The buzzing sound of the parking garage lights felt deafening to Joe. The air was damp, cold, and the smell of rust mixed with cigarette smoke still clung to Joe's breath. The man with the snake tattoo stood opposite him, his eyes cold and flat—like someone who knew exactly what was about to happen.
They stood in silence for a few seconds; only the sound of water dripping from a leaking pipe in the corner broke the quiet.
Then, without warning, the man stepped forward.
The first punch came fast—hitting Joe's cheek so hard his body was thrown back against the concrete wall. Hot blood splattered from his mouth. Joe blocked the next attack with his elbow, but his opponent attacked relentlessly. There was no neat technique, just a brutal push to destroy. Every blow carried the heavy sound of bone against bone.
Joe was knocked down for a moment, but his instincts made him rise again. His hands gripped the opponent's shoulder, countering with a knee jab to the ribs. The man groaned, but instead smiled—a cold smile that seemed to challenge him.
A small knife slid from behind his jacket, flashing in the dim light. Joe tried to block it, but the blade grazed his forearm. The warmth of blood began to seep through his skin.
He backed away, seeking distance. But the man pursued him, slashing again—Joe deflected with his arm, grasping it, and unconsciously his body moved faster than his mind. His movements felt alien, as if something inside him took over. His muscles reacted first, as if they had learned the rhythm of that attack before.
The knife was released from the opponent's hand after Joe twisted his wrist with a strength that surprised himself. The man tried to punch again, but Joe slammed his head into the opponent's face—a loud cracking sound was heard, followed by a heavy groan.
They both fell, rolling on the floor, grabbing each other. Joe pulled his opponent's jacket, climbing on top of his body. His punches landed with brutal accuracy, not because of anger, but because of cold efficiency—until his hands shook violently. Blood stained the concrete floor.
The sound of the blows echoed throughout the empty parking lot.
And when finally the man's body slumped, motionless, Joe still stared at him. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from pure adrenaline. He stared at his own blood-smeared fingers.
"What did I just do…?"
His breath was ragged. The sound of his heart echoed in his ears. The world felt a little slower. He averted his gaze to the wall where his back had previously hit. The large metal plate there was now cracked on one side, slightly opened by their collision. A cold wind came out of the gap, carrying the smell of dust and metal.
Joe approached slowly, clearing away rust fragments from the edge of the plate. Behind it was a small iron door with a rusty lever. He pulled hard, and the sound of metal scraping filled the room inside. A narrow corridor opened in front of him—leading down, dark, damp, like the forgotten belly of the building.
With heavy steps, Joe turned on the flashlight on his phone and went down the stairs. The air below felt denser, the smell of charcoal and chemicals that had long since dried up.
There, he found a room that was almost empty. Some rusty iron tables, cables hanging from the ceiling, the remains of a large broken glass tube in the corner which left a thick yellow stain on the cement floor. All the equipment had been cleaned, as if someone had come years ago to erase the tracks. Only dust remained, and on the back wall—faded writing in industrial paint:
"N.O.I.R."
Joe stared at the writing for a long time. Something inside him trembled—a feeling of fear and deja vu that appeared simultaneously.
He opened a few drawers, kicked the remaining metal crates, but they were all empty. No documents, no computers, no evidence that this room was ever used—just scars on the walls, and black stains like remnants of combustion.
Joe stood in the middle of the room, silent. All his efforts led him to silence, but somehow his chest felt heavy—as if the place held something that was missing from him.
Before turning around, Joe's gaze landed on the inner pocket of the tattooed man's jacket on the floor. He remembered the position of that pocket, thinking quickly about the black sedan he had seen earlier.
Finally, he turned. His steps left dust marks on the floor untouched by humans for so long. As he stepped out of the corridor, the sound of the night wind from outside the parking garage crept in—cold and quiet.
Down there, in the dark room he left behind, the dim phone light in his hand still shone onto the wall. The faded writing was clear for a moment before the light went out:
"N.O.I.R. DIVISION — PROJECT RETRACE."