Echoes of Next Dawn

Silence moved swiftly across the rooftops, leaving the gruesome scene behind. As he put more distance between himself and the warehouse, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by an unsettling feeling deep in his gut. After several minutes, he descended into a quiet alleyway, away from prying eyes. He slumped down against the cold brick wall, breathing heavily.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath as his stomach churned violently. The nausea hit him like a wave, and he barely had time to stumble over to a nearby garbage dumpster before he began to retch, the contents of his stomach spilling out in a fit of violent heaving.

He gripped the edge of the dumpster, his knuckles white, as his body purged itself. When it was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling drained and haggard. His legs felt weak, and he slumped down to sit on the ground, leaning his head back against the wall as he tried to steady his breath.

'Even though I prepared myself, my body… it's still new to this,' he thought, his mind racing as he processed what had just happened. 'In my past life, I was cold, manipulative...but I never had to reach these levels. It was a much more "normal" and civilized life, where power games were played in boardrooms and with words, not with blood and violence.'

This was different—this was real. The brutality, the bloodshed, the raw power that surged through him as he commanded the lives of those men—it was something he had never experienced before. It was his first time crossing this line, and despite all his preparation, it still shook him to his core.

'It's done,' he thought, his mind replaying the events in the room. The surge of cursed energy still buzzed within him, a potent reminder of the power he wielded. But along with that power came a weight—a heaviness in his chest that he couldn't quite shake off. 'Am I really just becoming another monster?'

Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. He couldn't afford doubts, not now. He had come too far, and there was no turning back. The night was his ally, the shadows his cover as he began to move swiftly across the rooftops. Each step was calculated, silent, blending into the urban landscape like a phantom.

But instead of feeling fear or regret, he felt something else—a growing conviction, a steely resolve that hardened within him. 'This is the reality I'm in now. And if this is what it takes to survive, to gain my freedom, then so be it.'

'This was just the beginning. I won't let this world break me—I'll break it first.'

Silence adjusted his mask, the scent of dried blood faintly lingering as he approached the pub. The guards, already terrified at the sight of him, recoiled even further when they noticed the bloodied mask. Without hesitation, they made way for him, their fear palpable.

As Silence entered the pub, the scene was much the same as before, but he was too spent from the day's events to care. The exhaustion weighed on him, so he decided to leave them be and headed downstairs. The men who had previously scrutinized him now avoided making eye contact, their reluctance clear. It was a satisfying reminder to Silence that only by strength could he ensure no one would stand in his way.

Reaching the shopkeeper, Silence noticed the man's eyes widen, his fear evident in the way he fumbled with his words. The silence stretched between them until Silence broke it. "The job's done," he said, his voice low and almost bored, as if the violence he'd just inflicted was nothing out of the ordinary.

The shopkeeper swallowed hard, his voice shaky. "You'll... you'll be paid once it's confirmed."

Silence tilted his head slightly, a mocking smile hidden behind his mask. "Is that so?" he drawled. "Well, do yourself a favor—check the news tomorrow morning. But be careful," his tone turned almost teasing, "you might find more than you bargained for." He left the shopkeeper standing there, pale and trembling, before turning on his heel and heading back to the orphanage.

Back at the orphanage, Silence entered his room quietly. He sat cross-legged and began meditating to recover his cursed energy. His focus was on circulating the energy throughout his body, healing injuries and easing the fatigue from the day.

Despite his efforts, the exhaustion remained. He could feel the energy mending his injuries, but it was a slow process. As his concentration waned, he staggered to his bed and collapsed onto it, too tired to change out of his blood-stained clothes.

Within moments, he was asleep, the day's events lingering in his restless dreams. The quiet of the night offered a brief escape from the chaos he had faced.

[Next morning]

The next morning, the sun's rays filtered through the thin curtains of the orphanage's common room. The nurse, as was her morning routine, sat in the dimly lit space watching the morning news on the old television. The news anchor's voice, steady but grim, filled the room.

"Breaking news this morning," the anchor began, "a shocking series of events unfolded last night at a local warehouse. Authorities are investigating what appears to be a brutal and violent confrontation that left several individuals dead."

