As the red-haired girl disappeared into the night, the low growl of engines filled the empty dock.
The warehouse smelled of rust and rain-soaked concrete.
Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily from a broken pipe.
The youngest man who had stood beside King earlier shifted weakly, a pained sound escaping his lips.
A low groan escaped him as consciousness dragged him back to reality. His vision blurred, then focused — boots in front of him. Black. Polished. Still.
"You're awake," Falcon said calmly.
Not loud. Not threatening.
Just certain.
The boy lifted his head slowly. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth. His wrists were untied now — not out of mercy, but because he clearly wasn't going anywhere.
His eyes met Falcon's.
"Why spare me?" he asked hoarsely.
Falcon didn't answer immediately. He stood near a steel table, removing his gloves with precise movements.
Finally, he looked at him.
"Trust me," Falcon said evenly, his voice stripped of emotion. "I didn't."
The boy frowned weakly.
"I needed answers," Falcon continued. "King wasn't capable of orchestrating that theft. He lacked the patience. The intelligence."
A pause.
"He was a mouthpiece. Not a mind."
Falcon stepped closer, boots echoing against concrete. "I need a name."
The boy swallowed.
"I—I don't know," he stammered. Fear crept into his voice despite his effort to steady it. "King was always the boss and—"
Falcon's gaze sharpened.
"Choose your next words carefully."
Silence flooded the warehouse.
"They could be your last," he finished quietly.
There was no shouting.
That made it worse.
The boy's breathing quickened. "I'm telling the truth. King ran everything. I never saw anyone else. I don't know if there was someone behind him."
Falcon studied him.
Not his words — his pulse. His eyes. The tremor in his jaw.
Truth had a smell.
And this one didn't reek of lies.
Still, Falcon moved suddenly — gripping the front of his shirt and lifting him just enough so their faces were inches apart.
"Understand something," Falcon said, voice low and controlled. "If you're lying, I won't need a second conversation."
The boy gripped Falcon's wrist instinctively, not fighting — just holding on.
"I'm not lying," he whispered.
A long second passed.
Then Falcon released him.
The boy hit the floor hard, coughing, dragging air back into his lungs.
Falcon rolled his neck once, slow, composed.
"Waste of time," he muttered. "Should've questioned someone older."
He turned away, then paused. "What's your name?"
The boy looked up, confused by the sudden shift.
"…What?"
Falcon didn't look at him this time.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"…Logan," he answered quickly.
Falcon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek black phone. He tossed it casually.
Logan barely caught it.
"That device has one contact," Falcon said. "Mine."
Logan stared at the phone like it might explode.
"When it rings," Falcon continued, "you answer."
"And from now on, you'll do exactly what I tell you."
Logan hesitated.
"And if I don't?"
That was bold.
Falcon finally looked at him again.
A faint smirk touched his lips — but there was no warmth in it. "If you don't," Falcon said quietly, "everyone who associates with the name Logan will disappear from your world."
He let that settle.
"Family. Friends. Anyone who thinks you matter."
The warehouse felt colder.
Logan's fingers tightened around the phone.
He understood.
Not because Falcon shouted.
But because he didn't.
Outside, tires screeched against gravel.Cars pulling up.
"You're useful to me now," he said without looking back. "Don't confuse that with safety."
Logan slowly got to his feet.
"Leave."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Logan hurried toward the warehouse exit, the heavy metal door groaning open before slamming shut behind him.
Silence returned.
Falcon stood alone in the dim light, staring at the space Logan had occupied.
If there was someone above King…
He would find him.
And this time—
He wouldn't be asking for a name.
Doors opened in perfect sync. Armed men stepped out — disciplined, silent, efficient.
Montgomery soldiers.
Falcon didn't turn immediately.
"You're early," he said calmly.
The men approached, then slowed.
Their eyes dropped briefly to his bare chest — to the silver cross resting against skin still warm from violence.
Falcon noticed.
He walked past them without breaking stride. "What?" he muttered dryly. "You've never seen a man without a shirt before?"
None of them answered.
As he reached one of the guards, Falcon paused.
His gaze lingered on the man's tailored black shirt. "I like this one," Falcon said casually. "Take it off."
The guard didn't hesitate. He removed it immediately and handed it over.
Falcon slipped it on without ceremony.
