CHAPTER 159: YOU MOVE, SHE DIES!!

Miles parked his car in the shadow of the old city block, right where the faint thump of bass and distant cheering leaked through the concrete.

The sign above the rusted door read NO ENTRY — MEMBERS ONLY, but it flickered like even the electricity was afraid to stay.

He adjusted his coat, stepped through, and descended the metal stairs into the familiar darkness.

The air hit him thick — sweat, smoke, blood, and cheap whiskey.

Down below, the underground fight club was alive again.

A ring lit by hanging bulbs.

Men shouting, money changing hands.

A fighter slammed another into the ropes — cheers erupted, bottles clinked.

And then, a sudden ripple.

A whisper moved through the crowd faster than the noise of the fight itself.

"Wait... isn’t that him?"

"The Grim Reaper?"

"No way— he’s back?"

"It’s actually him!"

The whispers spread like wildfire. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Even the fighters in the ring froze for a second.

Miles walked through the crowd calmly, expression flat, his boots echoing over the concrete. Every step seemed to drain the noise from the room.

Everyone remembered that night.

When the man who now walked past them had dismantled Brutus Cane, the club’s undefeated champion, in under a minute—

and then beaten Angelo, the club’s owner, into a hospital.

After that night, Angelo’s empire had crumbled. His accounts frozen. His fighters scattered.

And now, no one knew who really ran the club— only that it still opened its doors, pretending like the Reaper hadn’t once walked through and burned it to the ground.

But here he was. Again.

The tension snapped when the door to the inner rooms opened.

A tall man with a crooked shoulder and a limp stepped out — his once massive frame now scarred and half-broken.

Brutus Cane.

The ex-champion.

The man Miles had left unconscious and bleeding in the same ring two years ago.

Brutus’s voice rumbled low but wary. "Grim Reaper. You’re banned from here."

Miles smiled faintly. "When did that happen, Cane?"

Brutus’s jaw clenched. "After what you did to Angelo. The boss is in prison because of you. You’re not allowed to fight here anymore."

Miles chuckled, unbothered. "So he never told you why I beat him, huh? Funny man."

The crowd quieted again, drawn in by that dangerous calm in Miles’s tone.

Brutus took a half-step forward, still cautious. "Leave the place before we warn you."

Miles lifted a hand. "Easy, big man. No need for round two. I’m not here for a fight."

He glanced around the ring. "Just a question. You answer it, I’ll walk out. You don’t... well, the audience looks hungry for a show."

The crowd murmured in agreement. Someone whistled.

Brutus’s frown deepened.

Miles’s smile turned sharp. "And we both know Angelo doesn’t want to lose another arm of his operation. I mean, who else is going to run this place while he’s rotting in a cell?"

The words landed heavy.

Brutus hesitated — the name "Grim Reaper" wasn’t a title men took lightly.

He sighed, defeated. "Alright, Reaper. Make it quick."

Miles nodded once. "Quicker you answer, quicker I leave."

He slipped a phone from his coat and turned the screen toward Brutus. A photo. A hard-faced man with a tattoo visible under his collar.

"I need this man," Miles said.

Brutus leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "That’s Russ King. Local gang boss. Comes here sometimes. Likes to bet big, lose big."

Miles’s gaze sharpened. "Where can I find him?"

Brutus shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I’ll tell you— one condition."

Miles folded his arms. "You’re in no condition to make any conditions, Cane. But go on."

Brutus swallowed hard. "You never come back here again."

Miles smirked, extending a hand mockingly. "Deal."

Brutus exhaled, glancing over his shoulder before lowering his voice. "Old shipyard. South docks. His base is there. Don’t tell him I gave it to you."

Miles clapped him once on the shoulder — heavy enough to make him flinch. "Thanks, big man."

He turned and walked toward the exit.

The crowd parted silently.

Whispers followed in his wake.

"He just left?"

"Wasn’t he banned?"

"I heard he was..."

"...yeah, they’re all scared of him. Even Brutus didn’t move."

As the heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, the fight resumed in nervous murmurs —

but everyone there knew the truth.

The Grim Reaper had returned.

And somewhere in the city, someone named Russ King had just run out of luck.

Miles sat behind the wheel, the engine rumbling low beneath him. He dialed Monica’s number, eyes fixed ahead on the darkening road.

Monica picked up almost instantly. "So," she said with a teasing sigh, "I lost, didn’t I?"

Miles allowed himself a quiet smile. "Old shipyard. South docks."

"Alright," Monica replied, her tone shifting back to sharp professionalism. "You take care of that, boss. I’ll handle the rest from here."

The line went dead.

Miles slid the phone into his coat pocket and shifted gears. The car surged forward, headlights cutting through the mist that hung low over the harbor roads. The world outside the windows grew grayer, colder, and emptier the farther he drove — until only the metallic groan of the docks filled the silence.

The old shipyard spread out like a graveyard for steel.

Cranes stood frozen in time. The air reeked of rust, oil, and salt.

Broken containers lay scattered like tombstones, half-buried in shadows.

And among them — life.

Rough voices. Footsteps crunching gravel.

Men carrying rifles and bats, pacing the open yard. Cigarettes glowing in the dark.

Beyond the maze of rusted hulls, an old workshop stood crooked — its roof patched with iron sheets, its windows glowing dim orange from the lamps inside.

Inside, a young girl was tied to a chair.

