"Where did you go?"
The rhythmic sound of a faint heartbeat echoes through the room. A man lies on a white hospital bed, eyes closed and his chest barely moving. Bandages cover his bruised body while barely noticeable specks of blood cling to the roots of his hair. A figure dressed in black gently holds the dying man's hand as though if he were to add pressure, it would break.
"I'm sorry," the figure whispers softly, eyes closed. "Forgive me for these sins."
The figure stands up and places the pale hand across the man's chest, creating a cross with the other arm. Their eyes are now open and the anger is replaced with rage as silence fills the room.
They turn and walk away, the sound of their footsteps going unheard.
-x-
He twirls the knife in his hand, staring at the wall of a dimly lit room. A desk rests in front of him, papers and photographs spread about. His eyes are narrow slits that never move from a spot on the wall. The knife is thrown backwards, creating a thud. He spins around in his chair and a dark smirk slips onto his face when he sees the knife hit the bulls-eye.
The heart.
That man, he thinks with cold eyes. He messed with the wrong person. I will have my revenge. Nothing can stop me.
He turns back around and looks at the papers spread about. He reads the headline of one of the many news articles that are pinned to the wall. He knows each article like the back of his gloved hand and those words keep him striving for innocence. He's in a war with everyone who has ever dared to cross him, and he is willing to go hell and back to win.
He's willing to kill to prove he's right.
-x-
A figure stalks through the night, their body pressing against the cold buildings as the rain pours down. Their hand has a tight grip on the dagger hidden in their sleeve, their sharp eyes seeing perfectly through the sheets of rain. Another figure lingers outside a building across the street, dressed in all black with a small bag in hand.
The first figure pauses their movements to watch the other. They slink through the shadows down the street and cross before making their way back. Their eyes are locked on the figure who is aware of their surroundings, but the figure continues to inch towards its prey. The dagger is slipped out from under the sleeve when the distance is only a few steps.
The first figure's face is emotionless as they slice the throat of the other figure, letting the now limp body fall to the floor. They hold the dagger into the air and let the rain cleanse the blood from the weapon before storing it back in their sleeve and disappearing silently into the night.
Now only the sound of the poison rain is left.
-x-
He's up against a criminal organization. It has no name, but some call it Detained. The organization is the biggest threat this city has to face, but only if you are involved in the underground crime scene. He goes by his own name that everyone knows but no one has seen him. He roams the streets when the moon is overhead and the world is silent.
He used to be a government assassin, sent to destroy any threats that surfaced before they became a huge problem. He has the skills, intelligence, a strategic mind. If there was something that he wanted to do, he would do it and do it with exact precision.
He had gathered a list of names of the men who work for Detained. He is going to kill each of them one by one until the organization ceases to exist. He wants to feel their blood on his skin when he slices their throat and listen to their bones snap as he steps on them. They caused him so much pain and it is time for them to experience it themselves.
He stares at the scattered photographs, crosses out a face and focuses his icy blue eyes on the next four.
-x-
They have not been noticed and everything seems to be in place. The figure is perched on the roof of one of the many city buildings. It's night time once again, and he keeps a close eye on another figure that enters a bar. The first figure scales down the wall of the building and lands in a dark alley in a crouch position. They stand up straight; flip their black trench coat inside out to a deep, velvet red. They slip on a matching red top hat and casually cross the street before entering the bar.
The second figure is making their way towards the back, squeezing through the clusters of moving bodies. A techno song plays in the background, entrancing anyone who has had enough liquor to lose themselves. A tall man stops the second figure and they exchange few words before they both slip into the back.
The first figure walks through the bar, making their way towards the back also. They snag a drink on the way and pretend to drink it before tossing it aside. The door is a dark purple, blending in with the walls of the club. They knock on the door and soon the man from earlier opens up an eye slit.
"Who are you?" he asks, eyes narrowed.
"I got the stuff, and that's all that matters," the figure replies.
"I need a name," the man states.
"Alright then," they reply. "You should know these initials. K.O.W."
The man's eyes widen and he quickly opens the door. The figure steps inside and acts like they are supposed to be there, but they know getting in was too easy. A slight rustle and a knife is hurled at them. They rotate and catch it, flinging it back at the attacker before retreating into the shadows.
