Kill Order

Part 1, Chapter 1: The Ghost

Tristan Reeves moved through the morning crowd with a coffee in his left hand, head down, shoulders relaxed, blending in. The street was alive in that London kind of way; people talking too loud into their phones, pigeons fighting over scraps, someone arguing about parking. It was all noise, all familiar.

He weaved through it without thinking, his body adjusting in small movements to avoid bumping into anyone. That muscle memory had been drilled into him long ago. Never touch. Never get touched. Keep moving.

As he turned onto a quieter street, he slowed. A ginger cat was perched on a low brick wall, its green eyes following the world like it had secrets. He ignored it, continuing on his path.

He took a sip of his coffee and kept walking, heading toward the gym a few streets away. But as he reached the edge of the main road, he spotted a long line of people snaking out from some pop-up event. The crowd was too thick to cut through. Not worth the trouble.

He glanced across the street. There was an alleyway; tight, grimy, and mostly ignored. He'd used it before. It shaved a solid five minutes off the walk. Easy decision.

The alley was quiet at first. Just the hum of the city muffled behind brick walls and the echo of his footsteps on damp pavement. He was halfway through when he stopped.

Five men stepped into view ahead of him. Dark clothes, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched like they were trying to look casual but not trying too hard. One of them stepped up and smacked the coffee right out of Tristan's hand. The cup hit the ground, exploded in a splash of brown, and rolled to the side.

"What the fuck you doing, bruv?" the guy barked, stepping into his space.

Tristan didn't respond. He looked him over, mid-twenties, loud, high-strung. Probably hadn't fought anyone who hit back. He stepped past him without a word.

Another one blocked his path almost immediately.

"I don't think so, bro," the second said, leaning in too close. "That's a nice watch. Mind giving it?"

Tristan didn't even glance at his wrist. He shoved the guy hard in the chest. The man staggered back and fell flat on the ground, wind knocked out of him.

The others paused, surprised by how fast it happened.

"You fucking mad, bro?" the guy on the ground wheezed, scrambling to his feet. He pulled a knife, thin and shiny, like he thought it made him scary.

He lunged. Tristan moved fast. One sharp slap to the wrist sent the blade clattering to the pavement. The follow-up punch landed clean across the guy's jaw. He dropped instantly, out cold before he hit the ground.

Silence.

Tristan straightened and looked at the others. His face unreadable, calm, but his stance had shifted. Weight balanced. Hands loose and ready.

"You want some too?" he said, voice low and flat. "Come on."

The guy closest to him raised his hands and backed away.

"Nah, nah. You're good, bro. Chill."

The others followed his lead, stepping back quick, dragging their unconscious friend with them. None of them wanted a second round.

Tristan shook his head, more tired than angry.

"Pathetic," he muttered.

He turned and kept walking, back into the quiet end of the alley. Behind him, the sounds of the group arguing and trying to wake their friend faded into the background.

The alley let out into a backstreet lined with shops and apartment balconies draped with clothing. Tristan stepped out into the open again, adjusting the strap of his gym bag across his shoulder. His pace never changed. No one spared him a second glance.