter moved. The big man didn’t waste time talking, just came in swinging—a short, mean arc with that billy club, aimed to shatter ribs or worse. Malik backpedaled fast, too fast— his boot caught on something solid, and before his mind even registered what it was, his body was already going down. He hit the ground hard, spine rattling against the cold pavement.

  His eyes flicked down—the dead assassin. He wasn’t just tripping over a body. He was falling into something bigger. Pure instinct took over. His finger squeezed the trigger before his mind could even keep up. The pistol jerked in his hand, a muffled pfft whispering through the alley. Grunter’s head snapped back. A neat, dark hole bloomed between his eyes. He went stiff, the billy club falling from thick fingers before he crumpled like a felled tree.

  For a split second, there was silence.

  Then—"What the f—?!" Squeaky Voice panicked first. His shock barely lasted a breath before rage took over. He lurched forward, fast for a man his size, hands reaching for Malik’s throat.

  Too slow.

  Malik’s body moved like it knew something his mind didn’t. The gun was still warm in his grip, and before he could even question how many rounds were in the magazine, he fired. One shot. Chest. The man staggered but didn’t drop. A second shot. Head. That did it. Squeaky let out a gurgled curse, then went limp mid-step, collapsing face-first onto the alley floor.

  Two down.

  Malik breathed hard. His pulse was a hammer in his ears. Something was wrong. This was too easy. It wasn’t like shooting a gun should be, like a struggle to line up the sights, to steady his hands. This was fluid. Natural. Like he’d been doing this his whole life. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The cigarette-smoker wasn’t shocked anymore. He was pissed. His lip curled as his hand vanished inside his coat.

  Gun.

  Malik pulled the trigger—Nothing. Shit. The pistol clicked empty. The man smirked. Malik’s hand shifted without thinking. The pistol flipped in his grip, barrel-first, and before the thought had even formed in his head, he was already moving. He rushed the man, using sheer momentum to close the distance before he could draw. They collided hard. The cigarette hit the ground first, embers hissing in the damp.

  They fought in the tight space between the alley walls, Malik swinging the pistol like a club, aiming for the side of the bastard’s head. He missed by a breath. The man twisted at the last second, took the hit on the shoulder, but it still sent him reeling.

  Malik pressed in. It should’ve been over. Then came the gleam of steel. The man didn’t go for his gun. He went for the knife. A switchblade flicked open in his grip, the edge sharp as sin. Malik saw the blur of movement, tried to step back, too late. Pain. A deep, white-hot slash through his thigh.

  Malik gritted his teeth. The man sneered, confidence flashing in his dark eyes—he thought it was over. Malik drove forward. His fist snapped up, the butt of the pistol slamming into the man’s throat. The sneer died in his eyes. He stumbled backward, hand flying to his crushed windpipe, gasping for air that wasn’t coming. His body hit the alley wall, then his foot caught on the first corpse, the assassin who started all this.

  Malik watched him fall. The little man hit the ground hard. Tried to breathe. Failed. His hands clawed at his own throat, a strangled gurgle escaping. Malik stood there, breathing heavy, blood soaking into his pants. His fingers unclenched from the gun’s grip. Three men. Three bodies. And just like before… He felt nothing.

  The alley was quiet now. The stink of gunpowder mixed with the sharper tang of blood. The rain slicked the pavement, turning dark pools into oily reflections of neon light. Malik stood there, breathing slow, hands loose but ready. His leg ached where the knife had found flesh, but he wasn’t dead. The same couldn’t be said for the three men sprawled around him.

  Then—something shifted.

  A shimmer, barely visible, like the heat waves that rose from pavement on the hottest days of summer. It peeled off the bodies, wisps of it curling like smoke, but it wasn’t smoke. It was something else. Something deeper. A power that hadn’t been there before.

  And it was moving toward him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Instead, he let it come. It hit like ice and fire all at once, pouring into him, wrapping around his bones, settling into his skin like it had been waiting for him all along. Then the voice came. Cold. Detached. Male. It wasn’t in his ears—it was inside his mind.

  

  A ghostly shape unfurled in his vision, hovering at the bottom of his sight. A gun belt, faint as mist, forming from nothing. He watched as cartridges appeared one by one, filling the empty slots like a gambler stacking chips at a table. The belt filled. Then a second one rolled out, new slots appearing. Three more cartridges snapped into place before the whole thing faded back into nothingness.

  The words settled in his brain, and they made sense. Even though they shouldn’t.

  That part felt right. Like it had been waiting for him to take it.