"You aren't Killer," a man says, standing up from his spot at a long table. Three other men are with him, including the one from earlier. "He's dead."
"So you do know," the figure says, still hiding in the shadows. "It's a shame, he was too easy."
"Why would you wear that?" another man asks. "Killer hates red and you know it, so obvious you would be caught."
Before the rest could blink, the second man is down. The figure stands there, two knives drawn, hat tipped low, ready to fight. The bouncer steps forward and reaches for them, but the figure move to the side and slash his arm. A roundhouse kick to the gut and he's down. Next up, the man who has yet to speak lunges for the figure, a bloodthirsty look in his eyes.
The figure catches the man's wrist and bends it backwards until there is a sickening crack. He repeats this with the other arm and tosses the man aside. A third man attacks and the figure slashes them down as well. Blood is splattered along the wall and the air is thick with tension.
The one who spoke first, the final man, stands tall, gun loaded and aimed at the intruder's heart. The figure smirks and slinks into the shadows again, circling the room over and over. The man tries to follow their movements, but realizes it's pointless.
"Show yourself!" he shouts.
"Alright."
There is a bloodcurdling scream and the man falls to the floor, his neck almost severed completely, blood running down his neck like a crimson waterfall. The figure steps on the man's hands and plunges a different knife into the man's heart before leaning down and licking blood off the now cold cheek. They smirk.
"Red is such a beautiful color, don't you agree?"
-x-
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Another cross is made on each of those four photographs. Five down, too many more to go. He knows that they must be getting suspicious now, although who is killing their men they have yet to decipher. The organization must be restless. He can picture them sitting deep underground, sweat gathering on their foreheads as they think of a plan. They are scared, scared and helpless. They are in a deadly game, one that could cost them their worthless lives.
It's not a game of cat and mouse. Catch and kill. Hide and seek. It's not even predator and prey. It's not a game, because in a game both sides have a chance to win. But in this game, there is only one winner, and there will be only one winner.
And that winner is him.
-x-
A figure wanders through the sewers. It's dark but they still use the cover of night just in case. They are knee deep, moving upstream as silent as a snake making its way towards its prey. The moon shines in to create bits of light every so often, but the figure knows this area well. These paths would take them deeper and deeper underground to one of the many hideouts of Detained.
The figure stops when they run into an intersection. Two of those tunnels lead to a different hideout. The right one is more dangerous than the other, with the organizations highest ranked members down it. Straight ahead is weaponry and to the left is lower ranked members and new recruits.
They go right.
One, two, one, two. Left, right, left, right. They move slower, their steps looking carefully planned. Their black coat brushes the water as they walk, their black pants soaked through more and more with each step - but they show no signs of physical coldness. It's a quarter to one in the morning, and nothing is going to stop them.
After what seems to be hours, the figure pauses in front of a sharp turn that consists of two rights. They lean against the wall and slowly take the first right before peaking around the corner. Their eyes narrow in on the steel door at the end of the corridor. Two small flames burn on either side of it, and they wonder how many traps there are between them and that door.
They move to take a step but freeze when they hear the movement of water behind them. Quickly, they slink to the other side of the tunnel and lay deep in the water. Their eyes and nose are not submerged, and a black hat covers their hair. Three figures appear and turn down the corridor, walking up to the door. They flip open a small black flap on the door and it scans their eyes before opening.
The figure pulls out a small cylinder, puts a small black sphere in it, and blows. The sphere lands inside the door right before it closes. The figure smirks and begins their trek down the tunnel back to the outside. When they reach an area with cement, they close their eyes and, hearing no one, climb up before breaking out into a sprint.
They see a ladder and easily scale it, moving the sewer cover, climbing out, and closing it behind them. Within a minute, they are on top of a building, looking off into the distance. Fingers soon begin to count.
Three... the night's on fire.
Two... crash crash.
One... burn let it all burn.
"Boom."
-x-
"Only ten survived, and it was the entire "council", if you could call it that."
"Thank you, Yanagi."
He sets the phone down into its holder before standing up and moving to his filing cabinet. He pulls out a thick envelope, goes back to his desk, and begins to look through it. His friend, Yanagi Renji, is a former government agent like him, specializing in the intelligence field. He can get him whatever information he wants, whenever. He moves to sit back down at his desk.
