Eastport – Abandoned Warehouse
11:37 PM
The rain outside grew heavier, slapping against the metal roof like a never-ending drumbeat. Inside the warehouse, a thick tension filled the air, mixing with the cold and the dim flickering light of a single overhead bulb. The rest of the place was silent, empty, except for the faint sound of rats scurrying in the dark corners.
Bruce was gone. The door had closed behind him with a soft metallic click.
Now, it was just Alfred and Hector.
And Alfred was smiling.
Not a warm smile. Not one of comfort or empathy.
This was the kind of smile you see right before the worst day of your life begins.
Alfred removed his gloves slowly, one finger at a time. His black coat dripped water onto the floor, but he didn't care. His slick, shoulder-length blond hair hung messily over one eye, and he tilted his head as he looked at Hector like he was trying to decide where to start—like a butcher choosing which part of the meat to slice first.
He knelt beside Hector.
"Scar under the eye," Alfred said softly, tapping the spot with his finger. "Hector Lowa. Father of two. Butcher of mothers."
He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a thin, gleaming blade—no longer than his pinky. It caught the light just enough to glimmer. "This is from Kyoto. Blacksmith swore it could cut air if I moved fast enough."
Hector made a noise—half scream, half whimper—but the gag soaked most of it.
"Don't panic yet," Alfred said, placing the blade gently on a nearby cloth. "We haven't even begun."
Then he stood up, stretched his neck left and right until it cracked, and removed the coat. Underneath, he wore a tight black combat shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were marked with faded scars and a black ink symbol—five lines crossing into a palm print.
The mark of the Five Fingers.
A group so quiet, the underworld thought they were a myth.
They weren't.
Alfred picked up a chair and placed it directly in front of Hector, then sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into Hector's terrified eyes.
"You're going to tell me what I want, mate," he said in that smooth British accent. "Not today, maybe. But soon. Thing is… I don't really care how long it takes."
He stood again, walked over to the metal table, and opened a black case.
Inside—tools.
Not guns. Not swords.
Real tools.
Rusty pliers. Sewing needles. A glass blowtorch. Salts. A bag of crushed bone. Nails. Rope soaked in vinegar. Zip ties. A rag. A knife with notches carved into its hilt—each notch a name.
Hector's chair rattled. His body trembled.
"You want to know why the boss didn't kill you right away?" Alfred asked casually, unrolling the cloth of tools on the table. "It's 'cause he knows death's too kind for people like you. What you did to his mum. To the little ones. He remembers everything."
He picked up the pliers.
"Me? I don't remember my mum. Grew up in an orphan house outside Manchester. Nuns with sticks. Rats for pets. So when I hurt people, I don't do it for revenge. I just… enjoy it."
He stepped forward, now holding Hector's hand.
"Now then," he said, tapping the first knuckle, "we'll start small."
Snap.
The first finger broke like a twig.
Hector screamed into the gag. A full-bodied cry. Muffled, wet.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "See? And I was being gentle."
He grabbed a tiny hammer next.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three more fingers—broken, twisted sideways.
"Pain," Alfred whispered, leaning closer. "It makes the lies stop. Eventually."
He grabbed a syringe next—filled with something golden. He plunged it into Hector's arm, then stepped back.
"That's for the nerves. Keeps you awake. Heightens the sensitivity. You'll feel every little prick like a lightning strike now."
He tested it by dragging a single needle across Hector's inner thigh.
The scream that followed was higher, sharper, desperate.
Alfred smiled again. "Ahh, there it is. The music."
He kept going.
Not fast.
Slow. Calculated.
Salt under fingernails.
Hot wire touched to skin.
Little cuts that didn't bleed much but burned like fire.
Every few minutes, he'd pause. Ask a question.
"Who ordered it?"
"How many were in the room?"
"Where are the others?"
At first, Hector just shook his head.
By the sixth broken finger, he nodded.
Alfred pulled the gag down.
Blood drooled from the corner of Hector's mouth.
He gasped, sobbed, choked on his own breath.
"Three names," Alfred said, crouching. "That's all you need to say right now."
Hector muttered something—barely a whisper.
Alfred leaned in.
"Say it louder."
"Vico… Almer… Drix… Drix Lenn…"
Alfred smiled.
"There we go."
He stood and called out.
A door at the back opened. One of the Five Fingers stepped in. A woman in black with a katana across her back.
"Take the names," Alfred said. "Tell the boss."
She nodded and left silently.
Alfred turned back to Hector.
"You did good, mate. Real good."
Then he walked behind the chair.
And jammed the needle into the base of Hector's spine.
The man screamed again.
Alfred whispered into his ear.
"Now… we start round two."
Outside
Bruce stood by the car, leaning on the hood under the pouring rain. He lit a cigarette with a calm hand, took one long drag, and stared into the dark night.
The city didn't know it yet.
But tonight was the start of something bigger.
He exhaled, eyes sharp, cold.
"Diana… we're getting closer."
And behind him, inside that nameless warehouse—
Alfred laughed.
Not loudly.
Just enough to chill the blood.
CITY HALL – UPPER EAST WING, CONFERENCE ROOM
The meeting room was spotless. White walls. Long glass table. The air smelled like lavender, and the tension was thick. All the major players were here—bank owners, security chiefs, corporate reps, even a few people who pretended not to be politicians.
Diana sat at the head of the table in a white suit, legs crossed, her voice calm but sharp. Everyone listened when she spoke.
"—So if we reroute through the lower docks, we can clean up the shipment trail before the end of next week. No more questions from federal eyes."
Nods around the room. Murmurs of agreement.
That's when her secretary rushed in, heels clicking like gunshots on the marble floor. She moved quickly but stopped just short of Diana, leaned close, and handed her the phone.
"Ma'am. Someone's calling your secure line. No ID."
Diana glanced at the screen.
Unknown Caller.
Her expression didn't change. She pressed the lock button, ending the call.
"Not important," she said with a soft smile, turning back to the table. "Where were we?"
But just as she finished that sentence—
every device in the room shut off.
Phones died. Laptops blinked black. Even the LED lights flickered and buzzed.
"What the hell—?" one of the men started.
Then the main screen on the wall glitched. Static. Black. Then white. Then static again.
Everyone stared.
Then it came.
A figure sitting in a metal chair appeared on the screen. The image was rough, distorted like an old VHS tape. The person wore a dark winter coat. Face fully covered—gray hood, black cloth over the mouth, heavy goggles. You couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but the voice was deep, calm, Russian.
Not shouting. Not angry.
Just matter of fact.
"I am Mikhail. One of the Five Fingers of the Hand."
Diana's face dropped. She didn't speak. No one did.
The voice continued.
"My boss wants me to deliver this message to you."
The screen glitched again—then froze on the figure's face.
"He says: I know what you did. And retribution is coming for you."
Silence.
Then the screen went black.
And all the lights came back on.
Phones restarted.
Laptops flickered back to life.
Everyone looked around, confused, nervous, shaken.
But Diana…
She was still staring at the screen. Her fingers curled slightly on the table. The smile was gone.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Recognition.
She stood up without a word, turned, and left the room—heels clicking down the hallway like gunshots.