Billy wasn't new to bars, but this one was comfortably run down, the kind of place where the lights flickered, the wood smelled of old whiskey, and nobody asked questions. He sat at the counter, swirling amber liquid in a short glass, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the room around him. The low hum of conversation, the clatter of glasses, even the soft creak of the worn floorboards under tired feet, it was a symphony of mundanity. Perfect cover. Perfect anonymity.
Then the noise came.
A group of five men barged in, loud, brash, and stupidly confident. Their boots thudded against the wooden floor, each step announcing their arrogance. They laughed too hard, shoved each other too much, and swaggered like they owned the oxygen in the room. One slammed a hand against the counter near a bartender's elbow, making a glass rattle dangerously.
Billy couldn't resist. He muttered into his drink,
"God, they even walk stupid."
Unfortunately, stupid has excellent hearing.
One of them turned, eyes narrowing as they landed on Billy.
"You say something', rich boy?"
Billy smirked, lifting his glass lazily.
"Yeah. I said your jacket's louder than your IQ."
A chair leg scraped across the floor. A bottle clinked. Then fists.
The first punch hit Billy square across the jaw, snapping his head violently to the side. The second dug into his stomach, folding him over the counter. The third, he didn't even see coming, sent stars bursting across his vision. He stumbled, gripping the counter, trying to blink the spinning dots away. Desperate, he swung weakly, barely grazing the nearest attacker's shoulder.
"Wow," Billy gasped between breaths, "you hit like you were raised by disappointment."
Another punch landed. He hit the floor. The men laughed, circling him like hyenas. One nudged him with a boot. Another leaned down, sneering, "What's the matter? Gonna cry?"
Billy groaned, trying to push himself upright. Sweat ran down his temples, mixed with the metallic tang of blood from his split lip. Every breath burned. Every sound, the clamor, the laughter, the occasional slam of a fist against wood, felt amplified in his skull.
Then from behind them, a calm, low voice cut through the chaos:
"Well, he's all mouth and no muscle."
The men froze. Even Billy paused, chest heaving.
They turned instinctively. Billy squinted, trying to see. A tall figure stepped forward, steady, relaxed, lethal. He moved like a predator comfortable in its territory, like someone who didn't need to look tough to be dangerous.
The first thug swung.
The stranger caught the wrist effortlessly, twisting until the man dropped to his knees with a yelp. The second lunged with a bottle, only to have it sidestepped. An elbow slammed into the throat, a leg sweep brought the man crashing down. The third thug froze, hands instinctively raised in surrender, realizing he wasn't facing another drunk or brawler. He was facing someone who had mastered every fight instinct.
The remaining two rushed him together. Bad choice. A punch to the liver, a knee to the stomach, a precise strike to the jaw, and both men crumpled. The bar fell silent except for groans and the occasional scraping of debris.
Billy leaned against the counter, bloodied and battered, tasting copper and alcohol.
"…Yo," he croaked, "thanks for helping me out."
The stranger wiped blood from his knuckles.
"Looked like you needed it."
"They weren't exactly polite," Billy replied.
"Neither were you."
Billy snorted through the pain. "Touché. What's your name?"
"James."
"Billy."
They shook hands. No theatrics. Just a mutual acknowledgment of survival in the wreckage of the fight.
Billy limped toward the door, each step a reminder of ribs already bruised, jaw throbbing. James followed, moving with the same quiet confidence that had toppled five grown men without a scratch.
The night air hit him, cool, damp, and sharp with the scent of rain on asphalt. For a brief second, the world held its breath.
Then a gunshot cracked through the quiet night. People screamed. A man fell in the lot, blood blooming across his shirt. Another shot sent the crowd scattering, bodies colliding in panic.
Billy froze.
"…What the hell?"
Shadows moved with unnatural coordination among the fleeing civilians, six, maybe eight figures, all moving like predators. Not aimless. Not random. Calculated. Hunting.
James stepped forward instinctively.
"We have to help him!"
Billy grabbed his arm.
"No. Not like this."
James's jaw tightened. "They're shooting innocent people!"
"If you charge in, you're dead. Both of us."
Another shot shattered a nearby car window. Someone screamed. Someone else fell.
James's fists clenched. "They're here for a reason. And if we don't stop them—"
Billy's eyes locked onto his.
"Running in blind will get you killed. Trust me."
Frustration coiled through James's body. "…So what do we do?"
Billy exhaled, steady, despite the chaos.
"We don't fight them here. We outsmart them."
James frowned. "And we're supposed to fix this how?"
Billy didn't blink.
"We need more people," he said calmly, "the right kinda people for the wrong kinda job."
James stared.
"A job?"
"Yep."
"What kind of job needs people like us?"
Billy pulled a small device from his pocket, blue lights flickering across its surface.
"The kind where good intentions get you killed. And the kind you don't survive on muscle alone."
James raised a brow. "You don't even know me."
Billy shrugged.
"I saw you drop three grown men with surgical precision. I know enough."
"That doesn't mean I'm joining your madness."
"You can walk away," Billy said. "But they already tracked you. They don't like loose ends."
James froze. "If I walk now—"
"They'll still come for you."
Silence hit harder than the gunshots.
James's jaw tightened. "Fine. What exactly are you planning?"
Billy smiled, dangerous, tired, deliberate.
"Something messy. Something they won't expect."
"Messy how?"
Billy stepped deeper into the shadows.
"We don't survive this alone. We find the people who can do what we can't."
"And who are those people?" James asked.
Billy looked at him with certainty.
"You'll see. But once we start, there's no backing out."
A distant scream echoed through the night. Another gunshot.
James inhaled slowly. "…Alright. I'm in."
Billy turned away, limping into the dark.
"Good," he said. "Because if we screw this up, they're not the only ones who'll end up dead."
James followed.
And just like that, the first recruit was made.