The outskirts of the city were silent, swallowed by shadows. An abandoned warehouse sat like a forgotten relic, its windows broken, its walls cracked with age. Inside, the faint creak of rusted beams echoed, mixed with muffled cries.
Isabelle struggled against the ropes biting into her wrists, her breath sharp beneath the cloth bag smothering her face. She twisted, kicked, but the more she fought, the tighter the cords seemed to burn into her skin.
Heavy footsteps broke the silence. A tall man stepped forward, the dim light catching the jagged scar carved into the left side of his mouth. He ripped the bag away, letting her gasp in the stale air.
"Why…?" Isabelle's voice trembled, her eyes burning with both fear and defiance. "Who sent you? How much do you want? Just tell me, and I'll—"
The man leaned closer, his presence suffocating. His lip twitched as his scarred mouth curled into a cruel smile.
"This isn't about money, little dove," he said, voice low, mocking. "Your father only has to comply—sign what we want, seal the deal—and this will all be over before you know it."
He paused, licking the edge of his scar with deliberate menace, eyes glinting.
"But until then… you're our guest."
From the shadows, movement stirred. Five men stepped forward, their boots heavy against the cracked concrete floor. Each of them carried themselves with the calm confidence of killers—broad shoulders, cold eyes, and a predator's stillness. Their weapons glinted faintly under the broken overhead light: serrated knives, polished pistols, and bats scarred with dried blood.
One leaned against a pillar, casually flipping his blade between his fingers. Another cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing through the empty hall. A third man dragged a chair across the floor with a screech, planting it opposite Isabelle as if preparing for an interrogation.
They weren't common thugs. They moved like soldiers, their discipline carved into the way they stood—silent, waiting for orders.
From the dark ridge overlooking the warehouse, two figures crouched low, their breaths quiet against the night wind. Raven's eyes scanned the broken windows, tracing the movements of the guards inside. Beside him, cloaked in a sharp white-and-gold suit of combat gear, Scepter leaned casually against a rusted beam, twirling a blade between his fingers with the same arrogance he carried on the battlefield.
"Five outside, one inside with the girl," Raven muttered, his voice low, sharp, and calculated. "They're trained. This isn't some street gang."
Scepter smirked. "Good. It would've been boring otherwise." His voice carried a mocking calm, the kind only a man who thrived in chaos could afford.
Raven didn't answer. His focus was absolute. Every shadow, every flicker of movement was being calculated, mapped, memorized. One mistake here would mean Isabelle's life.
Suddenly, his earplug buzzed. A secure channel. Raven pressed a finger to it.
"Speak."
It was Gideon's voice, tight with urgency.
"Sir… Isabelle's father just called your aunt. He says the organization reached out again. They told him the only way his daughter lives is if he signs the documents—tonight."
For a moment, Raven's silence weighed heavy. The wind howled across the field, brushing against his mask. Scepter glanced sideways, curious.
"And?" Raven's voice was calm, but beneath it lay the razor edge of barely contained fury.
"He's considering it. Your aunt is trying to calm him down."
Raven's hand clenched into a fist. His mind raced—not with panic, but with cold strategy. He could already see the trap laid out before him. If the father signed, the organization won. Too much blood would follow.
He spoke into the comm, firm, commanding.
"Tell my aunt to delay him. Two hours—that's all I need. Tell her to promise him that Isabelle will be safe. On my word."
"Yes, sir."
The night air hung heavy with silence as Raven ended the call, his voice still echoing in his head: Two hours… that's all we need.
He drew in a long, steady breath, forcing his heartbeat to align with his focus. When he exhaled, Scepter was already watching him with a fox-like grin.
"So…" Scepter tilted his head, adjusting the white-and-gold gauntlets he'd stolen and customized. "Do we smash straight through the front door? Or are we playing stealth this time?"
Raven's lips curved, just slightly, beneath the mask. "Let's surprise them."
Scepter squinted. "Why are you smiling at me like that?"
Raven didn't answer. He didn't need to.
---
Inside the warehouse.
The five mercenaries sat around a battered crate, cards in their hands, voices echoing with curses and laughter. Their rifles leaned against the wall, carelessly within reach.
Scarface—his lip split forever into a cruel half-grin—sat apart, slouched on a chair, dozing with his gun on his lap. Isabelle's quiet sobs filled the corner of the room, her wrists bound, her eyes swollen red.
Then—clink… clink…
Smoke grenades rolled across the concrete floor. A hiss filled the air. Within seconds, the room was consumed in a choking cloud of grey.
"Shit—!" one of the mercenaries coughed, grabbing for his rifle.
Scarface snapped awake, leaping to his feet, gun raised—just as a dagger thunked into the wooden crate beside his hand. Inches away from cutting him open. He froze, blinking.
From the smoke, a shadow walked forward. White and gold armor shimmered through the haze, and a wicked grin split across Scepter's face.