The screen displayed footage of the warehouse, marked with police tape and flashing lights. The nurse's eyes widened as the anchor continued.

"According to reports, the scene was nothing short of gruesome. Initial findings suggest that the leader of a criminal group, known for its violent activities, killed all of his subordinates before turning the weapon on himself. The details are chilling: the victims were found in various states of violence, with evidence indicating severe physical altercations."

The report cut to images of bloodstained floors and scattered debris. The nurse's expression shifted to one of horror as the anchor described the scene further.

"Authorities are still piecing together the exact events, but the sheer brutality of the incident is staggering. The police report details that the leader's actions were executed with a level of violence that suggests a personal vendetta or a desperate act of control. The scene was described as a battlefield, with bloodshed evident throughout the warehouse."

The camera panned back to the news desk, where the anchor's face was somber. "The police have not yet released the identities of the victims or the leader, but the investigation is ongoing. They are urging anyone with information to come forward as they work to understand the full scope of the tragedy."

The nurse turned off the TV, her hands trembling slightly. The horrific details of the night's events were hard to ignore, and the implications of such violence left a lingering sense of unease in the room. She looked around the quiet orphanage, her mind reeling from the morning's revelations.

[Somewhere else]

In a towering skyscraper overlooking New York City, Wilson Fisk, known in the underworld as the Kingpin, sat in his opulent office. The space was richly decorated, with dark mahogany furniture and expansive windows framing the cityscape below. Fisk himself was a formidable presence—broad-shouldered and heavyset, with a powerful build that matched his intimidating reputation. His bald head gleamed under the ambient light, and his sharp, calculating eyes scanned the latest news with a mix of interest and irritation.

Fisk's assistant, a sharply dressed man, stood by with a stack of documents. He handed a report to Fisk, who began reading it with a steely focus. The report detailed the recent events that had shaken the underworld.

"Seems this mercenary known as Silence has made quite an impression," the assistant said, his voice steady.

Fisk's eyes narrowed as he absorbed the details. The report described how Silence had accepted a 'cleaning' job for the new Irish gang led by someone named Liam. The mercenary's methods were brutal: all fifteen men had been found with their right arms missing. The photographs attached to the report, which Fisk's members had retrieved from the police precinct, showed a scene of violence that was both meticulous and savage.

The report also noted the absence of collateral damage, a rare feat in such chaotic operations. Investigations revealed that the violence was an internal conflict, with no third parties involved. This precise execution was something even Fisk found puzzling.

As he finished reading, Fisk's deep voice cut through the silence of the room. "Silence," he said, his tone heavy and deliberate, "keep an eye on him. This kind of efficiency... and brutality, is something we need to understand."

The assistant nodded, noting the Kingpin's command. The Kingpin's gaze remained fixed on the city below, contemplating the new player in the game and the implications of such a ruthless, yet effective, mercenary.

While all the major powers of the underworld where thinking about the new player that entered the field, Aaron now waking with still slight stiffness from yesterday's 'endeavor' started moving and going for a fresh hot water bath.

 Aaron's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The events of the previous night had left a deep mark on him, and he knew he couldn't afford to rest on his laurels. Despite his success, the confrontation had highlighted several risks and shortcomings that needed to be addressed.

As he paced the small room, Aaron's thoughts turned inward. "I won last night," he mused, "but it was too close for comfort. There were too many variables I didn't account for. I can't afford to be caught off guard again."

Aaron resolved to refine his cursed energy (CE) usage. The fight had shown him that while his ability to command and manipulate CE was powerful, it was still far from perfect. He needed to improve his control and efficiency to ensure that his next encounter would be less hazardous.

"I need to master my CE better," he thought. "If I can enhance my control and reduce the risks of using it, I'll be in a much stronger position."

Determined, Aaron focusing on drills designed to improve his cursed energy manipulation. He decided to focus on practiced controlling for multiple objects with precision, pushing his limits while maintaining careful control over his CE. Each exercise was a step toward ensuring that he could handle any situation that might arise.

"I won't let myself be vulnerable again," he vowed. "I'll push through, train harder, and be ready for whatever comes next."

His determination was unwavering as he continued his training, fully aware that every step forward was a step closer to achieving the freedom and strength he sought.