King had finally done it.
He had stolen from the Montgomery family.
Not pocket change. Not scraps.
A direct hit to the most powerful Mafia empire in the city.
Inside an abandoned dockside warehouse that smelled of rust and sea salt, wooden crates were unloaded one after the other. Foreign markings. Black-market inventory. The kind of merchandise bought with dangerous money.
King stood in the center of it all, watching his future stack up in neat, illegal rows.
He felt invincible.
The stolen cash had moved fast — weapons, forged documents, overseas connections. By tomorrow, he would be gone. New country. New name. New life.
Behind him, his men laughed as they hauled the final crate inside.
One of them wiped sweat from his brow. "It couldn't have been easy. Ripping off the Montgomerys? That's suicide."
King smirked, adjusting the gold ring on his finger. "I worked for them once," he said. "You think I didn't learn their weaknesses? They act untouchable. But inside? They're soft."
The men laughed louder, feeding off his confidence.
Another voice cut in, quieter. "This is the Montgomery family. You really think they won't come after us?"
King's smile didn't falter.
"Of course they will," he said smoothly. "That's why we're out of the country tomorrow."
Relief spread across their faces.
"Zing," King called lazily, "bring the drinks. Let's celebrate before we leave this miserable country."
Silence.
Zing didn't move.
King frowned slightly. "Zing."
Still nothing.
"I said get the—"
Zing collapsed.
His body hit the concrete with a heavy, final thud.
For half a second, no one processed it.
Then they saw the dark mark at his temple.
No echo.
Just silence.
The air shifted.
"What the hell—?"
Another goon burst through the side entrance, breathless. "King! We're in trouble, it's—"
He dropped mid-sentence.
Dead before he hit the floor.
The warehouse fell into chaos. Guns were drawn. Safety clicks echoed too loudly in the sudden quiet.
"I didn't hear a shot," one man whispered.
King's pulse quickened, but his voice stayed steady. "Suppressor."
He stepped forward, staring into the dark loading bay where the night pressed heavily against the open doors."Come out," King called, forcing boldness into his tone. "If you're going to make an entrance, don't hide like a coward."
Footsteps answered him.
Slow.
Measured.
Unhurried.
A figure emerged from the shadows like he belonged there.
Long black hair brushed against the collar of an expensive black shirt, partially unbuttoned just enough to reveal a silver cross resting against his chest. Matching crosses caught the faint warehouse light from his ears.
In his hand — a pistol fitted with a suppressor.
His expression was calm.
Almost bored.
King felt the blood drain from his face.
"…Falcon."
The name alone tightened the room.Falcon didn't respond. Didn't posture. Didn't threaten. He simply looked at them.
King's throat went dry.
"Squad A!" he barked suddenly, stepping back. "Secure the goods! Squad B — take him down!"
Gunfire erupted.
Muzzle flashes lit the warehouse in violent bursts.
But Falcon didn't panic, He moved with chilling precision. Controlled. Efficient. Like he had already calculated every angle before stepping inside.
King burst into the storage room, the remaining men stumbling in behind him.
Crates towered against the walls — weapons, cash, forged passports. Their escape plan stacked in wooden boxes.
"Move!" King snapped. "Pack everything!"
Hands shook as they pried open crates and stuffed duffel bags.
One of the men swallowed hard. "You think they can hold him off?"
King didn't answer immediately.
Because deep down—
He knew they couldn't.
"They're buying us time," he said instead.
Another man laughed nervously. "I can't believe they sent Falcon of all people—"
He stopped.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Coming closer.
All of them froze.
"…Wait," the youngest whispered. "The gunfire stopped."
King's head snapped toward the door. "That's impossible. It hasn't even been five minutes."
The footsteps didn't rush.
They didn't need to.
A shadow stretched across the doorway.
Then Falcon stepped inside.
Not a drop of panic on his face.
Not a single visible scratch.
His pistol was raised with effortless steadiness, his eyes scanning them as if calculating weight, distance, outcome.
King reacted first.
"Men! Aim at him! Now!"
Three guns lifted instantly, trembling hands trying to look steady.
King forced a grin, though his pulse thundered in his ears.
"There's four of us," he said loudly. "And just one of you. You really think you can take us all at once?"
Falcon tilted his head slightly.
The faintest hint of amusement touched his expression.
"I just walked through your warehouse," he said calmly. "What makes you think i can't take down all three of you?"
