The rain in New York never seemed to wash clean the moldy alleys of Harlem.
Reed Walker tightened his suit jacket, which reeked of cheap laundry detergent, and trudged through the puddles, his steps uneven. This was the abandoned realm of the enlightened, where the streetlights had been extinguished decades ago in riots, and only the distant glow of skyscrapers cast an uneasy crimson hue on the clouds.
Danger arrived without warning.
A sharp gust of wind tore through the rain curtain. Reed's pupils contracted abruptly, his instinct reacting faster than his consciousness. He dodged sideways, and a fierce side kick grazed his nose, smashing into the mottled brick wall with a dull thud.
The attacker was a woman. She was wrapped from head to toe in a dark tactical coat, and moved as fast as a black flash of lightning.
Reed didn't retaliate, he simply blocked and disengaged. The woman's moves were ruthless and efficient, each punch aimed straight for the vital points - a typical military combat technique, even more advanced secret tactics than his own special operations team used.
"Who are you?" Reed demanded in a deep voice, blocking an elbow strike from the opponent.
The two people's bodies collided violently in the narrow space, and the sound of bones clashing was particularly harsh in the silent alley. Reed felt that the other party's strength was far beyond that of ordinary people, and the familiar aura of slaughter made him lose his mind for a moment. This trace of distraction was fatal. The woman keenly caught the flaw, and with a beautiful shoulder throw, slammed Reed heavily into the mud, and then the cold sole of her boot pressed hard against his throat.
The woman looked down at him proudly, raindrops dripping down her delicate yet cold contours.
"Reed Walker. Three Purple Heart medals, two collective first-class merit awards. The only survivor of the Seine Valley infiltration operation." Her voice was like a sheathed ice blade, clearly enumerating his past, "Reason for retirement: unqualified psychological evaluation, post-traumatic stress disorder, suspected mental breakdown due to accidental killing of civilians during the mission. Current occupation... a bouncer in a speakeasy."
Reed looked at her in shock, the eyes hidden behind the rain and fog seemed to be able to see through all his disguises. "Who the hell are you?"
The woman didn't answer, she just coldly retracted her foot, stretched out a hand from a high position, with a kind of looming sense of oppression wrapped around her fingertips: "We need you, Corporal."
"Go where? Do what?" Reed wiped the mud off his face, struggled to stand up, anger churning in his chest.
The woman looked up at the distant Manhattan skyline, her eyes as deep as black holes that swallowed light. She didn't answer directly, her voice echoing in the empty alley: "Before you agree to join, you're not qualified to know. Or... do you really want to stay in this stinking swamp for the rest of your life? Rot away guarding those empty wine bottles?"
"Get away!" Reed roared.
In that instant, a soft figure emerged in his mind - it was the girl he loved deeply, the only anchor in his hellish life. He had held her hand and promised in the afterglow of the setting sun: "When all this is over, we'll go to a peaceful place. No war, no smoke, only the sound of the wind blowing through the wheat fields."
That was his only redemption, the only reason he desperately suppressed the monster within.
"I'm not going! I've already lost enough!" Reed's voice had a hint of almost pleading hoarseness, his eyes red, "I can't even sleep peacefully! I just want to be a dead man, understand?"
The woman slowly squatted down and let out a chuckle with a magnetic quality. The laughter was both seductive and carried a kind of ruthless insight into everything.
"You'll agree, Reed. Because that nightmare won't let you go."
She flicked out a pure black business card from between her fingers. There were no words on it, only a string of dark gold numbers shimmering slightly in the darkness. She flicked the card gently, and it stuck precisely into Reed's soaked collar.
"When you've thought it over, call this number at any time. We have the ability to solve all problems, including those... bloody dreams of yours."
As the last syllable fell, the woman's figure seemed to melt into the rain, slowly disappearing into the end of the alley, leaving only Reed standing in the shadows gasping for breath.
He looked down at the black business card. The gold numbers were like a pair of mocking eyes, laughing at his weakness.
He gritted his teeth and raised his hand, wanting to throw this evil connection into the gutter completely. But just as he was about to let go, his fingertips trembled inexplicably.
In the end, he silently stuffed the fragrant business card into the innermost pocket of his suit jacket, closest to his heart.