"Well, this is lively," he said, casually spinning his blade. "Tell me—who's the leader? I'd rather get straight to the point."
The five mercenaries turned, weapons ready.
Scepter's grin widened. "Oh… I like that look. Good. The longer this lasts, the more fun I'll have."
They charged him all at once. Steel clashed against steel, fists slammed against flesh. The room exploded into chaos.
Scepter laughed. Dodging a strike, he cracked one mercenary in the ribs with his knee, spun, and cut a shallow line across another's arm. He danced among them like he'd been waiting all week for this. After a brutal exchange, he slid back a few steps, breathing evenly while the mercenaries panted around him.
"Not bad," he said, twirling his dagger lazily. "At least you'll make a decent warm-up."
Then he lunged back in, a whirlwind of slashes and strikes.
---
Elsewhere in the smoke.
Raven moved like a shadow. Silent. Controlled.
He reached Isabelle first. She was trembling, eyes wet with fear, half-conscious. Raven pressed two fingers gently against her neck, checking her pulse. She was slipping. He clenched his jaw.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, before striking a precise point at the base of her neck. She went limp—knocked out cold, but safe from panic. He cut her bindings and laid her gently behind a stack of crates, hidden from the fight.
Then he turned.
Scarface stood at the far end, watching him with that permanent half-grin. His eyes narrowed.
"So… someone decided to play hero."
Raven didn't move, his crimson gaze fixed on him.
Scarface licked the scarred corner of his lip. "You're willing to risk your life… all for a woman? Brave. Or stupid. I wonder…" He tilted his head. "Are you bold enough to show me your face?"
Raven's voice was cold steel.
"It's better you don't see my face. Because if you do… I can't guarantee you'll live long enough to regret it."
Scarface laughed, dark and rasping. In one motion, he whipped up his pistol and fired.
Bang—Bang—Bang!
Raven ducked low, rolling behind cover, bullets ricocheting off the metal beams.
"Coward!" Scarface roared.
Raven's fingers tightened on a slim throwing blade. He exhaled, counted. One. Two. Three.
Shff!
The blade whistled through the smoke and knocked the gun from Scarface's hand, sending it skidding across the floor.
Raven was already moving. Closing the distance like a predator.
The two collided in a brutal clash—fists, elbows, knees, every strike meant to kill. Scarface grinned through the blood, his scar tearing wider as he swung. Raven's eyes burned behind the mask, each strike faster, sharper, his body flowing with the deadly precision of a man who had lived on battlefields.
Scepter vs the Five
Scepter twirled his dagger lazily, a grin splitting across his face.
"Five of you? Oh, come on… at least make me sweat a little."
The mercenaries tensed, eyes narrowing.
One lunged forward, blade flashing. Scepter stepped aside with ease, letting the strike whistle past him. He tapped the man on the back of the head with the flat of his blade like a teacher scolding a child.
"That all you've got?" he mocked, tilting his head.
The others rushed in. Scepter danced between them, blocking half-heartedly, dodging just close enough to let their blades graze his clothes. Every time he slipped away, he laughed—low and mocking.
"You're angry now, aren't you?" His golden-streaked outfit shimmered faintly in the smoky haze. "Good. Anger makes you sloppy."
One mercenary swung wide, and Scepter leaned back, letting the blade miss him by an inch before he flicked his dagger upward, slicing the man's cheek.
Another charged with fists. Scepter caught his punch with one hand, leaned close, and whispered:
"Hit harder."
Then he shoved him back into the others, laughing as they cursed and regrouped.
"Warm-up, boys," Scepter said, spinning his dagger. "Just a warm-up."
Their fury boiled over, and they attacked in unison—faster, harder, deadlier. But still, Scepter moved through them like smoke, parrying, tripping, taunting. He wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting to play.
---
Raven vs Scarface
On the other side, silence fell between Raven and Scarface.
They clashed, steel ringing against steel, fists slamming into flesh. Raven's movements were sharp, efficient, without wasted motion. Scarface staggered back, panting, clutching a cut across his ribs.
His eyes narrowed on Raven, studying him.
"The way you fight…" Scarface breathed, half in awe, half in fear. "It's like someone who's lived a hundred battles… but your body—it's young. Too young."
Raven said nothing. His blade hung low, steady, his eyes colder than iron.
Scarface's lips curled into a slow grin as realization dawned.
"No… it can't be. Are you… are you the one they whisper about?"
His voice dropped, almost reverent.
"The Raven."
The moment the name left his mouth—
Shhhk!
Raven's blade sliced clean across his throat.
Scarface's eyes widened, shock freezing his face. Blood gushed as he staggered, gurgling on his own breath. He tried to laugh but only managed a wet choke.
Raven leaned in close, his voice low, lethal.
"Dead men don't speak that name."
Scarface collapsed, the scar on his lip forever twisted in silence.