The sound of gunfire echoed through the narrow alleyways, distant now, but still close enough to send a pulse of pain radiating from Ghost’s side. He gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on the blood-soaked rag pressed against the wound. The ambush had come fast—too fast for him to react like he usually would. Normally, he’d be the one controlling the chaos, not running from it.

He stumbled down a forgotten side street, his vision dimming around the edges. The deal was supposed to be clean. Meet the buyer, exchange goods, walk away with enough to keep the gang ahead of the competition for months. But someone had tipped them off. Whoever it was had wanted him dead tonight.

Ghost hadn’t thought much of his gang affiliations at first. A job was a job—money and protection were easier to come by when you ran with a crew, even if you had to get your hands dirty. But lately, the violence had been escalating, and tonight, it had almost gotten him killed.

His head swam as he forced himself to keep moving. He had to get to the underground clinic—a place only a few knew about, where questions weren’t asked and debts could be paid in more than just cash. They’d stitch him up. They always did.

Once inside, the hallways were dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and blood. The place was run-down, rough around the edges, but it was a safe haven for those like him—people who operated on the fringes of society. They didn’t care if you were a gang member or a mercenary. As long as you had the cash or favors to trade, they'd fix you up.

His instincts led him to a small room where a single figure waited, their back turned, preparing supplies.

Ghost didn’t bother with pleasantries. He’d never needed them.

“Get on with it.”