Her small wrists chafed against the rope.

Her face was pale, streaked with dried tears.

Every time she blinked, exhaustion threatened to take her under, but fear kept her awake.

Russ King leaned against a workbench, cigarette hanging from his lips, his face a collage of scars and smugness.

"So," he sneered, tilting his head, "you’re quiet now?"

He crouched closer, grin widening as he tapped her cheek lightly. "You look prettier when you’re scared. Like a puppy that’s finally learned not to bark."

A man from behind laughed. "Boss, her mother was a real beauty too. Shame she died. Otherwise..."

The laughter rolled like thunder through the room.

Stella squeezed her eyes shut, her lips trembling as tears fell silently.

Russ chuckled. "See that? Poor thing’s crying again. Don’t cry, sweetheart. You’ll go home soon. Just not the way you want to."

The room erupted again, cruel and careless.

Russ turned toward the door, annoyed. "Where the hell is D? He’s been gone forever. I told him to bring food. How hard is that?"

A man behind him scratched his neck nervously. "I’ll call him, boss."

He took out his phone and dialed. The call connected after one ring.

"Yo, D," the man said impatiently. "Boss is waiting for the food. Where are you?"

A pause. Then, a calm, unfamiliar voice spoke through the static.

"He already ate," the voice said.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then, lower, colder—

"If you’re hungry, come out. I’m waiting."

The man froze, the phone trembling in his hand.

Russ frowned. "Who the hell was that?"

But before anyone could answer, the faint sound of footsteps echoed outside — slow, deliberate, and getting closer.

Russ barked the order—"Why the hell are you standing there? Check who’s outside!"

The man near the door flinched and ran, pushing it open with a creak that echoed through the workshop. Russ glanced at Stella and forced a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. "Stay put, sweetheart. I’m coming back—with food."

He turned and followed the others out.

The moment he stepped into the open yard, the smell hit him—metal, dust, and something else. Blood.

Bodies lay scattered like broken mannequins across the gravel. Groans of the half-conscious echoed through the thick air.

Not a single gunshot had been fired. No bullet holes. Just wrecked men.

One of the gang members dropped to his knees, trembling. "W-what the hell... who did this?"

And then they saw him.

A man walking through the haze.

Black suit, no mask, no weapon in hand. Calm, deliberate steps that sounded too quiet for a place so loud a few minutes ago.

Miles Sterling.

Russ raised his gun, voice tight. "Who the hell are you?"

Miles didn’t answer. He simply tilted his head, eyes glinting with quiet fury.

Russ’s men began circling, boots scraping, weapons shaking slightly.

Miles finally spoke, his tone slow, low, and cold.

"You ask me a question... and you don’t even look me in the eye."

He took another step closer, his shoes crushing the gravel underfoot. "Who are you looking for, Russ? There’s no one here but a few broken dogs."

Russ’s fingers tightened on the trigger. "Who sent you? Who did this to my men?"

Miles chuckled softly, the sound more unnerving than comforting.

Russ’s face twisted. "What’s so damn funny?"

Miles smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. "You call yourself a gang leader? You’re just another goon with delusions of power."

Before Russ could react, one of his men lunged forward, swinging a knife. "You bastard—!"

Miles caught his wrist mid-swing. A sharp crack tore through the air.

The man’s scream followed as his arm bent the wrong way.

Miles leaned close. "How foolish," he murmured. "You bring guns... and still charge me with bare hands."

He shoved the man aside just as another two opened fire. Miles grabbed the first man by the collar, twisting him into the line of bullets. The rounds tore through flesh that wasn’t his.

Before the shooters could reload, Miles was already on them.

He moved like a shadow with a heartbeat.

A gun was twisted backward before its owner even realized it was taken.

A knee shattered. A throat crushed.

The dull thuds of impact rolled across the shipyard like thunder wrapped in flesh.

A man screamed, flying into a pile of scrap metal. Another dropped, eyes rolling back.

Russ stumbled backward, watching every second of it—the way the man in black didn’t waste a motion, didn’t even seem to breathe heavy.

Within moments, it was over.

The air was full of groans, boots twitching, blood dark on the gravel.

Russ stood frozen, hand still shaking with the gun he hadn’t fired.

Miles straightened his suit jacket, brushing a spot of blood from his cuff. He looked up, expression flat. "So. We’re down to one."

Russ’s mouth went dry. "W-what do you want?"

Miles started walking toward him.

Russ stumbled back a step, then another. "Stay away from me!"

Miles didn’t stop. His pace never changed.

Russ turned and bolted for the workshop, stumbling over a fallen crate. "You’re dead, you hear me? You’re dead!"

Miles watched him run, then exhaled through his nose, calm as ever. He rolled his shoulder once, flexed his fingers, and followed.

The sound of his slow, deliberate footsteps chased Russ back inside—

a steady rhythm that promised the fight wasn’t over.

Russ burst back into the workshop, chest heaving, his face pale with panic. He whipped the gun up in a shaking hand and trained it straight at Stella, who was still bound to the chair—her eyes huge, lips trembling.

"Don’t you move," Russ snarled, voice raw. "You take one more step and she dies."

The words hung in the cold air like a knife. Stella’s tear-streaked face squeezed shut; the rope bit into her wrists as she tried to curl away. The room felt impossibly small—metal walls, rusted tools, the smell of oil—and all of it pressed down on the single point of the barrel aimed at a child.