The scent of coffee curled through the room like a memory.
Ragnar stood before the mirror, fixing his tie.
Black shirt. Black trousers. Black tie.
All bought by his mother.
He opened a drawer. Rows of wristwatches, pocket watches, pendants, lockets, and rings lay in perfect order, each sealed in its own glass cubicle.
KNOCK.
A sharp knock split the air.
"The door's unlocked," Ragnar called, his voice steady.
The knob turned with a metallic clink.
The door creaked open. No one stepped in.
Ragnar opened another drawer to the left.
A black onyx box glinted beneath a beam of morning sun.
"Enter," he said again, breath slow.
BANG!
A gunshot exploded through the room.
The vase beside him shattered into a hundred shards.
Ragnar rolled behind the sofa, heart hammering.
Shit. Did my family already send assassins?
Two figures burst in, both masked.
'Where's my revolver?'
His eyes scanned the room.
Then it hit him.
'Old man Jack. I gave it to him yesterday. Damn! What a crappy day.'
He raised his voice, half-serious, half-despairing.
"Can we talk? I'll pay double whatever you're getting."
The one in the brown mask tilted his head.
"You got a hundred thousand silver?"
Ragnar sighed. "If you give me a few days… I can take a loan?"
BANG!
A bullet ripped through the sofa, brushing past his ribs.
"Okay, okay! I'll give you… my blessings?"
BANG!
Another shot grazed his shoulder. A warm line of blood trickled down his arm.
His eyes flicked to the hallway.
'The bathroom. My duelling pistol's there.'
He grabbed a stool by the leg.
FWOOSH—CRASH!
He hurled it with all his strength.
"That son of a bitch!" the one in the black mask shrieked.
BANG! BANG!
Gunshots chased him as he bolted into the bedroom.
CLICK!
He slammed the door shut, locking it with a shaky hand.
BANG! BANG!
Bullets punched through the door like angry fingers.
He raced to the bathroom—there it was.
His Denix Italian Percussion Pistol, resting on the sink beside a razor, still streaked with his morning stubble.
He snatched the pistol.
'Thirty seconds before they break through.'
The kicks began pounding the door.
He flung open the bedside drawer—one paper cartridge, labeled 20 grains.
He bit it open, poured the powder down the muzzle.
A lead ball rolled out from under the pillow—
'Thank you, insomnia.'
He rammed it down with the rod, packing it tight.
Five seconds.
He grabbed his alarm clock and hurled it through the window—
CRASH!
Glass shattered. The clock plummeted.
WHAM!
The bedroom door caved.
"He's gone! Jumped!"
"Shit—I'm going down!"
The brown mask turned to flee.
WHAM! BANG!
The almirah door slammed open—Ragnar stepped out, levelling the pistol.
The shot cracked through the room.
The lead bullet blew through the brown mask's skull.
"You bitch!"
The black mask turned—too slow.
Ragnar threw the pistol towards his wrist. The man's revolver dropped with a heavy clatter.
"Hi," Ragnar muttered.
He drove his boot into the man's face.
His skull smashed against the window frame. Blood smacked the sill.
TEAR. SPLURT.
Ragnar swung the razor—flesh tore from the man's wrist.
"AAAAAH!"
The scream echoed down his spine.
But it wasn't over.
Not nearly.
Ragnar grabbed the mask, yanked him forward—
CRACK!
He slammed his head into the wall.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
His breath shook, his grip slick with blood.
"Haa…"
The man staggered, barely standing.
"Ywo…"
The mask tried to speak.
CRASH!
Ragnar rammed his skull into the mirror.
Shards exploded.
The man collapsed, twitching as blood dripped from his broken head.
Ragnar panted.
His hands were red.
His vision blurred.
The adrenaline faded, and the silence returned.
Only the scent of coffee remained.
"Ahh, fuck!"
Ragnar staggered to the kitchen, gritting his teeth.
From the top shelf, he grabbed a small box, pulled it open with one hand, and began bandaging his shoulder, blood soaking through the gauze as he worked fast and rough.
He returned to the wrecked room.
"ATranter Revolver,"
His eyes landed on the discarded weapon.
"Not bad, Maximillian. Five-shot, .36 caliber. No way some street rats got their hands on this unless someone with deep pockets wanted me gone."
The corners of his mouth lifted. A bitter, dark smile.
He pulled out a small leather bag, unzipped it.
Inside, he packed:
Six paper cartridges of black powder. Twenty-four lead balls. A loading lever. And finally, the watches, pendants, and heirlooms from the glass drawer—his mother's last possessions.
CREAK.
The front door's hinges groaned again.
Ragnar froze.
He snatched a kitchen knife and dove behind the sofa—just like before.