  

  The energy coiled through him, humming under his skin. His muscles felt looser, his body sharper. He could feel his leg wound knitting itself shut. The pain dulled, then vanished altogether, leaving only a faint ache and a new scar. He grinned. Now that was useful.

  

  Basic? He almost laughed at that. If this was basic, he was looking forward to what came next.

  

  Malik flexed his fingers, rolling his wrist. His body still felt charged, humming with residual power. He understood now—this was a game. Or something like it. And he was playing.

  

  A flickering display settled into his mind’s eye. The numbers meant something, though he wasn’t sure exactly how.

  Quickness: 14

  Aim: 13

  Grit: 11

  Instinct: 14

  Presence: 14

  

  Malik took a breath. The system was waiting. But for the first time since waking up in that dingy hotel room, he didn’t feel lost. He felt like he belonged. Malik exhaled, slow and steady, watching as the last wisps of that strange, swirling energy disappeared into him. The cold fire that had burned along his veins faded, settling into something deeper—something that felt right. He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers, feeling the hum of power that hadn’t been there before.

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  Whatever this was—this D?o system, this game—it had rules. He could feel them, even if he couldn’t see them. Like the pull of gravity or the rhythm of a fight, the way an opponent telegraphed their next move if you just knew where to look. Instinct, not memory, told him that rules were meant to be tested. The voice still lingered in his mind, mechanical and detached, listing out his stats. He studied them, not with curiosity, but with a kind of satisfaction. He didn’t know how he knew that the rules could be pushed, but it was buried in his bones. Maybe he had played one before—maybe somewhere sleek, bright, all circuits and neon. Now he was in a place of smoke and shadow, but the D?o system existed.

  And if this was a game, then he had to play it. Had to win.

  The system had given him three points to allocate, and that meant choices. He studied the numbers in his mind’s eye, the way a man might study his hand in a card game, weighing the odds. Quickness and Instinct were already solid—he’d felt that when he moved. Grit was lower, but he wasn’t the kind of man who relied on standing toe-to-toe with a problem. No, he moved, he adapted.

  He placed one point into Aim. That felt right. His shots had been good, but they could be better. He’d felt something guiding his hands when he pulled that trigger, but he wanted more control, more precision. The second point went to Quickness. Speed won fights. If he could move faster than the other guy, react quicker, then it didn’t matter how strong they were. They’d be dead before they touched him. The last one? Instinct. The world was wrong. He could feel it, just like he had felt the trap at the hotel room door. If his gut was part of his survival, he’d lean into it.

  As soon as he locked in the choices, a sensation rippled through him—subtle, but real. Like muscles warming up before a sprint, a sharpening of the edges. He let out a breath, adjusting to the shift. He glanced down at the body slumped against the alley wall, the assassin’s lifeless eyes staring past him. Looting the dead. It should have felt grim, but it didn’t. It felt... practical.

  The tactical harness was well-made, the kind of thing professionals used. Secure, balanced, easy access to everything you needed without getting in the way. He stripped it off the corpse and slipped it on over his shirt, adjusting the fit. The leather of the shoulder holster settled against him like an old friend, the weight of it right where it should be. His fingers brushed against the pistol in his hand.

  

  Character Sheet – Malik

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Special Ability:

  Malik adjusted the fit of his coat over the harness, letting the pistol settle back into place. If this was a game, he was playing to win. Malik moved through the alley with the same quiet efficiency that had carried him through the fight. The bodies were cooling, the blood pooling in the cracks of the pavement, but the city around him? It didn’t give a damn. Kuroyami City was a place where the dead were just another kind of forgotten, and the living kept moving because standing still meant you might be next. He knelt beside the thugs, rifling through their pockets with practiced fingers, looking for anything useful.

  They hadn’t been carrying much—loose bills, a cheap watch, a pack of cigarettes with a few bent and a single one missing. One of them had a silver lighter, expensive but well-used, engraved with a swirling dragon motif. A gift, maybe, or a prize. Either way, it wasn’t theirs anymore. Malik pocketed it, then grabbed the small wad of cash. Not much, but enough for food. He’d take it.

  Stepping out of the alley, he slid the pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket and palmed the lighter, turning it over in his fingers as he walked. The city stretched out ahead of him, lights flickering in neon halos, the air thick with the scent of rain, exhaust, and the distant promise of frying oil and burnt sugar. Kuroyami City didn’t care. Four men were dead behind him, and yet the streets still pulsed, people moved in their own rhythms, and nothing had changed. He might as well have dropped a stone into an ocean.

