The air in the dimly lit bar was thick with the stench of smoke and regret. Flickering neon lights painted the cracked walls in shades of blood and bruises casting long shadows over the crooked tables. A slow, heavy song reverbrated through the ancient speakers with its haunting melody mixing with the clinking of half-filled bottles of liqour and moufled curses.
In the far corner, where even light struggled but barely reached, I sat, a ghost of a soldier, a commander without war. with a gaze like a blade, sharp and cutting through the haze a look well refined after the numerous fights and battles ive been in since the age of 13 where the key objective was to survive. With one quick gulp i drain my glass enjoying the sensation it sends down my throat...the filling of freedom where I do not have to worry whether this will be my last drink or not.
once commanded thousands, my voice alone enough to ignite the fire of courage or the chill of fear in a soldier's heart. Nations crumbled at my feet, their kings and generals whispering my name like a curse. But that was before before betrayal, before the politics and shadows conspired to silence my war drums and chain my ambitions. Now, I am just another ghost haunting the underworld, my presence a quiet, unspoken threat a wolf in the skin of a sheep. Hehe but I think I like it this way.. now I can do whatever it is I want .
A group of guys stumbles into the bar, their laughter sharp and grating, like knives scraping against glass. They spot me a lone figure, my jacket worn but my posture sharp, my head bowed as if the weight of my past has broken me. One of them smirks, nudging his friend.
"Hey, tough guy," the leader sneers, swaggering over. "You lost? This ain't a place for washed up brats get lost."
I slowly raise my head, my eyes catching the light for the first time cold, calculating, and filled with a hunger that sends a chill through the air. The thug pauses, his smirk faltering for just a second, but he quickly shakes it off.
"Didn't you hear me?" he spits, trying to sound tough as the others gather behind him. "Get lost before we break your bones."
I chuckle .. a low, dark sound that makes the hairs on the back of their necks stand up.
They barely have a second to react before the storm hits my fists like iron, my moves too fast to follow, bones cracking like dry branches beneath my blows. The bar erupts into chaos, bottles shattering, chairs splintering, and the leader hits the floor, gasping for air, his ribs a shattered mess.
But it doesn't end there. One of them, a lanky figure with a jagged scar running from his eyebrow to his jaw, scrambles to his feet, pulling a blade from his waistband. I catch the glint of cold steel as it slices through the smoky air, but I've seen too many blades to be impressed.
He lunges, his face twisted in a desperate snarl, but I step into his swing, my hand a blur as I catch his wrist, twisting it with a bone crunching snap. His scream cuts through the bar like a blade, but I silence it with a brutal elbow to his throat, feeling the fragile bones crack beneath my weight.
I slam him into the wall, the cracked plaster crumbling around his head like dust. His eyes roll back, and his blade clatters to the floor. I kick it aside, my mind already calculating the odds, assessing the remaining threats.
Three more, closing in, their faces twisted with fear and anger. I take a step back, letting my instincts take over, the old fire burning in my veins. I lash out with a spinning backfist, my knuckles finding the bridge of another thug's nose with a wet, satisfying crunch. He stumbles back, his hands clutching his ruined face, blood pouring between his fingers.
The last two exchange a glance, their confidence shattered, but I don't give them a chance to reconsider. I surge forward, my knee driving into the first one's gut with the force of a battering ram, lifting him off his feet before I slam him to the ground, his head bouncing off the cracked tile.
The last one backs away, his hands raised, eyes wide with terror. I step over his fallen comrades, my boots crunching over broken glass and splintered wood. I grab him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with one hand, my eyes boring into his.
"Tell your friends," I growl, my voice a low, menacing rumble. "The ghost is back." Daamn that sounded sweet
I toss him aside like a broken doll, his body crashing into a table, sending bottles and glasses shattering to the floor. I adjust my jacket, turning towards the exit. The bar falls silent, the only sound the ragged, panicked breaths of the broken men behind me.
I step out into the neon soaked night, my mind already weaving a hundred ways to break my enemies, to twist the world into the shape I desire. This is not just a fight. It is the start of a reckoning a calculated, ruthless return to the throne I was cast from.
And this time, I will make sure the world crumbles at my feet.
I toss him aside like a broken doll, his body crashing into a table, sending bottles and glasses shattering to the floor. I adjust my jacket, turning towards the exit. The bar falls silent, the only sound the ragged, panicked breaths of the broken men behind me.
I reach the bar counter, tossing a crumpled, blood stained bill onto the counter. The bartender, a woman with tired eyes and a fading tattoo on her neck, hesitates before scooping it up, her gaze flicking nervously between me and the shattered bodies on the floor.
"Keep the change," I mutter, pushing open the creaking door as the cool night air washes over me, erasing the stench of fear and blood.
Outside, parked beneath a flickering streetlight, my black, low profile Toyota waits like a loyal beast. Leaning against the hood, arms crossed and eyes sharp, is Leo my disciple, my shadow. He left the military to follow me, a decision he never once regretted.
He straightens as I approach, his lips curling into a half smile. "Serg, you've gotten rusty," he teases, his eyes catching the fresh blood on my knuckles.
I smirk, tossing him the keys. "Just shaking off the dust, Leo. Now, it's time to capture Orange County."
As we pull away, the bar door creaks open again. Inside, one of the battered thugs fumbles with his phone, his bloodied fingers shaking as he dials a number. The line crackles, then a deep, raspy voice picks up.
"What?"
"H he's back," the thug stammers, blood dripping from his split lips. "The ghost... he's back."
The line goes silent for a moment, then the voice responds, colder than death itself.
"Understood."
The call cuts off, and the thug drops the phone, his trembling hand falling limp as darkness overtakes him.
The reckoning has begun.