[Warning - graphic violence, gore]

  Metal Ronin sprinted across the rooftops, moving with inhuman speed. His implants accelerated his body. Every step he took sent rain flying and splattering into the air. He moved as silently as he could and, as a rule, always kept to the shadows. His blade rested firmly at his waist, sheathed and halved by the design. It was made of obsidian and reinforced with carbon nanotubes. Not ideal for cutting anything heavier than a person’s bone, but it did its job.

  John found himself in the Shadow District. He was staring at the target’s location. A private residence and a massive villa pressed between the city's buildings. His target loomed below. Several men were unloading boxes of what he assumed could only be contraband, drugs and cash…

  The target, a fat, obese, balding man, was shouting at the henchmen. John could hear a faint whisper of what was being shouted, only because he had an implanted machine cochlea. It was something to the gist of: “Get moving, maggots! My customers are impatient!”

  Followed by: "Yes, boss."

  Moving crates, hauling trucks. Vaguely dressed workers. Definitely some kind of trafficking.

  The truck started moving. Best to let it go, and focus on the mission.

  He captured a picture of it with his phone and relayed it back to Matriarch Base. The truck model, the number plate—which was slyly switched as soon the crew left—the size of the crates being transferred; it was up to the big boss to assess what would happen to what was left of the man’s upstart crime empire.

  His target didn’t know it yet, but he was already dead.

  Before John dropped down, he briefly hit his helmet, realigning the mask. Then, he dropped. He strode right into their security. Only a few guards were left behind, all carrying AKs.

  Definitely some kind of Russian connections. Not even local cartels and gang groups used that type of weaponry.

  John unsheathed his Katana. He had no intention of being discreet. Their eyes widened. The one closest to him started yelling—“Cape!”

  So wrong, so very wrong… John wish he was a cape.

  The second shot at him, a flurry of automatic bullets sent flying his way. John aligned the blade with his face, shielding his visor from the attack. The bullets did not penetrate. Instead, they ricocheted off his rolled armor. The graphene layer really kept 99 percent of small arms away. But John was stingy, as rail guns tended to penetrate him at any range.

  An alarm immediately rang out as the first scrambled for cover. He dashed, his speed enhanced by the suit, accelerating him to a micro speedster. He cleaved his assailant in half, who managed to creak out a cry for help at the last moment. His life had flashed before his very eyes, and John felt only numb.

  The gore didn’t disgust him anymore. It was the futility of it. They were powerless to stop him. Only a cape could put up a quarrel with him.

  A wild spray of bullets slammed into the rear of his helmet. A little crack formed on the visor. John turned his head and pursued, stabbing the blade inside his attacker's neck, killing the defenseless fool. The man didn’t even look at the Ronin in his last moments. He sagged.

  John sighed as he looked at the slumped body.

  There are no innocents here, John. You kill so the world may bleed a little less tomorrow.

  John lifted his head. He was not in the mood to deal with small fry. Let the SCRA handle it. His target, Gregor Mirov, stared at him from the window of the building, aghast, terror in his eyes. The man turned, then sprinted away. John pursued. He didn’t want to waste another second.

  With a burst of speed, he chased the man, scaling the exterior of the building and jabbing his head inside. The penthouse was like a shrine inside—filled with gold-coated interiors, expensive bottles of liquor lying everywhere. Luxury without the adornment of proper weight. A fool’s idea of wealth. All these kingpins were a textbook case study. They want the same thing, slumdog monarchies.

  He heard something ping. An elevator. Someone was going up a few floors.

  John turned to look down the hallway. Sure enough, there was one leading up. He took the stairs, scaling them step by step, leap by leap. John paid the mooks in his way no mind, cutting away at their fragile bodies if they dared cross him. A few bodies lay strewn on his path of war. They could not deter him, it was...disapointing for him. Almost.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Reaching the top floor, he burst through a one-way room at the top.

  Then stopped.

  The kingpin hid somewhere in the back of the room. An army of guards held their rifles at him. He raised his blade, ready to cut.

  He charged—

  No!

  Someone grabbed him from behind. Dark, muscular arms held his arms together, kicking him to the ground. He lost his grip on his katana. It fell to the ground.

  He looked up at his attacker. A towering bodyguard, dark skin, muscular—definitely a cape of sorts. The enhanced man approached, bringing his fist down to punch. John evaded. A hole was ripped into the ground, and the man’s hand was stuck.

  John delivered an uppercut to his face, sending him bleeding and flying away. He turned and ran toward the katana.

  A swarm of bullets shot at him, ricocheting everywhere.

  Idiots!

  John lifted his katana just in time. The bullets stopped firing. But the large man was behind him, gripping him by the torso, squeezing. This was trouble. The amount of pressure he exerted could kill John, but he was all brawn and no brains. John threw his sword in the air, flipping as he tried prying himself from the cape’s grasp.