The room went still.
King felt something cold slide down his spine. "Three?".
King turned.
One of his men was gone.
"Where's Oliver?" the youngest whispered, panic cracking his voice.
Falcon's gaze never left King.
Fear finally crept fully into his chest.
"It doesn't matter!" he barked, desperation edging into his voice. "Take him down!"
Three triggers tightened.
Falcon didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
He simply shifted his stance slightly — balanced, prepared.
Like this wasn't a fight.
Like it was already over.
And for the first time since stealing from the Montgomery family—
King realized the mistake wasn't the robbery.
It was surviving long enough for Falcon to arrive.
Minutes later, King was on the ground.
Breathing hard.
Bleeding pride more than anything else.
Falcon's boot pressed against his chest, pinning him to the cold concrete floor.
"Falcon—" King coughed, voice trembling now, stripped of arrogance. "Please… spare me."
The warehouse was silent except for King's ragged breathing.
Falcon looked down at him without emotion.
"Didn't you just try to kill me?" he asked quietly.
King squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, then opened them again — desperation raw in them.
"Come on… we go way back. We walked the same halls. Ate at the same table." His voice cracked. "For old time's sake… let me live."
For a moment, Falcon said nothing.
Then he removed his foot and crouched down slowly, bringing himself eye level with the man who once called him brother.
"It's because of old times," Falcon said softly, "that I'll make it quick."
King's expression twisted. "You son of a—"
The sound that followed was muted.
Brief.
Final.
Silence swallowed the room.
Falcon exhaled slowly and stood upright, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve as if finishing paperwork rather than a life.
"That took longer than expected," he muttered.
CLANK.
The metallic sound cut through the quiet.
A cupboard.
Then—
A faint whimper.
Falcon's eyes shifted toward the source.
He stilled. "That's strange," he murmured. "Did I miss someone?"
He walked toward the cupboard, steps calm and measured.
"Come out," he said evenly. "Let's not make this difficult."
No response.
He stopped in front of it and sighed."I don't repeat myself."
He opened the door.
And paused.
Inside was a young woman — no older than sixteen or seventeen. Red hair fell messily over her shoulders. She was barely dressed, arms wrapped tightly around herself, trembling violently.
Her eyes were squeezed shut as if waiting for something terrible.
Falcon blinked once.
Without a word, he removed his coat and tossed it toward her. "Put that on."
She flinched at his voice but slowly reached for it, pulling it around herself.
When she finally looked up, she avoided his gaze completely.
"Why… why are you helping me?" she asked, fear woven into every syllable.
Falcon crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees. "Would you prefer I didn't?" he asked calmly.
Her eyes widened immediately. "N-no."
"Then don't question it."
She swallowed.
He studied her for a moment."You're young to be here," he said. "What's the story?"
Her voice wavered. "My mom's sick." She blinked rapidly, fighting tears. "No one hires girls like me or minors at least. Not without… conditions. This was the only place that didn't ask questions."
"Family?"
"I have an older brother. He works, but it's not enough."
Falcon stood and walked toward a crate that had burst open during the chaos. Bills were scattered across the floor.
He picked up a stack and returned, holding it out toward her.
"This should cover the hospital bills."
She stared at it like it might burn her. "I can't accept that."
He tilted his head slightly. "Speak clearly."
"I said I can't accept it." Her voice steadied this time, though her hands still shook. "That money has blood on it."
A faint scoff left him.
"You were hiding in a criminal warehouse," he replied. "And you're worried about moral stains?"
"It's still stealing," she said quietly. "It doesn't belong to me."
Silence stretched between them.
Falcon studied her properly now.
Most people begged.
Most people grabbed.
Most people survived however they could.
But she… refused.
Even shaking.
Even terrified.
"…You're honest," he said at last.
He dropped the money at her feet.
"Take it or leave it. Everything here belongs to the Montgomery family. Which means it was mine to begin with."
Her eyes flickered up at him — confused.
"Warehouse. Weapons. Cash. Even the clothes those idiots were wearing," he continued coldly. "It's all ours."
He turned away.
"Leave before my men arrive. They won't ask questions."
She hesitated only a second.
Then she grabbed the coat tightly around herself, picked up the money despite her earlier protest, and hurried toward the exit.
Just before she reached the door, she stopped.
"…Thank you."
He didn't turn around.