  He picked up his suitcase, moving with unhurried steps. Every few blocks, he checked his back trail, pausing just long enough to glance at shop windows and reflective surfaces, searching for any sign of pursuit. Nothing. No shouts of alarm, no sound of sirens, no running footsteps chasing him down. The bodies hadn’t been found yet, or if they had, nobody had seen fit to raise a fuss. That told him something about this city.

  After several more turns down wet pavement, dodging puddles and sidestepping the occasional drunk, the warm glow of a diner’s sign caught his attention. HANA’S, in old faded letters, blinking intermittently but still standing. The smell of fried food and coffee drifted through the air, wrapping around him like a welcome. His body reminded him that it was running on empty, and if he was going to keep pushing forward, he needed fuel. He didn’t know what this system did to his body exactly, but he had a hunch—more strength, more speed, more power meant more hunger. And right now, he could eat.

  The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open. The warmth inside hit him like a wall—greasy heat from the kitchen, the scent of butter and sizzling meat, the ever-present tang of stale coffee. The place wasn’t busy, just a handful of scattered souls tucked into booths or hunched at the counter, nursing their drinks and staring into the middle distance. The kind of people who belonged in a diner at this hour.

  A waitress turned at the sound of the bell, one hand on her hip, the other holding a coffee pot. Tired eyes, but sharp. Her uniform was neat but worn, the fabric stretched a little at the seams, and her lipstick was the kind of red that had seen the bottom of too many coffee cups. She sized him up in one glance, taking in the long coat, the fedora, the way he carried himself like a man who’d seen things.

  "Take a seat anywhere, honey," she said, voice smooth but firm, the kind of tone that told him she didn’t take crap from anyone. "You look like you need a stiff drink, but since we ain’t got a liquor license, coffee’s the best I can do."

  Malik nodded, sliding into a booth near the window. "Coffee’s fine," he said, voice rough even to his own ears. "Black. And whatever you got that’ll stick to my ribs."

  She smirked, giving him a slow once-over before flipping her notepad open. "That mean you want the meatloaf special, or do you got a death wish for something worse?"

  "Surprise me."

  She chuckled, jotting something down before pouring him a steaming cup of coffee from the pot in her hand. "Lucky for you, I make a mean omelet," she said, sliding the cup onto the table with a practiced ease. "And the bread ain't fresh, but it ain't bad either."

  Malik wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into his hands. The coffee smelled like burnt dreams and too many late nights, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. As she walked away, he took his first sip, letting the bitter taste ground him. Kuroyami City didn’t care if he was tired, didn’t care if he had no memory.

  Malik cradled the warm coffee cup in his hands, staring down into the black liquid like it might have answers floating somewhere beneath the surface. The old assassin’s words rolled over in his mind, each syllable heavy with meaning he couldn’t grasp. The words had a weight, an urgency. The man had known him—or at least, known something about him.

  That didn’t sit right. Not one damn bit.

  There was anger simmering in his gut, low and steady, like a coal smoldering under damp wood. Not the kind of rage that sent men swinging blindly in bar fights, but something deeper, something colder. A resentment that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He had questions, and the only man who could have answered them had bled out against a brick wall with Malik watching.

  His fingers drummed once against the tabletop before he remembered the paper the assassin had shoved into his hand. Digging into his coat pocket, he fished it out, unfolding the slightly crumpled sheet. A hastily scrawled address stared back at him, thick lines from a heavy hand pressing into the grain. The numbers and street name were familiar in a way that made no sense, like the distant echo of a song he couldn't quite place. Somewhere in him, buried beneath the static, he knew this place.

  He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching as he ran his thumb over the ink. Maybe the answers he needed were waiting for him there. Maybe he’d find nothing but another dead body and more questions. Either way, he wasn’t the kind of man to sit still. Then, like a needle pricking his skull, a sharp ping rang in his ear. His grip on the paper tightened as the cold, detached voice spoke—dispassionate, clinical, like a machine reading off a report.

  

  Malik’s lip curled slightly, just enough to show a hint of teeth. A quest? He didn’t know why he found that funny, but something about the word made him want to scoff. Like this was some kind of game. But wasn’t that exactly what it was?

  The D?o of the Gun. The floating ghostly gun belt. The cold logic of whatever system had embedded itself in his mind. It was all a game. He just didn’t know the rules yet.

  He flicked the paper between his fingers, considering, before folding it neatly and slipping it back into his coat pocket. The choice had already been made. He was going. Whether it led to answers or a bullet in the gut, that was just part of the gamble.