Peering through the bullet holes, his eyes narrowed.
The Beaumont family's gardener stepped in. Slim, wiry, with a permanent stink of sweat and filth.
Greed gleamed in his eyes. Lust too—the same eyes that had undressed Ragnar's mother and sister for years.
Eyes Ragnar had longed to carve out.
"They said the young master should be dead by now…"
The man tiptoed toward the bedroom.
"Let me just get a few valuables before the others arrive."
He crept in cautiously—
—and froze.
His face twisted in horror at the blood-stained corpses.
He spun around—
WHAM!
And slammed into Ragnar, who now stood tall, silent as a ghost.
"A-Ah, Young Master Allen!" the gardener stammered.
"I—I only came because I was concerned for you!"
Ragnar said nothing. His stare alone stripped the man bare.
Beads of sweat rolled down the man's cheeks.
"I've been with your family for years! Since you were a child! I swear—I won't tell a soul!"
Ragnar stepped closer, cornering him.
Pressed him against the wall.
"Oh, yes," he said quietly,
"of course you won't."
"I swear I won't—AAAAAARGH!"
SHUNK.
The knife pierced his cheek, steel pushing through flesh and poking out the other side.
The man screamed, blood dribbling from his torn mouth.
He shoved Ragnar back and bolted toward the door, the knife still jammed through his face.
WHAM!
A goblet flew across the room and crashed into his skull.
He hit the floor, convulsing in pain.
Ragnar walked toward him. Calm. Inevitable.
SHLUCK.
He pulled the knife free in one slow, wet drag.
"AAAAARGH!... AAHHHH!"
The man writhed, clutching his ruined face.
"You know something, Drake?" Ragnar said, crouching over him.
"I've always wanted to gouge your eyes out."
He smiled.
A warm, intimate smile.
"Thank you for coming."
PIERCE. SHULK.
The blade drove into the man's socket. Blood erupted.
"AAAAAAAH!"
SHULK.
The second eye popped loose and rolled onto the floor.
The man's screams turned animal.
"Now, now…"
Ragnar stood. His voice was distant, almost bored.
"Don't leave for hell just yet."
He stepped back into the room, leaving behind the howling, half-blind wretch.
His eyes drifted toward the brown-masked corpse.
'Similar build to mine…'
Ragnar appeared out of the room, now dressed in the brown masked man's clothes.
'Okay, I have dolled up the guy to be me.'
Ragnar slung the bag on his shoulder.
Then dipped his thumb into the man's blood and wrote 'Mother' on the carpet.
'Will make them think it's me.'
Ragnar stepped into the kitchen.
Without hesitation, he stabbed the pipe that carried coal gas.
HISSSSSSSS.
The gas spilled out with a venomous hiss.
He twisted the valve open. Then grabbed a tin can of vegetable oil, a few extra knives, and turned back.
Drake still writhed on the floor, blood and tears painting his face.
SHLK!
One knife sank through his shoulder.
SHLK!
Another pinned his wrist.
Then his ankles. Then his thighs.
Pinned like a grotesque insect under glass.
"How does it feel to be naked, Drake?" Ragnar said, crouching beside him.
He poured the oil.
It cascaded over the man's bruised, quivering flesh—coating his chest, his limbs, pooling in the spaces between.
"The perfect punishment," Ragnar whispered, "for a lustful demon like you."
The silver lighter clicked in his hand.
FLICK!
A lazy flame danced to life.
He stared into it—silent.
"This…" Ragnar began, voice hoarse, "was the first and last thing I ever stole from my father."
His throat tightened.
"I thought… he'd be proud if I gave it back. But instead—he touched my mother."
His hand trembled. His eyes, glassy with tears that reflected the flame.
"The five-year-old me was a coward. I watched, hidden in the wardrobe, trembling… doing nothing."
CLINK.
He closed the lid.
FLICK.
Opened it again. The fire flared back into existence.
"But now…"
He said, his voice like steel dragged across stone, "now I want to return it."
He stood.
Then, slowly, deliberately—he placed the lighter between Drake's trembling thighs.
He didn't look back as he shut the door.
Ragnar descended the stairs.
Smoke followed.
He exited through the rear alley just as grey-coated officers rushed to the front entrance. Their heads snapped upward at the shattered window, the rising smoke, the flickering orange glow from within.
Then—
BOOM!
A thunderous roar tore through the smoke.
Glass and fire erupted. The building seemed to inhale—and then collapse inward, belching flames.
Ragnar didn't flinch.
He watched.
'It's sad to see my building crumble like this.'
'Sorry, tenants… but I couldn't let that past live any longer.'
His eyes reflected the fire.
And then, without a word, he vanished into the crowd.
Just another shadow walking into a city that had already forgotten his name.