Chapter 3 NO MERCY LEFT

Cain used to think that there were boundaries. He made a self-promise to never cross certain boundaries, even amid death and pain. However, blood, treachery, and the intolerable silence that followed each slaughter had long since buried those lines.

It would be the same tonight.

It was midnight, and Port Seraph was silent. With weary waves, the ocean licked at the deteriorating docks. Silent and rusty, cargo containers towered like tombstones. Cain squatted on top of one, breathing slowly, his body motionless. The festivities were starting below him. masks. Music. Beneath silk and gold lie sins.

Victor's people didn't hide their filth; they paraded it. Women were passed around like wine. Drugs spilled from crystal bowls. Guns glinted beneath tuxedos. It was decadence carved out of decay. And in the center of it all stood Grigori Veselov, laughing like a man who didn't know Death had marked his name.

Cain adjusted the scope on his rifle. One clean shot could end Veselov here and now.

But it wasn't enough.

Victor had taught him one thing: if you want to kill a monster, don't aim for the head. Burn the roots.

Cain wasn't here to kill Grigori. Not yet.

He was here to send a message.

Cain entered through the service tunnel, bypassing three guards with tranquilizer darts and one with a blade between the ribs. No noise. No hesitation.

The warehouse had been changed inside. The ceiling was covered in dazzling patterns of spinning lights. As masked aristocrats raised glasses to the empire Victor founded, a DJ blasted synthetic rhythms. Unnoticed, Cain walked past the crowd. Wearing the mask of a forgotten guest, he was expressionless and bone-white.

He discovered Veselov, intoxicated by poison and power, with his arms wrapped around two women close to the middle platform.

Cain walked over to the bar next to him and waited.

It was two minutes later. Then four.

Veselov turned then. They looked at each other. First to speak,

Cain's voice was composed despite the mask's distortion. "You bear the mark of the serpent." Veselov smiled, but it wavered. "What?" Cain bent in. "I've seen the dragon chained up. It works for your master.

Veselov stiffened. The smile dropped. "Who the hell are you?"

Cain didn't answer.

Veselov reached for the pistol at his side, but Cain was faster; he slammed the man's head into the bar with a crack. The crowd gasped, some laughing, thinking it was part of the show.

Cain pulled Veselov's mask off and held a knife to his throat.

"Tell your boss I'm coming."

He didn't wait for a reply. Blood spurted as he dragged the blade across Veselov's cheek deep, precise. A signature. The same one Victor left on his mother ten years ago.

He dropped the man and vanished into the crowd before the first scream echoed.

Back at the safehouse, Cain watched the news light up with confusion.

"Masked attacker at Seraph Gala..."

"Veselov disfigured, suspect unidentified..."

"No suspects in custody..."

It was all theater. Cain didn't need them to understand the message. He only needed one man to see it.

Victor would know.

Cain sat at his desk and opened the journal he kept hidden beneath the floorboards. Inside were sketches, notes, names crossed out in red ink. Veselov's name was next. Not crossed out. Not yet.

But it would be.

There was no mercy left in him.

"Not for the ones who laughed as his family bled.

Not for the cowards hiding behind suits and soldiers.

Not for the man who taught him how to hate.

Cain followed the path to a villa tucked away in the hills outside the city two nights later. It belonged to Ambrose Kellan, a former colleague of Victor's who was notorious for using charities and orphanages to launder blood money. A wire transfer connecting Kellan to the gala has been traced by Cain.

They had iron gates. The guards were arrogant and wearing earpieces.

Cain used only his fists and accuracy, without the use of weaponry, to take them down one by one.

The snow had begun to fall again by the time he arrived at the main house.

The snow pleased him. It took him back to the beginning of suffering , with a purpose. The house was quiet inside. Too quiet.

With a steady heart, Cain went from room to room, navigating corners. Then he discovered the research. There was Kellan, strapped to a chair.

Dead already.

Slit in the throat. Startled, wide-eyed. Written in blood on the wall behind him:

"It's too late." With his mouth clenched, Cain gazed at the message. Then he saw the tiny red dot in the room's corner blinking.

A camera.

He approached it and gazed straight into the lens.

"You're watching,"

he said. No rage. Just the facts. "All right. Pay close attention. In one shot, he destroyed the camera.

Victor Rykov was far away, watching the broadcast turn black in a secret chamber that was only illuminated by blue screens and cigarette smoke.

His lips curled into a smile that never made it to his eyes as he exhaled gently. "So, my little ghost has returned,"

he remarked in a voice like silk-wrapped ice. Beside him, a tall, broad man with a face like a brick wall moved forward.

"Want me to take care of it?"

Victor gave a headshake. "No. Allow him to arrive. He laced his fingers together and leaned back. "When they believe they are winning, the game is so much more enjoyable."

Cain was back in the city, standing in front of his safehouse bathroom's broken mirror. There was blood on his clothing that wasn't his. His hands shook a little, but not out of terror. The adrenaline was the cause. the command. The work required to avoid falling entirely into nothingness.

He sprayed his face with cold water.

looked up. He caught a glimpse of something in his reflection for a brief second.

Not a hunter.

Not a soldier.

However, he was the youngster he used to be, kneeling next to his mother's body with futile, clenched fists.

He looked away.

The boy had passed away.

Cain took out a steel case from the concealed panel in the wall. There was a long-barreled revolver with the name "Lena" inscribed on it that he hadn't used in years. The name of his mother. With firm fingers, he loaded the chambers one by one.

No space remained for terror.

There is no space for uncertainty. Victor had turned him into a ghost.

He was now on his way home.