Harsh light illuminated Ganjo’s office, appearing lonesome among the darkness of the fitness center. Outside, the muted roar of the city barely penetrated the thick concrete walls. Inside, only the rhythmic whirr of the rusty air conditioner and the occasional creak of Ganjo's leather chair signaled life. He sat hunched over his desk, a half-empty bottle of beer sweating in his hand. The amber liquid reflected the desk lamp's glare. The stacks of cash, usually a comforting sight, seemed to mock him tonight.

  A distant siren wailed, its mournful cry slicing through the quiet. The sound twisted, morphing in Ganjo's memory.

  Whore! You think you can shame me like this? In my own house?!

  Words, thick with drunken rage and self-pity, stabbed his mind. His father's voice.

  The clean, lustrous scent of the office was momentarily overwhelmed by a phantom stench – cheap rotgut and unwashed bodies. Ganjo wrinkled his nose, though the air was cool and stale.

  That shack always smelled like failure.

  A shimmer behind his eyelids. Not a clear image, but fragments. A worn floral dress, faded and thin, crumpled on a dirt floor. A rough, calloused hand, shaking, slamming a fist on a rickety table. His mother's dress, the only one that wasn't patched. Illuminated by the blinking light of a single candle, he saw it for a split second.

  Ganjo’s gut clenched. It was a phantom hunger that had nothing to do with the beer.

  Always hungry. Not just for food. For… something else. Respect? Escape?

  He touched the stacks of cash, a cold, insufficient comfort.

  Never again. Never hungry again.

  He scoffed, a humorless sound.

  Father.

  The word was a curse.

  Bloated face, red eyes, glazed with liquor, slumped in a chair. Useless piece of shit.

  His father was always promising, always failing. The endless promises of a better life were always drowned in another bottle. His father never provided, never protected.

  Ganjo spat on the polished concrete floor, gesturing contempt for a ghost. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds of his mother's strangled cry; a choked, wet sound. It was futile. Instead, it intensified. The sound of his father's violent roar of drunken rage; then, the silence. The blade, his father's hunting knife, the same one he swore he'd use to provide, changed Ganjo’s life.

  Opening his eyes, Ganjo focused on the controlled order of his office. The muted hum of the ventilation, the polished steel of the machete hidden in the desk drawer. Control and order, that's what he needed. It was what he worked to build.

  Ganjo remembered arriving in South Bonao, a terrified country boy swallowed by the ghetto’s urban sprawl. The noise, the crowds, and the smells were overwhelming. His aunt's face, weary, mirrored his mother's. But she wasn’t his mother. She was hardened by the city. Trust no one, take what you can get, and never be weak was what she taught him.

  Ganjo’s vision swept over the office, the gym beyond the darkened window.

  This… this is mine. I built this. No one gave it to him.

  He took it. Proof he was not his father. He was strong. He was in control.

  Ganjo heard a subtle creak from the hallway outside. It was faint, but enough to interrupt Ganjo’s thoughts. It was not the usual settling of the old building, but something different.

  Ganjo's senses sharpened, pulling him instantly from the mire of his past. He set the beer bottle down. His hand moved casually, almost lazily, towards the desk drawer. His fingers brushed the cool steel of the machete's hilt. He would wait to draw it.

  Then, a faint shink – metal on metal. Almost imperceptible. He remained seated, outwardly calm. His eyes were fixed on the doorway, waiting.

  The figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the faint light spilling from the hallway. Not a brute-force entry, no crashing or shouting, just a presence. It was a woman. She was average height, athletic build, with dark hair pulled back tight. Her features were indistinct in the gloom, but he could see her eyes. They were intense, focused, and cold.

  She didn't speak. Her tailored maroon coat hung open, revealing the black lacquered scabbard of a katana strapped diagonally across her back. Her right hand rested lightly on the katana's hilt. Her fingers traced the wrapped grip with a slow, deliberate motion.

  Ganjo felt a prickle of unease. It wasn’t fear, not yet, but a heightened awareness. He knew this type. The silent but deadly type.