Perfect fit.
He walked toward the waiting car.
Inside, the driver adjusted the rearview mirror slightly.
"Where to, sir?"
Falcon leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
"Home."
The car pulled away smoothly, leaving behind bodies, crates, and silence.
His apartment towered over the city — glass and steel, cold and immaculate.
When the elevator doors opened, the hallway lights were dim.
Falcon approached his door, ready to enter his code.
He stopped.
The door was already slightly open.
His expression didn't change.
His hand slid behind his back, fingers wrapping around the grip of his gun.
He pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him.
The lights were off.
Only the glow of the television illuminated the room.
Three figures sat on his couch.
Falcon exhaled softly.
He set his gun down on the table, but kept it within reach.
"Now, now," a familiar voice echoed lazily from the couch. "I told you girls — the devil would be home soon."
Two half-dressed women clung to the man in the middle.
"Oh, come on," one of them whined. "You said he wouldn't be back yet."
The other giggled, tightening her arms around him.
"Just one more minute…"
The man smirked — until he felt it.
That shift in the air.
He stiffened.
"…Actually," he muttered, "I think I already feel him."
He turned.
Falcon stood behind him.
Gun raised.
Silent.
Watching.
The man jolted, nearly tripping over the women. "Falcon!" he yelped. "Let's not be dramatic we have guests." The women gasped, clutching at themselves.
"They're not my guests," Falcon said flatly.
He flicked the safety off.
The sound was small.
But final.
"Wait, wait," the man rushed, hands going up. "We were just leaving!"
Falcon took one step forward."Out."
The women didn't need to be told twice.
"Your clothes," Falcon added calmly, eyes never leaving the man in front of him.
"Take them."
The women scrambled, gathering their things before fleeing the apartment.
The door shut.
Silence.
Falcon lowered the gun slightly.
"Now," he said coldly, "what should I do with you, Lucas?"
Lucas attempted a weak grin. "Forgive me? For old time's sake?"
Minutes later.
Lucas sat on the edge of a chair, face bruised, holding an ice pack to his jaw.
"You always aim for the face," he muttered bitterly.
Falcon stood by the massive glass window overlooking the city skyline, now dressed in a dark robe that hung loosely over his shoulders. The city lights reflected in his eyes.
He swirled a glass of wine.
"You're alive," Falcon replied calmly. "That means I showed restraint."
Lucas scoffed — then winced from the pain.
He reached into his jacket when his burner phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen.
His posture changed.
He answered immediately.
"…No. He just got back."
A pause.
"…Understood."
Lucas ended the call and looked at Falcon.
"The Elder wants to see you."
Falcon didn't turn at first.
"The Elder?" he asked quietly. "Did they say why?"
Lucas shook his head.
"They said it's urgent."
Falcon finally faced him.
There was something unreadable in his expression now.
The patriarch of the Montgomery family was dying.
And when dying kings call for their deadliest soldier…
It was never for something small.
Falcon placed the wine glass down untouched.
"Then I suppose," he said evenly, "I shouldn't keep him waiting."
Outside, the city glittered. Inside, the empire was beginning to fracture.And Falcon could already feel it.
The Montgomery estate no longer felt like a fortress.
It felt like a mausoleum.
The once-intimidating halls were dimly lit, shadows stretching across marble floors that had witnessed decades of power. Guards stood straighter than usual. Voices were lower. Every step echoed.
Word had spread quietly.
The Elder didn't have much time left.
Falcon walked through the corridor without hesitation. The soldiers parted for him instantly — not out of fear, but respect. He didn't acknowledge them.
He stopped outside the master chamber.
Two guards opened the doors without being asked.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of medicine and old wood.
The Elder lay propped against silk pillows, thinner than Falcon remembered. Tubes and monitors hummed softly beside him. Yet even in sickness, his presence filled the room.
But he was not alone.
By the far window stood another man.
Simon.
Tailored suit. Immaculate posture. Hands folded behind his back like a statesman instead of a criminal. The Elder's wife's nephew — blood-adjacent to the throne, but never quite sitting on it.
His eyes shifted to Falcon the moment he entered.
Cool.
Assessing.
Unfriendly.
Falcon ignored him and stepped forward, lowering himself onto one knee beside the bed — not out of obligation,but tradition "you sent for me."
