Chris barely had time to process the shock of seeing his childhood friend Edward Neimster before the fog parted to reveal five shadows closing in fast. The sound of their wooden sticks striking palms hinted they weren't here for a friendly chat.
Edward recoiled, pressed against the cold brick wall, trembling, and whispered in a choked voice:
— "They're here, Chris… run. They don't show mercy!"
Chris didn't move. He stood in the middle of the alley, his long coat fluttering gently in the chilly breeze. The shadows of his hat obscured half his face, making his features unreadable to the mercenaries.
The men stopped a few steps away. Their leader, a man with a broad scar across his face, looked at Chris with disdain. All he saw was a "thin obstacle" dressed in formal attire.
— "Well, what bad luck… looks like we interrupted a nobleman's evening stroll, or perhaps a lost government clerk. Listen, step aside now, and we'll pretend we never saw you. We only want the rat behind you," the scarred man sneered.
Chris remained silent. Not an inch did he flinch, which only fueled the man's irritation.
Another man from the back, laughing cruelly, added:
— "Maybe he's deaf! Or he wet himself in fear. Look at that neat attire; I bet the dust of this alley has never touched his shoes. Leave the field to the men, 'sir,' and go have some tea before we break those weak bones."
They thought they were talking to easy prey. They didn't know this man—Chris Miller—had hardened his heart in London's filthy alleys and knew human weak points as well as the streets themselves.
Then, in a calm, icy voice as sharp as a blade through silk, Chris spoke:
— "Five seconds to get out of my sight… after that, you won't worry about my clothes, but about whether London's doctors can piece your jaws back together."
The men erupted in laughter, dismissing it as a crude joke. The scarred leader stepped forward, extending his thick hand to shove Chris by the shoulder:
— "Five seconds? I'll give you one…—"
His sentence never finished. In a fraction of a second, the hand that tried to push him became a tool against its owner.
Chris's movement wasn't mere defense; it was precise "combat surgery." Before the scarred man's hand touched his shoulder, Chris grabbed his wrist in a swift circular motion, using the man's own weight against him. A dry, muted crack echoed—a joint twisted—and a rising uppercut from Chris' elbow silenced the scream before it fully formed. The blow landed under the chin, teeth clashing, and the man collapsed unconscious before touching the ground.
A sudden silence fell. The remaining four tried to process what had happened to their "boss."
— "You bastard!" shouted one, raising his thick stick in a frenzied attack.
Chris didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped into the strike, neutralizing its force. He tilted his head slightly to avoid the wooden blow while hammering a fist into the attacker's chest. The man's breath stopped, his eyes bulged, and staggering, Chris snatched the stick from his hand.
Now Chris was armed.
Two more rushed him together, assuming numbers would overcome skill. Chris ducked a stray wooden board, spun in a coil-like motion, and struck the third man's leg with the stick. The man collapsed to his knees, broken, and before the fourth could react, the iron tip of the stick slammed into his shoulder, dislocating it.
The fifth man froze, clutching a small knife, his hand trembling so violently the blade drew erratic circles in the air. He looked at his four fallen comrades—one moaning, the others silent in pain.
Chris fixed his gaze on him, unmoving. A cold drop of rain slid down his forehead. Calmly, he said:
— "Two seconds left of the five I gave you… will you spend them running or joining your friends on the ground?"
The man didn't wait. He threw the knife as if casting a burning ember, then ran into the fog, gasping, as if fleeing a demon.
Chris dropped the stick, examining his hand slightly stained with blood. He turned to Edward, whose eyes widened in shock, seeing Chris as if for the first time.
— "Get up, Ed," Chris' gravelly voice returned, "trouble's brewing here… and you owe me some answers."
The echo of fleeing footsteps hadn't faded before a bright beam cut through the alley's darkness. Barney, Chris' partner, appeared, running with his hand on his pistol. He glanced at the bodies in the mud, then at Chris and Edward, feigning surprise:
— "Chris! What's all this? What happened here?"
Chris wiped the blood from his fingers coldly and lied casually, as if describing a mundane scene:
— "Nothing to worry about, Barney… just some street punks picking on a poor homeless man. I had to give them a lesson in manners."
(Chris' internal voice):
"Organized people after Edward at this hour? This isn't just street thugs… it's a deeper conspiracy. Involving the police would hand Edward to the gallows like they failed to protect Roni before. No one here is trustworthy… no one."
Barney frowned, stepping closer to Edward:
— "Then we should take him to the station for questioning, figure out who these scoundrels are."
Chris' eyes bore into Barney's:
— "No need… they won't dare return, right, Ed?"
Edward nodded in terror, and Barney paused, then said:
— "As you see fit, partner."
Chris placed a hand on Edward's shoulder:
— "I'll take care of him tonight. You handle things at the station and pretend you didn't see us."
Barney gave a faint smile:
— "Alright… but remember, we're partners. If you need help, I'm here."
Chris nodded silently, then left the alley with Edward, throwing one last smile at Barney—a smile masking a mountain of caution.
As Chris and Edward disappeared around the street corner, Barney's smile vanished. His friendly features hardened into a mask of cold calculation. He turned to the four groaning men struggling to rise.
— "Wh… who are you?" muttered the scarred man, holding his broken jaw.
Barney drew a silenced pistol, leveling it at the man's head with inhuman calm:
— "No need for the dead to know… but I'll satisfy your curiosity before you go to hell. I'm the one John Dreed placed to make sure fools like you don't ruin his plans. You failed the mission… and failure in Dreed's law has one price."
Thump… thump… thump… thump.
Four muffled shots ended the alley's moans. Barney wiped the muzzle with his scarf, glancing toward the path Chris had taken, muttering in frustration:
— "Looks like this mission will take longer than I expected, Chris… I hope I don't have to kill you with your own hands."