His jaw flexed. Maybe he should’ve brought something—brass knuckles, a blade. Anything. You didn’t walk into the belly of the beast empty-handed. But he’d never relied on iron. Never needed to. It wasn’t his way.Too late now, anyway. All he had were the weapons he knew best; ones more insidious than metal or gunpowder.
Light slashed the fog from a roving flashlight. Ash dropped low behind a stack of crates. Two men passed by in silence—Yakuza muscle, both armed, rifles at the ready. One smoked a clove cigarette, the scent sharp and sweet; the other kept scanning the shadows like he expected them to bite back.
Ash counted their footsteps. When they turned the corner, he moved.
A low ventilation shaft yawned open near the foundation, half-obscured by a collapsed pallet. He crouched and tested the rusted grate. It screeched faintly but gave way. He slid inside, belly close to metal, crawling through stale air and grit. Theduct opened onto a maintenance stairwell one level above the warehouse floor.
Voices drifted from below. Two more guards. Machine guns slung over shoulders. The light was dim, just a few yellow bulbs strung on wires like rotting teeth, casting shadows that slithered across crates and stairwells. The air stank of ammonia, sweat, and that soft, chemical sweetness that came with powdered poison.
He crept downward, one silent step at a time. No creak. No breath. He edged along a catwalk and dropped onto a stack of crates. No sound; just the faint scuff of boots against raw wood.
One guard turned. Ash held still.
Another passed close—close enough for Ash to smell his aftershave, gun oil, the faint buzz of stimulant pills seeping from his pores. But they didn’t see him. Their sight wasn’t made for this kind of dark.
He darted through the shadow between a forklift and a rusted-out drum, then scaled a vertical pipe to a maintenance platform. His fingertips found purchase on a ledge barely wide enough to hold a boot. He moved along it without hesitation, soundless, serpentine, sidestepping like a prowler strung from wire. A dancer’s grace, honed by years onstage, now repurposed for something dirtier.
At the far wall, a steel security door barred the way. A keypad glowed faint green.
Ash crouched and palmed the lock panel. Older model. Industrial. Flawed. He’d picked locks like this before—props backstage, safes for quick cash, motel doors when tricks went south. This was no different. Just a mechanism. Just patience.
Click.
The door eased open. He slipped inside. And found her.
Nora was tied to a chair in the far corner of the room, slumped forward as if folded by pain. A single bare bulb swungoverhead, casting sickly, slow arcs of light across the concrete. Her hair hung in greasy clumps over her face. Her clothes were filthy, ripped at the collar, bloodstained at the sleeve, and her limbs looked too thin, too hollow. Like a dummy someone had used up and thrown away.
Ash’s breath caught. He crossed the room, fast and soundless, crouching beside her. At least she was still breathing. “Nora,” he whispered, careful not to touch her too suddenly.
Her head stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, wide, red-rimmed, unseeing at first. When they found him, she flinched hard. “Please,” she gasped. “Don’t—don’t hurt me.”
“Shh. I’m not here to hurt you.” His voice was calm, steady, the way you talk to a frightened animal. “I’m here to help. You’re getting out of here. I promise.”
Her wrists were lashed with coarse rope, the skin raw beneath it. Ash worked fast, his fingers sure, silent. He’d tied and untied enough people in his life to know how to do it without fumbling.
“Who… who are you?” she whispered, dazed.
“Tonight?” he said, uncoiling the last of the rope and easing her arms down gently. “I’m your guardian angel.”
She blinked slowly, as if the words were in a language she hadn’t heard in years.
He moved in front of her, pulled her up to her feet. “Can you walk?”
“I—” Her legs tried. Failed. She pitched forward into his chest. He caught her easily. She weighed nothing, just skin and hurt and exhaustion soaked into every pore.
He steadied her, one hand braced against her back. “Easy.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’m okay,” she muttered, swiping at her face with trembling fingers.
“Good.” He glanced toward the doorway. “Follow me. Stay close. And whatever happens—don’t make a sound.”
But the universe had other plans.
Ash froze as the sound of boots echoed outside the room. One guard. He could tell by the weight of the step. He moved fast, grabbing Nora’s wrist and pulling her behind the steel door just as it creaked open.
A wedge of light sliced across the floor, and a silhouette filled the frame. The man stepped in casually, rifle slung at his side, and stopped dead as he noticed the chair was empty.
Ash moved. No words. No warning. He launched from the shadows like a sprung trap. A palm to the man’s throat silenced any shout. An elbow cracked into his temple, and the guard dropped cold to the floor. Ash caught the rifle before it clattered, eased it beside the body, and turned to Nora. “Come on. Quiet.”
