Alina didn't sleep that night. She couldn't. Her mind was too busy calculating every angle of the upcoming move on Damian Cole's empire. In this game, sleep was a luxury — and one she could no longer afford. The warehouse district was still fresh in her mind. The gunshot, the feel of Terry's blood staining her fingers, the weight of her choices. But that was the past. She couldn't let it distract her from the future.
The next morning, she met Nix at a diner on the outskirts of the city. The place was rundown, the windows fogged with condensation, but it was neutral ground. No one would look twice at a meeting here. The smell of stale coffee and greasy bacon hung in the air as she slid into the booth across from Nix.
He didn't look up from his menu as she sat down. Instead, he tapped the edge of his coffee cup absently, lost in thought.
"Have you heard of the Iron Fist Crew?" Nix asked without looking up.
Alina raised an eyebrow. "You mean the one that's been causing problems in the South District? What about them?"
"Yeah, them." Nix finally met her eyes, a gleam of calculation in his gaze. "They've been making waves, and not in a way we like. They've got ties to Cole's operation. They're the muscle, the guys doing the dirty work. If we're going to hit Cole, we're going to have to deal with them first."
Alina's lips curled into a faint smile. "I take it you want me to handle them."
"You're the best for the job," Nix said with a shrug. "They're tough, but they're not smart. They've been knocking over small-time dealers, pushing people around, but they don't have the finesse you do."
"Fine," Alina said, nodding. "I'll pay them a visit. See what they're up to."
"You're gonna need backup," Nix warned, his tone hardening slightly. "These guys don't play fair."
"I work better alone," Alina replied, her voice low but firm. "I'll handle it."
Nix didn't argue, though he didn't look pleased. The two of them knew how this worked. There were no guarantees in this world. But Nix trusted her, and for better or worse, that meant something.
Alina slid out of the booth and stood up, slipping a few bills onto the table before heading for the door. The moment her hand touched the handle, Nix called out to her.
"Be careful, Alina," he said again. His voice was quieter now, almost concerned.
"I always am," she replied, giving him a half-smile as she stepped out into the rain.
The Iron Fist Crew's headquarters was located in a dilapidated building near the South District — a block of abandoned warehouses and empty streets, a perfect hideout for criminals who didn't want to be found. Alina had tracked their movements for weeks, piecing together a pattern of where they operated and when. Tonight, she'd be paying them a visit.
The rain had returned, falling in thick sheets that blurred the city lights and made the world feel even more distant. Alina moved through the wet streets with practiced ease, her boots splashing through the puddles, her eyes scanning every corner. She didn't trust the shadows here. They had a way of hiding things — people, dangers, truths.
As she approached the warehouse, she saw two of the Iron Fist crew standing guard outside. They were big, burly men dressed in leather jackets, looking like they were ready to start a fight at any moment.
Alina didn't hesitate. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small knife — sharp and precise. She'd used it enough times to know how to make a clean cut. With a fluid motion, she slipped behind a nearby dumpster, silent as a ghost, and waited for the right moment.
When one of the guards turned his back, she moved. Quick, quiet. She closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing the first one by the throat and slamming him into the wall. Before he could react, the knife was in his side, cutting through flesh with deadly precision.
The second guard was slower, but not by much. Alina used his partner's death as a distraction, kicking the man's legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the wet ground. Before he could scramble to his feet, she pressed the blade against his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Tell me where the rest of your crew is," Alina said in a low, dangerous voice. She didn't wait for him to speak, just applied a little more pressure to the knife, enough to make him understand she wasn't playing games.
The man gasped, his hands trembling. "In the back... warehouse... the one with the broken door," he managed to croak.
Alina didn't wait for him to say more. She released the pressure on his throat, letting him go, and walked away, not sparing him another glance.
She could hear him stumbling behind her as she moved toward the back of the warehouse, but she didn't care. He wouldn't follow.
The back entrance was exactly as the man had described — a rusted door with a hole punched through it, the wood warped and splintered from years of neglect. Alina didn't waste any time. She stepped through the door and into the darkness of the warehouse.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and oil. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the shadows, and she could hear the sounds of muffled voices in the distance. The Iron Fist Crew was holed up, likely planning their next moves. They wouldn't expect an attack, especially not from her.
Alina crept forward, her senses heightened, every muscle in her body tensed for action. She spotted the group of men huddled around a table, their faces lit by the dim glow of a single hanging bulb. They didn't see her coming.
The first one dropped to the ground with a knife in his throat before he even knew she was there. The second didn't get a chance to scream. Alina was on him before he could react, the blade cutting through his ribs with clean, brutal efficiency.
By the time the third man realized what was happening, he was already dead.
The rest of the crew didn't stand a chance. They were disorganized, scared. And Alina was fast, ruthless. In a matter of minutes, the warehouse was silent again, save for the sound of Alina's breathing, steady and controlled.
She wiped the blood from her blade and tucked it back into her jacket. There were no more questions. No more loose ends. She had sent a message: If you worked for Cole, you'd better be prepared to deal with the consequences.
As she walked out of the warehouse, Alina didn't feel the rush she had expected. Instead, there was a gnawing emptiness that crept back into her chest.
It was the cost of loyalty. And it was one she was beginning to feel more and more with every kill.