"You will regret this, you bastard." Johnathan spat, the words dripping with venomous chill and aimed at the silver-haired man standing before him.
The man radiated with a soothing yet somewhat edgy aura as he stood there looking at Johnathan with a gentle smile like that of a father looking dotingly at a naughty child. The expression was very out of place because Johnathan was obviously twice his age but it was also obvious Johnathan was the weakest. This was Johnathan Roosevelt, the feared and revered Don of the Blood Circle, one of the state's most notorious mafia organizations. A man who held the strings of thousands of lives, who commanded empires of wealth, channels of unassailable power, and a web of influence that choked entire city sectors. The ruthless, the supposedly unbeatable, Johnathan.
Now, he was a pitiful sculpture of ruin. His fine clothes had been reduced to filthy rags, clinging to a body mapped with fresh, ugly bruises, a testament to a long night of torture. His hair had been shaved in violent, uneven patches, leaving an ugly mosaic of scalp. He was unkempt, unrecognizable, a king brought down to a beggar in the span of a single night. All of it, the work of the smiling stranger.
The man was dressed with an unsettling simplicity: a plain grey polo shirt, black joggers, and no shoes. In one hand, he held a kitchen knife, its steel so clean it sparkled under the dim light. In the other, a brown handkerchief with dried blood.
"Hopefully," the man said, his voice a soft contrast to Johnathan's fury. "I have heard that a lot. I have had such high hopes, only to be consistently disappointed. I don't think your case will prove any different."
Johnathan gritted his teeth, the sound audible in the cold air. The frustration was a live wire in his chest. All night, between waves of agony, he had roared to the man, telling him of his might and spelling out the retribution that would rain down from his empire. Yet, the man had listened with that same infuriating, gentle smile and then had continued his work with calm precision. He wasn't threatened. He wasn't even taking Johnathan seriously. Worst of all, Johnathan couldn't tell who he was or relate him to any organization because the man's arms were a canvas of different tattoos and symbols that didn't belong to any organization Johnathan knew of.
"You will die a very painful death, I promise you." Johnathan threatened again; he sensed death in the air, and if he was to die, he would do so with his ego undiminished. "And you will die without ever finding the Purple Pearl."
"Hopefully," the silver-haired man repeated, the gentle smile never wavering. Then with a fluid motion he flicked his wrist, flinging the blade in his hand, and it landed perfectly in Jonathan's chest. A pained, guttural groan escaped the Don's lips, surprise mixed with agony, before he slumped forward, the last of his formidable presence extinguished.
"So disappointing for a supposed Don," the man murmured, his smile finally fading into a look of boredom. He wiped his fingers on the bloody handkerchief, threw it on Jonathan's body, and then turned and walked out, barefoot on the concrete, as casually as a man finishing a chore. Before one could blink, he had melted into the night, disappearing from sight as if he were a trick of the light.
The news erupted like a wildfire the following morning. A silver-haired man had visited a police station the previous night to report "disturbing noises" from an old warehouse on his walk home from work. Police, responding with routine dullness, had stumbled into a scene that froze their blood: the battered, brutalized, and almost unrecognizable corpse of Crime Lord Johnathan Roosevelt.
The impossibility of it sent shockwaves through the city. The most surprising part was the utter lack of evidence. The CCTV cameras around the area showed nothing suspicious at all, no suspicious vehicles, and nobody coming and going. It was as if the killer was never there. This lack of evidence or any trace birthed wild theories from people; they claimed a vengeful spirit had killed the Don because what daring human, they reasoned, would be bold enough not only to kill the Dragon of the Blood Circle but also to bind him, torture him, and reduce him to such a state of profound humiliation?
Within the mafia world, chaos reigned with a silent intensity. One of the foundational chains of the delicate balance of power had been snapped. Rival organizations moved like sharks in dark water, sending discreet feelers, testing perimeters, and desperate to confirm the power vacuum and assess their advantage. Others, more cautious, withdrew into their fortresses, refusing to believe the invincible could truly be dead. A significant faction chose neutrality, observing from the sidelines, knowing the first to move might be the first to draw the attention of whatever or whoever had accomplished this.
The Blood Circle itself was shrouded in a heavy, dreadful silence. No roaring vows of vengeance or chaotic power grabs erupted from their strongholds. The silence was more terrifying than any outburst, a deep, collective shock and a brewing storm of internal dread. The problem of succession hung over them like a blade. Johnathan had no clear heir, no trusted person groomed to step in. His only living relative was a bloodthirsty daughter, currently serving a life sentence in a maximum-security prison for killing a waiter.
So, the underworld held its breath. Organizations watched their every step, wary of overstepping, terrified of triggering a response from an unseen enemy or, worse, from the gaping maw of the destabilized Circle itself. The death of Johnathan Roosevelt birthed a big question mark etched in blood, and in the shadow of that question, every power broker traded carefully and watchfully.