The Damned Path: Chronicles of Damien

The city never slept. Even as I walked away from the bloodstained warehouse, sirens wailed somewhere far off, and neon signs flickered in and out of life. I pulled my coat tighter, not against the cold, but against the memories that clawed at my mind.

Kross's men wouldn't take what I did lightly. Word would spread like wildfire. Damien was back.

And that was exactly what I wanted.

I reached my apartment just as dawn was breaking, the pale light cutting through the darkness like a knife. The old building creaked under the weight of its own history, and as I climbed the stairs, every step felt like a reminder of how far I had fallen.

Inside, the air was stale. I tossed my coat on the chair and poured a glass of whiskey, letting the burn steady my nerves.

I sat down, staring at the city skyline through the broken window. The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened.

As I took a sip, my phone buzzed on the table. I stared at it for a moment, debating whether to answer. No one called me these days—no one alive, anyway.

Finally, I picked it up.

"Damien," a voice greeted, smooth and sharp like a razor.

"Marcus," I replied, leaning back in my chair. "Didn't think you'd call so soon."

"You made a mess last night," Marcus said, his tone casual, but I could hear the tension beneath it. "Kross is furious. There's a price on your head now."

I smirked. "Good. Let them come."

There was a pause. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"I've always played dangerous games."

Another silence, heavier this time. Marcus had been my contact for years—a fixer who knew how to get things done in the underworld. But even he seemed on edge.

"Kross isn't like the others, Damien," Marcus finally said. "He won't just send men after you—he'll burn the city down to get to you."

"I'm counting on that."

"Why?" Marcus asked, almost a whisper.

I looked back at the photo on the table—the family I had lost.

"Because it's time to settle old debts," I said, my voice low.

Marcus sighed. "If you're serious about this, you'll need help."

"I don't trust anyone."

"You trust me."

I chuckled bitterly. "No, Marcus. I just know what you want—money. And I pay well."

He didn't argue. "Fine. But you'll need more than money to take Kross down. He's got half the city in his pocket."

"Then I'll burn half the city if I have to," I said coldly.

Another pause, then: "I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

I set the phone down and ran a hand through my hair. I could feel the weight of what I was about to do pressing down on me. But there was no turning back now.

The ghosts of my past wouldn't let me.

As I poured another glass of whiskey, I caught my reflection in the window. The man staring back at me looked tired, broken. A man who had lost everything.

But there was something else in those eyes—something darker.

Resolve.

They took everything from me.

Now, I would take everything from them.

I stood, slipping the gun back into its holster. If Kross wanted a war, I would give him one.

And I wouldn't stop until I was the last man standing.