The rain poured relentlessly, soaking the earth and turning the freshly dug graves into pits of mud. Three coffins lay side by side, their polished wood dull under the stormy sky. A priest muttered hollow words, barely audible over the downpour.
He stood alone, a single figure clad in black, gripping an umbrella that did little to shield him. His face was unreadable, his grip firm yet motionless. Before him, they were lowered into the ground—his father, John Rico, once the most feared man in the underworld, and his two younger brothers.
Fourteen and twenty-two. Just boys.
The older one had always been reckless, a shadow of their father. The younger had never even had the chance to become one. Now, both were gone, buried beside the man who had shaped them all.
He wasn’t their blood. No one knew the feared king of the underworld had an adopted son. Raised in shadows, trained to be something more. A weapon. He had walked away, serving his country as a special forces officer. But now, he had returned—to nothing but graves.
Water dripped from the brim of his umbrella, mixing with the tears he refused to shed. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and regret. Mourners had long since left, unwilling to linger in the presence of the one who remained. They knew what came next. They knew who he was now.
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He answered without looking at the screen. A voice, sharp and edged with urgency, cut through the rain.
"It’s done. We have proof."
His fingers tightened around the phone. "Who?"
"Your father’s men. They sold him out. Worked with the cops. It was a setup from the start. Your brothers—" the voice hesitated, "—they were just loose ends."
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. He closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"I don’t know if he was a good man... but he was a good father."
He exhaled, steady and slow.
"Don’t worry, Father... brothers... they will join you soon. Then you can make them pay."
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. The storm followed.
The emergency lights bathed the building in crimson, casting long shadows on the walls. The alarm blared, a shrill, useless sound. It wouldn’t save them. Nothing would.
A gangster turned the corner ahead, rifle raised. He didn’t get the chance to fire. Tat-tat-tat. Three rounds punched into his chest, his body jerking back before slumping to the floor. He gurgled, blood bubbling from his lips as his hands weakly grasped at the wound, as if he could hold in the life spilling out of him. His eyes locked onto his killer, filled with agony, with disbelief. Then... emptiness.
Another burst of gunfire. Tat-tat-tat. Two more fell, one clutching his stomach as he collapsed against the wall, wheezing. His legs kicked feebly, his fingers clawing at the cold tile as his breath turned to desperate gasps. The other thrashed on the ground, whimpering, his body twitching before finally going still.
Boots scuffed against tile up ahead—more coming. He shifted behind a marble column, adjusting his grip on the rifle. The moment they entered the corridor, he stepped out.
A shot to the knee. The man screamed, dropping his gun. Another shot—to the shoulder this time. He fell, writhing, his cries sharp and raw. Blood soaked his clothes, his breath shuddering as he tried to drag himself away.
The next went down with a single bullet to the throat, gurgling as he clutched at the crimson spill, his fingers slipping against the warmth of his own lifeblood.
Another body slumped to the ground, his mouth opening and closing, as if trying to speak... but no words came.
Pain tore through his side. A shot.
He grunted, stumbling as fire seared through his ribs. Another shot clipped his arm, the sting sharp, numbing.
Teeth clenched, he steadied himself. He wasn’t done. Not yet.
Blood dripped from his own wounds as he grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The gangster coughed, sputtering red onto his own shirt.
"I’ll give you a choice," he said, voice low. "Tell me who ordered it, or I make this slow."
The gangster’s lips trembled. "I-I—"
His fist smashed into the man’s ribs. A wheeze. Another punch—harder this time. The gangster spat blood, his body shaking as agony rippled through him. His eyes darted around, desperate, pleading.
"I don’t have time for this." He pulled a knife from his belt and plunged it into the man’s thigh.
The leader convulsed, breath hitching. "T-The officers... Ramos and Ortega... police headquarters... top floor."
He let the words settle before twisting the blade.
A deep, guttural howl of suffering.
Satisfied, he yanked the knife free and let the man collapse. The gangster clutched his mangled leg, sobbing, his body convulsing from the pain.
"Good." He wiped the blade on his coat.
Then he grabbed the man’s jaw, forcing his head back. The blade gleamed under the emergency lights before he brought it down, pressing against the gangster’s eye.
A shriek tore through the hallway as the blade sliced through the soft orb, blood and vitreous fluid spilling down the man’s cheek. He writhed, his body thrashing against the pain, his remaining eye wide with pure, unfiltered terror.
He leaned in, voice like ice. "You won’t need to see where you’re going."
The gangster sobbed, gasping for breath. He let him suffer for a moment longer before lowering the barrel of his pistol.
The shot ripped through his crotch, a final scream echoing through the corridor before fading into agonized whimpers. The man twitched, body spasming, but his torment was nearly over.
Another shot. The whimpers stopped.
Silence. The only sound left was the hum of the emergency lights.
He reloaded again, the empty magazine clattering against the floor. His boots left red-stained prints as he moved toward the exit.
He stood there, covered in blood—his own, theirs, his father’s legacy painted on his skin.
"I don’t care if they’re good or evil. I will make them pay."
Stepping over the bodies, he left the building without a second glance. His next stop was the police headquarters.