#9

The dim warehouse light flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows on the concrete walls. The man stepped further into the light, revealing a lean figure with sharp features, dressed in a dark overcoat that hung loose over his wiry frame. His name was Luka Vargic, and in the underworld, he was known as The Rat—not because he snitched, but because he thrived in the city's sewers, digging up secrets no one else could find.

Luka's face was angular, with hollow cheeks and piercing, calculating eyes that darted around the room like he was always one step ahead of everyone else. His hair, a messy tangle of dark strands, looked like it hadn't seen a comb in days. He carried himself with a nervous energy—restless, like a man who didn't trust anyone for too long.

But Luka wasn't just some informant. He had survived in this city's underbelly for over a decade by making himself indispensable to people in power. He knew how to connect dots, how to make problems disappear before they became public, and—most importantly—he knew how to survive.

Despite his jittery demeanor, there was a cunning intelligence in his eyes, and a trace of confidence that came from someone who understood the stakes better than most.

Number Nine took a step forward, his heavy boots echoing in the empty warehouse. His gaze locked onto Luka with cold intensity.

"You're glad I came?" Number Nine's voice was low and steady, carrying an unmistakable edge of menace. "Since when do you request my presence?"

Luka raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

"I didn't request," Luka said, his tone measured. "I left the right breadcrumbs. Molly knew you'd follow them."

Number Nine didn't blink. His silence stretched long enough to make Luka shift on his feet.

"What do you want, Luka?"

Luka dropped his hands, his grin fading into a more serious expression.

"Someone's digging into your past."

Number Nine's eyes narrowed.

"And you thought I'd care because...?"

Luka took a step closer, lowering his voice.

"Because they're good at it, Nine. They're careful. They're covering their tracks. And they're asking about jobs you did over a decade ago."

Number Nine's jaw tightened. "Who?"

"I don't know yet." Luka's voice softened. "But I've got leads. And you know me—I always find the truth."

Number Nine stared at him for a long moment. Then he gave a single nod.

"Keep digging. Bring me a name."

Luka smirked. "Of course."

Number Nine turned to leave, but Luka's voice stopped him.

"One more thing."

Number Nine paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"The person asking about you?" Luka said quietly. "They're not just looking for your name. They're looking for your ghost jobs—the ones no one ever knew you did."

For the first time that night, Number Nine felt something stir.

"They're not just looking for Number Nine," Luka added. "They're looking for who you were before."

Number Nine's footsteps echoed as he turned back toward Luka, slow and deliberate. His eyes were cold, calculating.

"You've been quiet for a long time, Luka. Too long," Number Nine said, his voice low. "And now you're crawling out of your hole with stories about ghosts?"

Before Luka could respond, Number Nine closed the distance between them in an instant, grabbing him by the neck and slamming him against the warehouse wall. Luka gasped as his back hit the concrete, but the grin never left his face.

"You think you can play me?" Number Nine hissed, his grip tightening.

"Nothing ever happens without you knowing everything about it," he growled.

Luka's hands instinctively grabbed at Number Nine's wrist, but he didn't struggle. Instead, his grin widened.

"We both know how this ends," Luka rasped, his voice strained but amused. "You won't kill me, Nine."

Number Nine pulled his gun from his coat, pressing the cold barrel against Luka's temple.

"Maybe I've changed," Nine growled.

Luka chuckled through gritted teeth, his voice barely a whisper.

"We all know there's no bullets in that gun."

For a moment, the two men stood frozen in place, the tension thick in the air. Luka's grin was smug, confident.

Then, without warning, Number Nine pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the air.

The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed through the warehouse, the sound reverberating off the walls. Luka flinched, his grin faltering as he stared wide-eyed at the hole now punched into the ceiling.

Before he could recover, Number Nine pressed the barrel back to his temple.

"How about now?" Nine asked, his voice cold and steady.

Luka blinked, his expression shifting from shock to something else—something almost... proud. Slowly, the grin returned to his face, but this time it wasn't smug. It was satisfied.

"So that confirms it," Luka said softly, his voice steady despite the gun against his head. "You're back."

Number Nine didn't move the gun for a long moment. His eyes bore into Luka's. But Luka's grin remained, unwavering.

After what felt like an eternity, Nine pulled the gun away and slid it back into his coat.

"Keep digging," Nine said, his tone final. "And bring me a name."

Luka straightened his coat, brushing dust from his shoulders.

"You know I will," Luka replied. He tilted his head, that same crooked grin on his face. "Welcome back, Mr. Nine."

Without another word, Number Nine turned and walked out of the warehouse, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

As the warehouse door creaked shut behind him, Luka let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

"Goddamn," he whispered to himself. "The devil's back in town."