The Weight of Blood
The night roared with the growl of engines. Tires screeched across wet asphalt, spraying streaks of rain as two black SUVs tailed a silver sedan down the empty expressway. Inside the sedan, Naoki gripped the door handle, his pulse hammering in his ears. Beside him, the older Naoki shifted gears with a calm precision that made the chaos outside seem like a dance.
"Why the hell are they chasing us!?" the younger Naoki shouted, his voice barely cutting through the blare of sirens behind them.
The older Naoki gave a half-smile, eyes cold and steady on the rearview mirror. "Because I killed their boss."
The car jolted as a bullet cracked through the back window. The younger Naoki ducked, glass cutting across his cheek. The older one didn't flinch. He flicked a switch under the dashboard—suddenly, the rear lights flared to white, blinding the pursuers.
"Hold tight," he said flatly.
The sedan spun sideways, tires screaming, before drifting through a narrow turn that scraped the guardrail. Sparks flew. One of the SUVs tried to follow, but clipped the rail and flipped, exploding into a fiery bloom that reflected in the older Naoki's unreadable eyes.
The remaining SUV accelerated, ramming their bumper. The older Naoki drew a pistol from under his jacket, smashed the window open with his elbow, and fired two quick shots. The driver of the SUV slumped forward. The vehicle swerved violently, then slammed into the divider with a deafening crunch.
Silence followed—except for the rain.
The younger Naoki sat frozen, chest heaving. "You… you killed them."
"Yeah." The older Naoki's voice was devoid of remorse. "I told you. I killed him—the one who made my life hell. And everyone he ever commanded."
"Romano?" the younger Naoki whispered.
The older one nodded slowly. "He took everything from me. I made sure he paid."
They drove in silence for a while, the city lights fading behind them. The car dipped into the outskirts—a long stretch of warehouses and flickering lamps, where the night felt heavier.
The younger Naoki finally spoke again. "You said you gained something. What did you mean?"
The older Naoki glanced at him. "Every time I almost died, something inside me changed. Strength. Instincts. I started calling it soul essence. Pieces of myself forged in pain."
The younger one frowned. "That's insane."
"Maybe." A dark chuckle escaped the older Naoki's throat. "But you'll understand soon. Our existence isn't normal. We're anomalies. The universe keeps trying to erase us—through misfortune, sickness, pain. But every time it tries, we get stronger."
He parked near an abandoned dockyard, cutting the engine. The sound of the rain against metal filled the silence.
"So what now?" the younger Naoki asked.
"Now?" The older Naoki smirked. "Now you learn what it means to survive."
He stepped out, trench coat fluttering in the wind, boots splashing against the puddles. The younger Naoki followed, though he knew no one could see or hear him in his astral form.
As they approached a rusted warehouse, the older Naoki pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with steady hands. "Let me give you a piece of advice, kid," he said, voice low. "Don't run from your pain. Let the anger swallow you. Feel it. Feed on it. And when it burns enough, use it."
The younger Naoki stared at him, unsettled. "That's not living. That's… losing yourself."
The older one smiled faintly, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Maybe. But it's the only way people like us can exist."
A noise echoed—metal scraping against concrete.
The older Naoki's head tilted slightly. "He's here."
From the shadows, headlights flicked on—three more cars rolled into the dockyard, surrounding them. Armed men stepped out, led by a tall figure in a black ski mask. The rain drummed harder, turning the dock into a sheet of shimmering silver.
"You always did like making an entrance," the older Naoki muttered.
The masked man raised his gun. "And you always liked running your mouth."
Before another word was spoken, the older Naoki moved—lightning fast. He dove behind a steel crate as bullets tore through the rain. Two assailants closed in from the sides, but he rolled out, grabbing one by the arm and snapping it clean before firing into the other's chest.
"Two down," he muttered, eyes sharp as blades.
The younger Naoki could only watch, frozen, as his counterpart dismantled the men one by one with terrifying precision—disarming, breaking bones, firing clean shots without hesitation.
One man lunged with a knife, catching the older Naoki's shoulder. He grimaced, twisted, and slammed the man's head into a metal beam. Blood sprayed. Another swung a crowbar—blocked, countered, elbowed in the throat.
The last of them stood trembling, weapon shaking in his hand. "You… you're not human."
"Neither are you," the older Naoki said, voice flat, before pulling the trigger.
As the last body hit the ground, silence reclaimed the rain. The older Naoki wiped the blood from his lip, breathing slow and controlled.
The younger Naoki stood behind him, horrified yet transfixed. "You're a monster."
The older Naoki glanced back, his expression unreadable. "No, kid. I just stopped pretending to be human."
He reloaded his pistol, holstered it, and walked toward the warehouse doors. The air smelled of smoke and iron.
Inside, faint light glowed under the cracks—someone was waiting.
The older Naoki grinned faintly. "Romano's men never quit. Guess this time I'll have to end it myself."
He pushed the doors open. The echo rang like thunder.
The younger Naoki hesitated, his voice trembling. "Who's in there?"
The older one paused at the threshold, glancing back just once. "A ghost I need to bury."
And as he stepped into the dim warehouse, a figure wearing a black ski mask turned from the shadows, gun gleaming under the flickering light.
Naoki whispered, barely breathing, "What the hell is happening?"
To be continued.