  She moved, slow, deliberate steps into the office, her eyes never leaving his. Each footfall was silent on the concrete floor. She stopped a few feet from the desk. It was the only barrier between them.

  Still, she didn't speak.

  Finally, he heard her voice. It was calm, controlled, and with a faint, unplaceable accent.

  "Mr. Joseph. I believe you've been expecting me."

  Ganjo's voice was even, betraying nothing.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  He kept his hand near the drawer, his fingers curled around the machete's grip.

  She tilted her head slightly, a subtle, almost mocking gesture.

  "Mr. Frederick Barnes, or as many know him - Freddy- sends his regards. He's… concerned. About your recent confrontation. He believes you may have forgotten your priorities."

  Ganjo's jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek.

  "Freddy’s a small-time crook. I don't take orders from him."

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  "Freddy has powerful friends," she replied, her voice still calm, but with a hint of agressionl beneath the surface. "Friends who value loyalty."

  Ganjo rose slowly from his chair, a deliberate movement, trying to assert some dominance. The hired gun reacted instantly, her katana whispering from its scabbard. The polished steel gleamed in the lamplight. It was a fluid, almost dance-like motion.

  The fight was on.

  Ganjo yanked the machete from the drawer, swinging it in a wide arc. The woman sidestepped, the blow missing her by inches. The air whooshed past her. She lunged, her katana a blur of silver. Ganjo barely managed to parry, the machete deflecting the blow with a jarring clang.

  The office erupted into violence. Ganjo overturned his desk with a roar, sending papers and cash flying. He used the overturned desk as a shield, deflecting another flurry of attacks. The woman moved like a wraith. Her katana was a deadly extension of her will.

  Ganjo ducked under a wild slash. He felt the blade slicing through the air where his head had been moments before. He kicked out, his heavy boot connecting with a stack of chairs, sending them tumbling towards her. She danced through the falling chairs, her movements graceful and precise, never losing her balance.

  Ganjo felt a searing pain in his left forearm. It was a clean, precise cut, but not deep. It was, however, enough to draw blood. He grunted, clutching his arm. His eyes narrowed in anger and… a grudging respect. She was good. Too good.

  For a brief moment, Ganjo contemplated summoning the aether, but his experience told him this woman was most likely a hunter. Besides being mercenaries, hunters took pride in being powerless assassins of the “awakened”. If his instinct was right, that katana would not be made of regular steel.

  The woman pressed her attack. Her katana was like a steel hurricane. Ganjo, his strength fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to survive, fought back with raw ferocity. He was strong, powerful, but she was faster, more skilled.

  He almost landed a blow, the machete missing her shoulder by a hair. She countered with a swift, almost imperceptible movement, her katana flashing out.

  Ganjo stumbled back. Another cut, this one on his thigh. He felt the warm, sticky flow of blood soaking his jeans. He was losing.

  The woman stopped, her chest heaving slightly, but her eyes still cold. She held her katana steady.

  "This a reminder," she said, her voice still calm, still controlled, "of the price of disrespect."

  She sheathed her katana with a smooth, practiced motion, then vanished as quickly as she appeared.

  Ganjo stood alone in his wrecked office, clutching his bleeding arm, his chest heaving. He stared at the doorway, his mind racing.

  Freddy… Lupito… Veronica…

  He was trapped.

  He looked down at his bloodied hands, a reminder of his vulnerability, of his past, of the choices he'd made. Staggering back, he clutched his bleeding arm. The katana's edge had bitten deep with a clean, precise wound that pulsed with a fiery ache. He stared at the doorway where the woman had vanished, his chest heaving, his mind in disbelief.

  Freddy. That pathetic, liquor-soaked excuse for a man dared to send an assassin after me, in my own damn home.

  The audacity of it ignited a rage so intense it threatened to consume him. He had underestimated how soon Freddy would retaliate. He dismissed him as a minor irritant. That was a mistake. A potentially fatal mistake.

  This wasn't just an attack; it was a violation. A desecration of the sanctuary he'd built, the empire he'd carved out of the gutter. Each splinter of wood, each scattered bill, each drop of his own blood, fueled the inferno within him.

