Dante sat on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, staring out over the neon-lit sprawl of the Undermarket, where the streets below pulsed with restless energy—smugglers peddling contraband, fixers brokering quiet betrayals, the desperate and the damned moving through the glow of flickering holo-signs. Somewhere, a street preacher ranted about debts that could never be paid. Somewhere else, a gunshot cracked the night like a closing door.

  His breath was still ragged, his knuckles raw, his right hand aching from the reckless overuse of the Ashen Pact. His muscles felt like splintered glass wrapped in flesh, and the bitter taste of copper still clung to his tongue. His whole body screamed for rest, for stillness, for a moment to process the fact that he had survived. But the truth settled in his bones like a lead weight.

  He was alive.

  Barely.

  The hunter was gone—not dead, but satisfied. They had left him with nothing but a smirk, a lingering presence in the air like a storm that had passed but promised to return, and a parting shot that burrowed deep into his skull: "Next time, fight like you mean it."

  And the worst part?

  The thought coiled in his gut like a slow-burning fuse, impossible to ignore. He had survived—this time. But survival wasn’t victory, and it sure as hell wasn’t safety. The hunter hadn’t come alone; they were just the first to arrive. The first to test his strength, to weigh his worth, to see if he was even worth the trouble of killing. That was the nature of this kind of debt. It didn’t just hang over you like a shadow—it drew things to you. Hungry things. Ruthless things. The kind of people who saw a contract like his and smelled profit. Or worse, vengeance.

  Dante exhaled through his teeth, forcing his hands still when all they wanted to do was shake. His body still hadn’t caught up with his mind, still wanted to be in the fight, still expected another strike, another killing blow. Adrenaline had kept him alive tonight, but adrenaline couldn’t save him forever. He needed more than instinct, more than luck. He needed a plan. Because next time? Next time wouldn’t be a test. Next time would be real.

  And if he wasn’t ready?

  There wouldn’t be a time after that.

  Dante was starting to think there would be a next time.

  He flexed his fingers, watching the blackened veins pulse beneath his skin, the residual energy of the contract still thrumming in his blood. The stolen debt of a dead man—a pact never meant for him—had rooted itself in his flesh, an invisible brand burned into his soul. It wasn’t just a burden. It wasn’t just a mistake. It was a target, painted in something far worse than blood.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He couldn’t outrun this.

  He couldn’t go back to tending bars, pouring drinks for the city’s lost souls, pretending that the world was normal. That he was normal. That any of this could just be left behind.

  The thought should have unsettled him, should have made him feel like he was standing at the edge of a cliff with no way back. Instead, it settled in his bones with a strange, quiet certainty. Maybe he had never really belonged in that old life anyway. Maybe the version of himself that had wiped down counters and poured whiskey for ghosts had just been waiting—marking time until the inevitable dragged him into something bigger, something worse, something that fit him like a blade slid into its sheath.

  Because the truth was, part of him had always known. He’d seen it in the wary glances of patrons who never quite looked him in the eye, in the hushed murmurs of people who felt something off about him but could never put it into words. He had spent years ignoring the way shadows clung to his footsteps, the way the weight of unseen things pressed against his skin when he walked alone at night. He had drowned it in liquor, buried it beneath routine, convinced himself that if he played his part long enough, the world would let him stay hidden.

  But the world had never let people like him stay hidden. It found them. It dragged them into the light—or into the dark, where they truly belonged. And now, standing on the edge of this new existence, he realized there was no point pretending anymore. The mask had slipped. The door had closed. Whatever came next, he had no choice but to face it.

  That life was dead. And in its place, something new had taken root.

  Pactmakers. Hunters. Enforcers. Blood and shadow.

  He let out a slow breath, the weight of that truth settling deep in his chest, anchoring him to a reality he hadn’t wanted to accept.

  No escaping. No quitting.

  The only way out… was through.

  Behind him, the Broker chuckled, a low, knowing sound, the kind that made Dante want to punch him square in his smug, ageless face. “Finally figured it out, have we?”

  Dante didn’t turn. He just closed his eyes for a moment, let the city hum beneath him, and whispered, “Yeah.”

  The wind rolled through the hollowed-out skyline, carrying the scent of rain, smoke, and the ever-present ozone tang of neon and machinery. Below, the Undermarket pulsed with restless energy, a living, breathing thing built on secrets, deals, and debts that never truly died. Dante let it all sink in—the weight of the city, the gravity of his choices, the certainty that there was no going back. The hum of it filled his ears, not just the sound of a city at night, but something deeper, something waiting.

  His body ached, every bruise and burn a testament to how close he had come to dying tonight. And yet, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the lingering tension in his limbs, there was something else—something unexpected. A sliver of resolve. Not confidence, not yet, but the sharp-edged certainty that he was still here. Still standing. And as long as he was standing, he had a say in how this played out.

  Dante opened his eyes, rolling his shoulders, forcing breath into his lungs until they stopped feeling so damn tight. The choice had already been made, long before tonight. He just hadn’t accepted it until now. No more running. No more waiting for the next blow to fall. He had stepped onto this path the moment he took the contract, and there was only one direction left to go. Forward.

  Then he stood.

  Time to move forward.