The rain had started without warning, sweeping across the city in a curtain of silver. Rafael walked through it, unfazed, his coat absorbing the water like it was born for storms. His eyes didn't blink. His pace didn't falter.
Ten minutes after the call, a car pulled up beside him. Black, unmarked. The window rolled down slowly. A man with scars on his knuckles and a face too calm for a civilian nodded once.
"You look like hell."
Rafael slid into the passenger seat. "Then I'm dressed for the occasion."
The driver smirked and pulled away from the curb. His name was Luca—a ghost from Rafael's old world. A cleaner. A tracker. A loyalist who never turned, even when the others vanished or died.
They drove in silence for a while, the windshield wipers slicing the storm into fragments.
"I never thought I'd see the Devil in a tie," Luca finally muttered.
"Ties can be strangled with," Rafael replied. "They're just another weapon."
Luca chuckled, but his eyes stayed on the road. "You sure about this? You're stepping back into the pit."
"I never left the pit," Rafael said softly. "I just buried the bodies deeper."
Luca passed him a worn tablet. "Intel came in. Encrypted comms. Someone moved a 'priority package' through the East Docks around noon. Female, underage. Five-man guard minimum. Syndicate. Not randoms."
Rafael scrolled through satellite footage, traffic cams, manifest leaks. Then he stopped at a blurry still of a small girl with jet-black hair and a pink hoodie being pushed into a van.
Aria.
The tablet cracked in his grip.
"Get me the names," Rafael said, his voice a blade.
"They're protected," Luca answered. "Shell companies, offshore accounts, politicians, diplomats. Can't hit them directly."
"I'm not asking for permission. I want the ones in the shadows."
"Then we start with their messengers."
The car turned into the industrial belt—abandoned factories, metal skeletons, forgotten rail lines. The place smelled of rust and secrets.
Inside a warehouse, beneath a flickering bulb, a man sat chained to a chair. His face was swollen. Blood dripped from his temple.
"Name's Milos," Luca said. "Transported the girl from the van to the dock."
Rafael walked in slow, his shoes echoing off the concrete. Milos's eyes widened. He tried to speak, but Rafael raised a hand.
"I don't want your lies," Rafael said. "Just the truth. Every face. Every name. Every hand that touched her."
He pulled out the knife.
"No, please—please—I didn't know!" Milos cried. "It was a job, just a job! I don't ask questions—!"
The blade slammed into the table beside his head.
"You moved my daughter," Rafael growled.
Milos blinked. "W-what? Your… your daughter?"
Rafael sat, leaning forward.
"If you lie, you lose a finger. If you stall, a toe. If you stop—" Rafael smiled thinly, "you'll beg for death, and I won't listen."
Luca crossed his arms. "Start talking."
The next hour was blood, screams, sobbing. Rafael didn't ask twice. Every scream was calculated. Every cut, a code to unlock fear.
"I swear! Galen Veratti," Milos sobbed. "He runs it all. Veratti Global. Legit on the surface, but underneath… guns, slaves, ghost trades. Mercs. Off-book stuff. Deep pockets."
Rafael wiped his hands with Milos's torn shirt.
"Where's the girl?"
"Auction… three days… Adriatic island… invite-only. Ghost lot. No official record."
Rafael turned to Luca. "Is it true?"
Luca tapped a red-marked map. "Matches chatter from the dark web. A ghost auction. VIP only. Nobody gets in without killing five people first."
"Then I'll kill six."
"Going in solo?"
Rafael looked back at Milos. "Drop him at Veratti's headquarters. Alive. Gagged. Bleeding."
"That'll raise alarms."
"Good. I want them scared."
"You think Veratti will come out of his hole?"
"No," Rafael said, stepping into the rain again. "He'll hide behind walls, money, and men. But I'll tear them down one by one. When he has no one left to hide behind, he'll understand—"
He turned, eyes blazing like hellfire.
"—what fear really feels like."
Luca followed, smirking. "You've changed."
"No," Rafael said. "I just stopped pretending."
As they got into the car, thunder rolled overhead. The storm was no longer just in the sky—it was seated in the back of a black car, soaked in rain, with death in his veins.
That night, across the city, cameras picked up a half-dead man dumped at the front steps of a skyscraper.
Veratti's men rushed to cover it up.
But Rafael's message was already out.
Whispers in underground bars, encrypted channels, prison phones: The Devil is awake.
And this time—he's hunting.
---
Meanwhile, in a marble office at the top of Veratti Global, a man with gray temples and a calm voice read the news on a secure tablet.
"Who is this man?" Galen Veratti asked, his voice almost amused.
Across from him stood a woman in a black suit, her eyes cold and sharp. "No name. No background. Our systems flag him as dead. Yet here he is. Breathing. Burning."
Veratti chuckled. "Then someone made a mistake."
The woman didn't laugh.
"He tortured Milos for an hour and sent him to us like a dog. The message was deliberate."
Veratti tapped his fingers on the table. "Pull in the Corsican. The Blade of Tunis. All our freelancers. Double security for the auction."
"And the bidders?"
"Let them come. If the Devil wants in… let's give him a taste of hell."
Back in the city, Rafael stood in front of a black case. He clicked it open. Inside lay his old tools—knives, syringes, antique firearms, a rosary laced with poison tips. He picked up a curved blade.
Luca raised a brow. "Planning something biblical?"
Rafael smiled, cold and distant.
"No. Just personal."
Outside, the rain turned red beneath the city's neon lights.
War had begun.