  That fat punk thinks he can intimidate me? Control me?

  Years of clawing his way up, of making deals with devils, of burying his conscience beneath layers of pragmatism was disrespected. All of it was now threatened, again. Ganjo was becoming tired of this. He needed to lash out, to unleash the fury boiling inside him. He needed to break something, or someone. The image of Freddy's smug face, his condescending tone, flashed in his mind.

  Ganjo snatched the machete from where it had fallen. He stalked out of the office, the blade gleaming dully in the faint light filtering from the hallway.

  Reaching the elevator, the metal doors scarred and dented, Ganjo jabbed the button for the first floor. His finger left a bloody smear on the worn metal. The wait, though only seconds, felt like an eternity. His rage was a living thing, clawing at his insides, demanding release.

  The doors groaned open, revealing the brightly lit expanse of the main gym floor. He stepped out, his eyes scanning the scene.

  Ayuda.

  The sight of his driver, calmly reading a book behind the front desk, ignited a fresh surge of fury. Ayuda, oblivious, looked up, a polite smile on his face.

  "Ganjo, sir? Is everything alr—"

  "Where the fuck were you?!" Ganjo roared, the sound echoing through the mostly empty gym. The few late-night stragglers still working out froze, their eyes wide with alarm.

  Ayuda blinked, startled by the outburst. He lowered the book. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of confusion.

  "Sir? I… I don't understand."

  "Don't understand?!" Ganjo advanced on the desk, the machete held low at his side, its blade glinting menacingly. "I was just attacked! In my own damn office! Someone got past security, past you! And you're sitting here reading a fucking book?!"

  Ayuda's eyes widened, finally noticing the blood staining Ganjo's shirt and the weapon in his hand. He stammered, his voice rising with concern.

  "Attacked? By who? I… I didn't see anyone. I was here the whole time.”

  "Freddy," Ganjo spat. "He sent a hunter. A goddamn assassin. Right into my office!"

  Ayuda's face paled.

  "Freddy? But… how…?"

  Ganjo slammed his fist on the counter, the sound making Ayuda jump.

  "How the fuck should I know?! That's your job! To keep this place secure!"

  Ayuda, visibly shaken, began to apologize, his words tumbling over each other in a rush of confusion.

  "Ganjo, I'm so sorry… I… I don't know how this happened… I…"

  Ganjo stared at him, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing. He wanted to break something. He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to make Ayuda pay for this, this failure. But, a hint of reason, a sliver of sanity, pierced the red haze of his anger. Ayuda was loyal. He was good, competent and dangerous when Ganjo needed him to be. Ayuda hadn’t failed; he’d been outmaneuvered. This wasn’t about incompetence; it was about something far more insidious, something planned.

  The hired gun… she knew. She knew the layout, the security… She knew how to get past it all.

  The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. For all he knew she could have been a customer, pretending to use the facilities. Who knows how long this had been planned. This was a setup.

  Ganjo took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. The rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but he pushed it down, and channeled it. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now. He lowered the machete, letting it hang limply at his side. He looked at Ayuda, his voice still harsh, but with a sign of resignation.

  "I’m…sorry. I need you to scan the building well for any tampered places. See if one of the bus boys from the arena can help you. Or better yet, make them help you.”

  Ayuda hesitated, then nodded slowly, grabbed his book, and marched on.

  Ganjo stood alone in the brightly lit gym. He looked down at his bleeding arm, then at the machete in his hand. He caught one of the guests staring at him.

  “What, you’ve never seen blood before?!”

  Within seconds, the guest jolted, awkwardly returning to his workout.

  The rage was still there, a burning ember, but it was no longer directed at Ayuda, or even at Freddy. It was focused, honed, directed at the unseen forces manipulating him, pushing him, threatening everything he'd built.

  Veronica Guzman.

  He needed to make his meeting with her count. What she offered was now a tempting promise. A promise of power and revenge.

  A slow smile spread across his lips.

  Resources… she promised resources. And I… I'm going to use them. I'm going to tear Freddy apart, piece by bloody piece.

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