Only ten remain. The organization is powerful, but not exactly... number friendly. He knows who is left, but he does not know where - yet.
He looks to his left and sees a photograph of him and him.
"Promise me you won't do anything drastic?"
He digs his nails into the wooden desk. Those promises aren't worth anything anymore.
"I pray we will stay friends forever."
He brings his hands together, carefully overlapping his fingers. He had wanted to pray, he wants to pray, but prayers are like drugs - they provide you with a pleasure, a high that makes you feel invincible because you have something to comfort you. Yet, they eat away at you, and eventually you see they are pointless and only cause you harm.
"Never forget me."
He had told his friend everything, every little secret he ever had, and now his friend is rotting away in a hospital, never to probably see the light of this world again. He sold himself out to someone who will not tell his thoughts.
"I love you like the brother I don't have."
He loves him too, and always will. His heart may still be beating, but they know, he knows, that he is gone. Their love, their simple, innocent brotherly love has to be let go.
He slowly stands up and takes the photograph to the fire. He closes his eyes and releases it into the flames.
It is time to finish this.
-x-
A figure stands on top of a warehouse, dressed in all black, unmoving. Their eyes are focused below at the ten men gathered together around a fire burning in an old trashcan. The men look scared, confused, and lost. In each of their eyes the fear runs deep into their and the silence makes them want to scream.
With their knife out, the figure kicks in the glass ceiling and lands in the center of their circle, knocking the trashcan over. Some of them tumble backwards, their lips quivering, while others stand tall and reach for a weapon of some sort. However, the first figure is too quick, grabbing one of them and disappearing into the shadows, taking them as their captive.
"Who are you?" the men shout. "What do you want from us?"
"Revenge is what I seek," the figure whispers. "And I will have it."
One by one, the men slowly begin to disappear into the shadows until only silence remains. In the blink of an eye, the lights are on, and all ten men are tied to the wall, bound by ropes and knives. The figure stands with a knife to one man's throat. The man tries to thrash, break free, but it's useless.
"Do..."
The figure trails the knife slowly across the man's face, applying little pressure. One swift motion and he is gone, and the figure moves onto the next one.
"You..."
Another down.
"Want..."
Again.
"Me..."
Again.
"Dead..."
Again.
"Or..."
And again.
"Alive?"
The figure doesn't kill the seventh man. They tilt the man's chin up with their knife, staring into their eyes. They silently demand an answer - the correct one.
"You're behind all of this," the man spits. "It's all you."
"That doesn't answer my question," the figure remarks.
"We want you dead. Dead and gone, never to return and forever to burn down below."
"Good boy."
The figure spares him and goes to the next.
"Now, why do you want me dead?" They ask, the knife mimicking its previous position.
"I want you alive; alive to torture for you sins. You're despic-"
Another swift motion and only three remain. The figure shakes their head and turns towards the next man.
"Do you want me dead, or alive?" they ask, cleaning their blade with their sleeve.
"Does it matter?"
The figure pauses their movements. "Let me ask you this," they say. "Should I live to be tortured or live to live a lie?"
"It's about him, isn't it?" The last unaddressed man calls out. "He walked into our territory. He got in the way of our business. We had to get rid of him, because you were going to come along and screw us over. We had to get rid of you too."
The figure surveys the speaker and walks towards him with careful steps. They slide the knife into its sheath and cross their arms.
"My life is gone because of your little group, and I vowed revenge. You should have known the consequences for touching him. You should have known," the figure hisses through clenched teeth.
"So this is the end, isn't it?" the seventh man asks. He keeps his gaze leveled with the figure, but he can't hide the slight tremble of his lips.
"I believe it is."
The figure pulls out three knives from his pocket and in three swift motions, the remaining men go silent, their heartbeats gone. The figure tosses their gloves down, removes their coat, and discards their hat into the small fire that still burns.
Their time is up, their revenge is complete, and their ambition is gone. Deep inside of them the emptiness finally settles; it settles deep, so deep. The figure is so empty, yet so full, so powerful. The damage has been done, but they are still riding on their high winds.
Just like a hurricane.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this, I had so much fun writing it. Please leave me your opinions. ^^ This was also written for The Jabberer and I couldn't finish it until now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis or "Hurricane" by 30 Seconds To Mars.