Silence stretched — but not peacefully.
Simon's presence made it deliberate.
The Elder turned his head slightly toward the window.
"Simon," he said quietly, "join us."
Simon stepped forward, shoes clicking softly against marble. He stopped at the foot of the bed, gaze still fixed on Falcon.
"I assume this concerns Lucien Wexler,"
Simon said smoothly.
Falcon's eyes flicked to him for the first time.
So Simon already knew.
The Elder exhaled slowly.
"Yes. Lucien Wexler."
The name settled into the room like a verdict.
The Elder studied him for a long moment.
"You completed the dock situation."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"And King?"
"Handled."
A faint smile ghosted across the old man's face.
"I knew you would."
Silence lingered.
This wasn't just a meeting, It was something heavier.
"Falcon," the Elder began slowly, "you were not born Montgomery. But you were forged by us."
Falcon's expression didn't change.
"You learned discipline in these halls. Loyalty. Restraint. Ruthlessness."
"You taught me," Falcon replied evenly.
A weak chuckle escaped the Elder.
"I taught you how to survive. But you taught yourself how to become feared."
The machines beside him beeped steadily.
"There is one final stain on our name," the Elder continued. "One mistake."
Falcon's gaze sharpened.
"Lucien Wexler."
The name hung in the room like smoke.
"Years ago," the Elder said, "we hired him. Brilliant mind. Ruthless negotiator. I thought I saw ambition. What I missed was greed."
Simon's jaw tightened faintly.
"He stole from us," Simon added. "And disappeared."
"Not disappeared," the Elder corrected weakly. "Relocated."
Falcon spoke calmly. "He's no longer in the country."
Simon's eyes sharpened slightly at that.
"You've been tracking him."
"I always track unfinished business." The Elder allowed himself a faint, approving smile. "Lucien is abroad. Protected. Embedded. He believes distance makes him untouchable."
"It doesn't," Falcon replied.
Simon let out a quiet scoff."Confidence is useful," Simon said coolly. "Overconfidence is fatal."
Falcon didn't rise to it.
The Elder's breathing grew slightly heavier.
"I want his head brought to me." he said clearly. "Publicly or privately, it does not matter. But his head must answer for what he did to this family."
Falcon stood slowly.
"It will be done."
"And you won't do it alone."
That made Falcon pause.
The Elder's eyes shifted toward Simon.
"Simon will accompany you."
Silence.
Thick.
Simon's lips pressed into a thin line.
Falcon's expression remained neutral — but the air tightened.
"With respect," Falcon said evenly, "I work alone."
"Yes," Simon replied before the Elder could. "You prefer it that way." There was no warmth in his voice.
The Elder raised a weak hand, silencing both men.
"Lucien is strategic. Calculating. He knows our methods. This is no simple execution."
He looked at Falcon. "You are my blade."
Then at Simon. "And you are my mind."
Simon's chin lifted slightly.
Falcon said nothing.
"You will go together," the Elder finished. "Lucien is not in this country. You will need diplomacy, logistics, subtlety."
Simon finally spoke again, voice controlled.
"If this is about protecting the family's reputation abroad, then I agree. It requires precision."
Falcon's gaze met Simon's.
For a brief second, something unspoken passed between them.
Dislike.
Competition.
Possibility.
The Elder's breathing steadied.."Simon," he added quietly, "this is not optional."
A beat.
Simon inclined his head.
"…Understood."
Falcon didn't argue further.."When do we leave?" he asked.
"Soon," the Elder replied. "Very soon."
Falcon gave a small nod.
"I'll prepare."
He turned toward the door.
"Falcon."
He stopped.
The Elder's voice softened slightly — rare and deliberate.
"Tomorrow… I have something for you for the family."
Falcon's eyes narrowed just faintly."A surprise?"
"Yes."
The Elder's tired gaze lingered on him.
"A reward. For loyalty."
Simon's expression shifted almost imperceptibly at those words. Falcon noticed.
"Do not fail me." The elder said.
Falcon's reply was quiet.
"I never have."
The doors closed behind him.
Inside the room, the Elder leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.Simon remained still.His eyes were no longer on the Elder.They were on the door Falcon had just exited through.
And there was nothing respectful in that stare. Only calculation.