Night did not come gently.
It pulled him under.
Not sleep. Memory.
Concrete pressed against his back. Smoke burned his lungs. Blood coated the floor so thick it turned each step into a deliberate choice. The air tasted like iron and burned powder. His pistol was hot in his hand, slide biting into his palm, recoil rattling his bones. Bodies littered the stairwell behind him, folded wrong, leaking out across walls and railings.
Yakuza.
Too many to count.
He moved anyway.
Room by room. Floor by floor.
Doors exploded inward. Shots cracked and echoed until the building itself seemed to scream. He fired until magazines ran dry, discarded them without looking, hands already moving for the next. Men rushed him with knives, with guns, with courage they could not afford. They fell all the same.
Then the noise stopped.
Not silence. Anticipation.
The room ahead was wide. Open. Clean.
And in the center stood a man who did not belong to the dead.
Black suit. Tailored. Untouched. No blood on him. No sweat. His posture relaxed, like he had been waiting patiently for Nine to arrive.
In his hands was a sword.
Not ceremonial. Not decorative. Real steel. Bare. Catching the flicker of broken lights as if it were alive.
Around them the floor was littered with weapons. Pistols. Rifles. Shotguns. Enough firepower to arm a platoon. Fallen men had dropped them everywhere.
The man did not even glance at them.
That was when Nine smiled.
They moved at the same time.
The distance between them vanished in an instant. Nine raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
Steel flashed where the bullet should have gone.
Again. Again.
Each time Nine tried to fire the blade was already there. Not deflecting shots. Preventing them. Closing space before intent became action. The man slipped inside the arc of the gun like physics was a suggestion.
Impossible.
Nine fired anyway.
The sword sang.
Metal kissed metal. Sparks burst between them. The man stepped in close enough that Nine could smell his cologne. A shoulder slammed into Nine's chest, driving him into the wall. The blade whispered past his ribs, heat blooming into pain.
Real pain.
Nine laughed.
He switched hands. Threw the pistol. Drew another. Lost it. Drew again. The room became motion and breath and timing. Footwork perfect. Distance erased. Every counter precise. Every opening closed before it existed.
For the first time in a very long time Nine struggled.
Not fear.
Euphoria.
This man was fast. Faster than sense. He closed distance so violently Nine barely understood how he was still standing. The blade kissed his arm, his shoulder, his side. Not killing. Testing. Measuring.
Nine adapted.
He always did.
The fight ended the way all fights did. Blood. Silence. A body collapsing to the floor.
The sword clattered once and went still.
Nine stood over him, chest heaving, hands trembling. Not from exhaustion. From hunger.
For a long moment he just stared at the man's face. Calm even in death. Focused. Unbroken.
And the thought crept in quiet and dangerous.
Maybe I should have let him live.
Just so I could fight him again.
The world shifted.
Warm light replaced the cold.
Molly sat across from him, needle in hand, her fingers steady as she stitched his skin closed. She worked with the familiarity of someone who had done this too many times to count. Blood stained her sleeves but her hands never shook.
"You're smiling," she said.
Nine leaned back, eyes half closed, savoring the ache in his body. "I met someone tonight."
She did not look up. "You always do."
"No," he said softly. "This one was different."
She finished the stitch, tied it clean, and finally met his eyes.
She saw it immediately. The look she hated. The one that meant he was already gone somewhere she could not reach.
"I was alive," Nine said. His voice was almost reverent. "For a second I thought he might kill me."
Molly swallowed. "You hate that."
Nine shook his head. "I love it."
The words hung between them heavy and honest.
He leaned forward, close enough that she could feel his breath, eyes burning with something reckless and endless.
"I'm bored, Molly."
Her heart sank. She knew that tone. Knew what came next.
He smiled.
"What's next?"
The room dissolved.
Darkness folded inward.
And from somewhere very close a voice cut through the quiet.
"Damn Mr. Nine," Anthony murmured, his face inches from Nine's. "You look so peaceful when you sleep."