Top Floor, Green Wolf Tower — Midnight
The highest floor of Green Wolf Tower no longer felt like a meeting room. Tonight, it had become a war room.
Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the stench of metal, sweat, and restrained fury. The walls, usually adorned with artwork and accolades, were now draped with maps, photos, and scattered dossiers—evidence of a ghost tearing through their empire.
At the center of the room, a large steel table bore a sprawling map of New York City. Low-hanging spotlights cast a cold glare over the surface, their beams glinting off the red pins stabbed into various districts—each a wound, fresh and stinging.
Around the table stood five men. Five killers. None of them spoke. Their eyes were fixed on one man.
Victor Serrano.
He lit a cigarette with steady fingers. The tip burned bright for a moment as he took a long drag, then exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon contemplating vengeance.
He leaned over the map. The gold ring on his finger caught the light, glinting faintly as he tapped the map—deliberate, surgical. Like a surgeon about to begin an incision.
"Listen closely," he said. His voice was low and gravel-thick, every word delivered with the weight of a hammer. "This isn't a manhunt. It's an extermination."
He jabbed a finger at Hell's Kitchen. "He started here. Took Angelo out like he was pulling the spine out of this whole damn operation. If we stay quiet, if we hesitate—he'll be at our throat next."
He straightened, then looked each man in the eye.
"Ramón Díaz," he said first.
The man was a walking wall of muscle, silent beneath a tailored coat and tactical armor. A mirrored helmet obscured his face, reflecting the cold room back at itself. He didn't speak. He never did. An executioner with no need for words.
"Diego Vázquez."
Lean, pale, dressed in a fine dark suit that barely concealed the faint outlines of hidden blades and faded tattoos. Once a Vatican enforcer. Now a ghost for hire. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, eyes void of emotion.
"Javier Ruiz."
Young. Reckless. Wild eyes danced beneath a shock of lightning-colored hair. He wore carbon-fiber gloves that crackled with kinetic energy, fingers twitching with anticipation. Violence excited him. He was practically vibrating.
"Carlos Herrera."
He limped slightly, but there was precision in every movement. A sniper known for poisoned rounds and impossible shots. Quiet and calculating. Every breath measured. Every blink a calculation.
"Felipe Morales."
The strategist. A man carved from old wars and older wounds. Rough beard, sharp eyes. Once a soldier, now the mind that predicted enemy moves like he was reading tomorrow's headlines.
Victor exhaled a final breath of smoke, then stabbed his finger at another point on the map.
"Hell's Kitchen is ground zero. From there, you spread out—Brooklyn, Queens, Bronx, Staten Island. Rooftops, sewers, alleys, abandoned bridges, empty warehouses. I want this city turned inside out like a gutted carcass. No hiding place. No shadows he can slip into."
Javier snorted, a grin cutting across his face. "You guys seriously believe the rumors? That he eats hearts? What, like some kind of demon boogeyman?"
Victor's eyes narrowed, sharp and cold. "I don't give a damn what he eats. What I care about is this: he bleeds. And anything that bleeds… can be killed."
Diego cracked his knuckles, his dead eyes locked on Victor. "And when there's nothing left of him but chunks?"
Victor didn't hesitate. "Bring me the biggest piece. I want his head on this table before the sun rises."
The five killers nodded.
---
Hours Later — Lower East Side
The nightclub pulsed with sound and sin. Basslines shook the walls like tectonic tremors. Neon lights painted everything in sickly hues. Sweat, smoke, perfume, and alcohol clogged the air—barely masking the scent of blood still clinging to the floorboards.
In a private backroom, dealers whispered nervously, their hands trembling as they counted money faster than heartbeats.
Then came the Five Shadows.
They didn't knock.
The door exploded inward. A body hit the floor before the echo faded. One throat crushed against the wall. One arm broken like kindling.
Blood sprayed across velvet walls as questions were hurled like bullets.
"Gray mask. Orange eyes. Who's seen him?"
"Hearts missing from corpses. Who's talking?"
"Answer fast. Your next breath is not a right—it's a mercy."
One club owner tried to lie. Diego silenced the attempt with two surgical punches—one to the jaw, one to the cheek. Teeth clattered onto the floor like coins. The man coughed blood onto his own shoes.
A half-conscious addict pointed upward, toward the rooftop. Carlos took note of the angle of his gaze. One degree off, and a shot could miss. Carlos didn't miss.
The killers dispersed into the night like blades in motion.
And the city began to whisper.
Lights turned off earlier. Windows stayed shut. Tongues stopped wagging.
Something was being hunted.
Or worse…
Something was hunting them.
---
Midnight — Warehouse District, Brooklyn
The black van cruised through the deserted streets, a shadow gliding between rusting warehouses and flickering lamplight. The wind whispered through broken windows, stirring bits of old trash like restless spirits.
Inside, silence reigned.
Each man was armed. Each watched. Each waited.
Felipe gripped the wheel, eyes scanning. Javier tapped his fingers nervously. Carlos checked his scope for the third time. Ramón sat perfectly still. Diego leaned back, eyes half-closed, as if asleep—but he wasn't.
No confirmations. No sightings. Only rumors and unease.
"He knows we're here," Javier muttered. "He's playing with us. Waiting."
Carlos rolled his eyes. "Or you're just drunk on fear."
THUD.
Something landed on the roof.
Not rain.
Not rubble.
Heavy. Intentional.
Like death falling from the sky.
The van jolted slightly, shocks groaning under new weight. Every man inside went rigid.
Above them, something crawled. Something fast. Something unnatural.
Metal claws scraped across the steel frame. Then the shadow dropped—clinging to the side of the van like a monstrous insect. A shroud of tattered black cloth whipped in the wind.
A pair of orange eyes glowed faintly from behind a featureless gray mask.
HeartEater.
He raised a sickle.
The upward-curving blade caught the streetlight—its edge gleaming like a crescent moon drenched in blood.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Like a judge ready to announce a sentence. A predator who knew the exact moment to strike.
Inside the van, five killers forgot how to breathe.
Time cracked.
And the night…
...began to bleed.