The Damned Path: Chronicles of Damien

The rain lashed against the cracked windows, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding in my head. I lit a cigarette, watching the ember glow in the dark room. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, fading into the gloom. Nights like these always felt heavy—like the city itself was suffocating under the weight of its sins. And tonight, I was about to add to that burden.

I glanced at the photograph on the table. A family of three—smiling, happy. A man, a woman, and a boy who couldn't be older than six. My hand trembled slightly as I picked it up. Not from fear—no, I gave up fear a long time ago—but from something worse. Guilt.

"Focus, Damien," I muttered to myself, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray.

I stood up, adjusting the gun holster under my coat. The weight of the weapon was a familiar comfort, like an old friend. I wasn't always this man—the kind who carried a gun like a second skin. But life has a funny way of changing people. You get betrayed enough times, and suddenly the line between good and evil starts to blur.

I checked my watch—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Fifteen minutes until I stepped into the lion's den.

The target was a man named Victor Kross—head of one of the biggest arms-dealing syndicates in the city. Dangerous. Ruthless. And tonight, he was going to die.

I opened the door and stepped out into the night, the cold rain soaking my coat instantly. The city lights reflected off the wet asphalt, casting ghostly shadows that danced around me.

As I walked down the street, I felt eyes watching me. Not paranoia—experience. People like me always have shadows. Some loyal, some waiting for you to make one wrong move.

I reached the warehouse district just before midnight. The place was deserted, but I knew better. Kross's men would be watching from the dark corners, fingers itching over triggers.

I paused outside the rusted door, listening. Muffled voices inside—laughter, maybe? They had no idea what was coming.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped my hand into my coat, fingers wrapping around cold steel.

"You don't have to do this," a voice whispered in my mind.

But I did.

For my past.For those I failed.For myself.

The door creaked open slowly under my hand. The sound seemed deafening in the silence.

I stepped inside.

Three men sat around a table, playing cards. Smoke filled the room, mixing with the smell of sweat and cheap whiskey.

They looked up, surprised.

"Who the hell are you?" one of them barked, reaching for his gun.

Too slow.

I moved before they could react, drawing my pistol and firing two shots. The first man dropped like a ragdoll, blood spraying the wall behind him. The second scrambled to his feet, but a bullet to the chest ended his struggle.

The third? He stood frozen, his eyes wide with terror.

"Tell Kross," I said, my voice cold as ice. "Tell him Damien is coming."

I turned and walked out, leaving the man shaking in his boots. The rain washed the blood from my hands, but it would never wash it from my soul.

This was only the beginning.

And God help anyone who stood in my way.