  The sound of flesh being cut made the big man stumble, yet he still squeezed as the blade was stuck in his head. John knocked his elbow back. Blood spurted from the man’s face.

  John broke out of his grip, took his sword out of the man’s skull, swung the blade around, and severed his head.

  The big man fell to the ground.

  What a waste of a good cape. Evelyn could have used him in one of her hit squads. A pity.

  “You fools shot the bastard!” the kingpin shouted, panicking while scrambling away.

  Bullets were sent flying everywhere. One of the ricocheting bullets smashed through the window. Another caused a friendly fire mishap, penetrating a goon’s leg. He screamed in agony.

  The bullets kept coming, and John walked to the center of the room. Letting them do there thing. They only wasted their ammunitions and potentially their lives.

  They stopped firing, staring at him with fear.

  “You boys, go turn yourselves in, and I won’t have to kill you.”

  They stared at each other in disbelief. Then, the guns started falling to the ground. One by one, they made it out of the room. Even the one that got shot by richocheting bullets limped outside.

  Leaving only the kingpin on the ground, groveling, defenseless. He started panicking.

  “Wait… wait… Metal Ronin, right?” he asked. “I can give you whatever you want. Offshore accounts, power, women. All the sexy women in the world, every man’s dream, I can give it all to you.”

  John walked closer, and the man backed away.

  “How dull and cliché. I’ve had a taste of it all before. I don’t want that life. Not ever.”

  The man started praying, then started tapping his hands on the ground. He started tearing up.

  It was way too late for kiddy tears.

  “Anything you want at all, within my power. Do you have vices? Illegal vices? I can import anything. Anyone.”

  Disgusting.

  John put his blade at his side, readying to strike. “If you ever find yourself in another life, let it be known that I will hunt you down there. And should you go to hell, tell the devil to schedule an appointment for me. We will meet there.”

  “Wait! Any price, name it.”

  John sighed. “Unfortunately, you’ve already been bought. You have nothing.”

  The ronin closed his eyes, drawing his blade. He saw nothing but cut away at the defenseless man. He could hear his limbs drop to the ground. He squeezed his eyes open slowly, making sure he was dead.

  Indeed he was.

  John walked to the window, punching a hole in it, causing the whole structure to collapse. Blood and iron. Rain and petrichor. Smoke and ash. John lit his cigar, peering below at the running fools. Their faces were marked. They’d turn themselves in, or they’d be running for life.

  He exhaled. The smoke calmed his nerves, eased his depressive thoughts. He peered at the room. Blood was stained everywhere, even on the carpet. A very expensive carpet at that. There was backup one stashed away, folded in the corner. Perhaps he’d take that carpet. It was a very nice carpet, in fact.

  His phone pinged. Snapping him out of his head. His fingers flicked, answering on instinct.

  “John.” It was his boss. Who else would call him at such an ungodly moment? She had a tendency to call him at worsts of time. She did it in a foxhole once too, years ago..

  He stared at the caller ID, too lazy to speak.

  “John!"

  "Joooohn!"

  "Joooooohn! Answer the phone, goddammit.”

  he replied, but took his time to move his lips. “One irrepairable geyser made done, Commander Sheridan.”

  Evelyn mumbled. “Good. Good. Report back. Got another job for you.”

  “In a moment.” he coughed. "I'm smoking."

  “Hurry it up. We’re short on time. This city is an eternal chessboard, John. Pawns move first, and pawns are being played right now. You cut one . At least two more left tonight.”

  “What does that make me? The rook."

  “Don't be silly. You’re my knight, of course. Don’t ask me stupid shit. Hurry the fuck up.”

  “Yes, my queen.”

  “King, logically speaking. And, flattering. However, I have a new queen in mind.”

  "oh?"

  "Anyway, don't go mia. Report to me!"

  The phone beeped dead.

  "Fuck!"

  It was supposed to be cinema night. He loved old movies no one today would touch. Like, who even knew Kurosawa these days? All these short-clipped kids didn’t have the attention span or the respect to understand great cinematography. And—he really needed to stop talking to himself.

  John was ready to hop out the window. Then he heard a box move beside him. A cardboard box.

  “The fuck?”

  He held his sword, walking closer, slowly. Could be a rat inside. Could be an explosive drone. John’s eyes whirred, and his brain raced. X-ray vision.

  A little skeleton was lodged inside, crammed together. He lifted the box instantly. A little boy stared at him with horror and fear. He didn’t scream or run or cry. Just stared at him and at the carnage.

  “...”

  The kingpin’s son.

  “Shit.”

  “Are you going to kill me too?” the boy asked.

  John wiped his blade clean. “No. Let's get you to an SCRA station.”

  Metal ronin hung his head low as he realized the carnage the boy was witnessing. He took the boy by his arms, closing his eyes as he slowly walked him out of the room.

  Samsara? Nirvana? Such things didn't exist for him. He was trained to kill. ANd he would keep doing.