It was a cold, damp morning in suburban Chicago.
Fog still hung between the rooftops, and news of the "mysterious shooting at a luxury restaurant" had already spread through the underworld.
The Hive wasn't in the newspapers.
But its name... resonated among the global syndicates.
It was as if the criminal underworld had just witnessed a young man named Danny knocking over the table of the old gods... and flipping a chess set.
At Hive headquarters, Zhao's body was wrapped in dry ice and placed in a private container. Osiris personally made sure a small note he'd written in Mandarin was tucked into the body's chest:
"If you think you still rule the world, look at this face."
The container was being shipped using the diplomatic channels they'd arranged.
To Hong Kong. Straight to the heart of the Triad.
Danny sat in his office, smoking a cigarette.
Osiris cleaned his revolver.
Jerry? He glanced at his watch as he leaned back on the sofa.
"Where you going?" Corse ask.
"Me? I want to get drunk."
"We're coming," Staz chimed in, grabbing his leather jacket.
"I'm tired of hearing gunshots. Tonight… we'll listen to music."
Corse and Staz, two of Jerry's close friends, also one of his death loyal henchmen. This duo was also present at the Hive-Triad confrontation in North Carolina. Jerry, Corse, and Staz. That morning, the three of them left the base, just to look for entertainment outside, from going to expensive restaurants to going to elite clubs that operate from day to night. And finally, they stopped to rest at one of Jerry's favorite bars. An old bar on the side of the road.
That night... 2Pull's Peak, somewhere in Chicago
The place was dark, filled with cigarette smoke, and the smell of aged whiskey permeated the walls.
This wasn't a place for tourists.
This was a place for those who wanted to forget.
In the right corner, an old jukebox played slow country music.
To the left, a pool table was full of bets.
In the middle, a long table, where Jerry, Corse, and Staz sat, three Hive men who had just destroyed a Triad the night before.
"Did you see Zhao's face before he got shot?" Corse said, chuckling.
"It was like watching a god fall from the sky."
Jerry just smiled faintly, taking a sip from his glass.
"He's not a god. He's just a pawn who forgot his turn."
Staz ordered another round. They chuckled, joking, replaying last night's events like their favorite movie.
In the darkest corner of the bar, a man sat alone.
'Henry' (This is the name we've given to this "man" for now).
Quiet. Calm. Drinking slowly.
A faded military jacket clung to his body.
On the back of his head, a scar peeked out beneath his tangled, unruly hair.
His gaze was blank, but not dull.
It was the gaze of someone who had seen too much... and lost everything.
Four men entered.
Their shoes clacked harshly.
One of them wore a satin shirt and a gold chain. His eyes were wild.
They weren't part of the Hive.
Street people looking for trouble.
They saw Henry.
Alone. Silent. Like an easy target.
"Hey, hero. It's rude of you to sit alone in this bar,"
said the man with the gold chain as he walked over.
"Come join us. Or do you want to drink your own blood?"
Henry just took a sip.
Without answering.
Without reacting.
It made them angry.
One of them pulled out a chair in front of Henry and sat down, taking out a small knife.
The other stood behind him, touching the handle of his pistol under his jacket.
"I don't like mute people," said the one sitting down.
"Especially those who act brave."
Henry turned to them blankly. Finally, he spoke, quietly.
His voice was hoarse, deep, and terrifying because it was so flat.
"Heh, if I caused any trouble, I'm sorry, I'll move to another table."
The four men were confused, but they smiles widely.
Henry tried to stand up, carrying his half-empty glass. He turned, accidentally knocking his drink onto one of the men's white jacket.
"Fuck!, this jacket is from Egypt, it's not even worth your month's salary," the man said angerly.
"I apologized," Henry replied with a flat face and gaze that showed no guilt.
"I demand compensation, you bastard!"
Henry replied again, "I don't have any money left." Henry's flat facial expression made the man even more annoyed.
"I think I know how you're going to pay," the man said with a vicious smile.
The man pulled out a knife.
The blade glinted.
The other three men stood ready, hands on their weapons.
But they didn't even have time to pull the trigger.
Henry's movement was swift, almost imperceptible.
One hand twisted the wrist of the man in front of him, sending the knife flying and the sound of bones breaking.
An elbow struck his throat.
A chair was dragged and thrown, hitting the chest of the second man behind him.
The gun was out... but too late.
Henry had already turned and kicked the third man in the knee, knocking him down.
With one kick, the gun was thrown away.
Another elbow struck his temple.
The last man pulled a knife from his pocket, and with his right hand, he tried to stab. Henry dodged, grabbed the man's right hand, then elbowed him in the temple with his left elbow, then slammed his head into the bar.
All four men were down in less than ten seconds.
The bar fell silent.
Butch just sighed and refilled Henry's glass without saying anything.
This wasn't the first time Henry had silenced the bar.
Meanwhile Henry, still with his goofy expression, he didn't even know how he managed to do it.
But there was always a sense of dread hanging over him every time he moved.
From the center table, three men watched.
Jerry. Corse. Staz.
Corse narrowed his eyes "Damn!" he said.
Staz bit his straw.
Jerry just stared at Henry.
"Who is he?" he asked quietly.
Staz replied, still staring at the man in the corner of the bar, who had now sat back down as if nothing had happened.
"Nobody. If you ask him, he doesn't even know who he is."
"But... old man Butch said he was ex-special forces."
"Got shot in the back of the head. Lost his memory. Ever since, he's been living like a ghost."
Jerry leaned back in his chair.
He grinned slightly.
Not because he was happy. But because he had just seen something that couldn't be bought, not even with blood and money.
"Wounds like that... don't just take memories," Jerry muttered.
"But sometimes... they also... open other doors."
Corse stared at him.
"What do you gonna do?"
"Play," Jerry replied.
"But slowly… Ghosts can't be chased. They have to be invited... into the house."
"Hah! Looks like Jerry's got a new target on his tail. That reminds me of the day, Jerry tried to drag us both into the Hive, haha, isn't that right, Staz?"
Staz chuckled, then replied, "Hahaha, how could I forget? Honestly, I was horrified by the way Jerry looked both of us back then. Like your eyes when you look at a beautiful girl, Corse."
"Well shit, you're the one who always try to hit some random ass girl on the street when we walkin." Corse respond, sarcasticly .
Henry.
Not his real name.
Not his full identity.
But soon, he would learn a new meaning for family... for orders...
and for blood shed not for the country,
but for the Hive.
And Jerry would be the one to bring him into the game.
With words.
With tactics.
And with a smile as thin as a wound.