CHAPTER 1 — Madness
The mirror was cracked, but it still caught the tall man's reflection—long, lean, and utterly unbothered. Altair turned away from it, steps quiet on the blood‑slick hotel tiles. In the center of the room sat his guest: tied to a chair, half‑conscious, face leaking red like a faulty tap.
"As much as I'd love to put a bullet in your skull right now, I was told to ask first," Altair said, voice calm in that unnerving way that implied he meant none of the words. "So I'll try again."
"I'm not telling you shit," the man spat. "You don't scare me."
A crackle whispered in Altair's ear. Kevin's voice drifted through.
"Altair how's it going? Police'll hit the building in a few minutes."
The tied man snorted. "Yeah, listen to your little fu—"
The butt of the pistol cut his sentence in half. Blood dripped from a new gash on his temple.
"Watch your mouth," Altair muttered.
"Kevin, how many minutes?"
"At most three."
Altair sighed, a tired, almost bored sound. "Appreciate it. And when's—"
The lights snapped back on like a slap. Both men squinted as harsh fluorescents blazed to life, revealing the true horror show: blood splattered across the wallpaper, bodies strewn about like discarded mannequins.
Altair stepped closer. His steel‑grey eyes were the kind that made grown men remember their sins.
"You've got less than a minute to live. Just tell me where your boss's Heroin stash is. You're about to start a full‑blown family war in New Lazarus. For what?"
"If I tell you, you'll kill me anyway."
"Obviously. But consider it charity—a world with one fewer foul‑mouthed idiot." Altair leaned close. "And you know who I work for."
"I don't care."
"Just a name. I'll even make it quick."
The man coughed a wet laugh. "You don't get it. Sure, your employers run this city. Twenty years of sin, blood and cruelty. But every empire dies when someone worse shows up."
"Look at you," Altair said. "Speaking like a gentleman. So who is he?"
"I'd rather—"
The gunshot drilled into his thigh. He gagged on the scream he couldn't let out.
Sirens wailed outside.
"They're here," Kevin said.
"I can hear," Altair muttered. "Buy me a second."
"How?"
"No idea. This guy's stubborn as a brick wall."
Altair pressed the muzzle to the man's forehead. Blood trickled down the bridge of his nose. Sweat rolled down his cheek.
"I'm not joking anymore. Talk. A name."
"He'll kill me… and my family… please—"
"Who?"
"Rico… Rico Moretti."
The shot was immediate, final. The man slumped. Blood spread like ink.
"We have a name," Altair said.
"Great. Now move. Police are flooding every floor."
Altair straightened, smoothing his black suit, stepping around corpses like they were furniture. He reached the elevator—doors opened—gunfire exploded toward him.
He dove into an empty room.
"Shit."
"What now?" Kevin asked.
"They're on me. Only in this city do cops shoot first without even pretending to yell 'freeze.'"
"Well, you are a rampaging self‑proclaimed angel of death trying to attract attention for reasons only you and God understand and a fetish for the spotlight"
"Aww. You know me so we—"
A cop burst in. Altair was behind the door, fast as a switchblade. He grabbed the officer's gun, smashed an elbow across his jaw, and put a bullet through his skull. Two more stormed in—two more bodies dropped.
A smoke bomb hung from one officer's vest. Altair plucked it, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the corridor. Smoke swallowed the hall instantly. He soaked his handkerchief into a glass of water in the room, tied it across his face, and stepped out.
Every silhouette in the fog became a target. Thunderous shots echoed as he cut his way through the haze, boots crunching over spent shells until he reached the elevator again.
The indicator lights blinked—someone was coming up.
"Emergency stairway on your left," Kevin said, keys clacking.
"What would I do without you?" Altair muttered. A white door glowed under a flickering exit sign.
"Die painfully"
He sprinted down the stairwell, skipping steps, vaulting railings.
"He's taking the emergency exit!" a cop yelled somewhere above. "Everyone to the garage!"
"What kind of monster is this?" another officer whispered, gagging at the carnage.
"Just another monster in this godforsaken city," someone replied.
Altair burst through the exit door and into the garage, only to be swallowed by the glare of headlights. Engines revved. Guns clicked. The whole police department stared him down like a starving wolf pack.
"This is the New Lazarus Police Department!" a voice barked through a megaphone. "Drop the weapon! Kneel! Hands where we can see them!"
Altair exhaled, almost bored.
"Kevin…" he whispered, easing down to one knee.
"Rookie, cuff him," the officer ordered.
"Sir?" the rookie squeaked.
"Did I stutter? Cuff the bastard."
Altair stared straight ahead.
"I swear, if you don't show up—"
The garage erupted.
A white ice‑cream van—decals faded, innocence long dead—came screaming through the barricade like a discount chariot of fire. Policemen dove out of the way as it plowed to a halt inches from Altair.
Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" blasted at illegal volume.
The driver's door flew open, revealing Kevin: tattooed, red‑haired, grinning like chaos incarnate.
"THE CAVALRY HAS ARRIVED!" he shouted.
Altair was already moving. He slammed into the van's passenger seat as Kevin whipped the wheel, spinning the van cleanly, almost gracefully—if you ignored the two unfortunate officers who bounced off the bumper.
"Goodbye and good riddance!" Kevin hollered as the van peeled out.
Wind roared through the broken door. Police lights flashed behind them like angry fireflies. Kevin drummed the wheel, adrenaline sparkling in his eyes.
"So," he said, barely containing his glee, "what are you doing with your half of the cash?"
Altair leaned back. "Shit."
Kevin's knuckles tightened. "What now?"
"I forgot to take a picture. Let's go back."
Kevin slammed the brakes—metaphorically. Literally he just stared at Altair like he'd confessed to murder for the first time.
"What? We barely made it out alive!"
Altair shrugged. "What are you gonna tell your mon coeur? She wanted that money for her butt transplant."
"Enlargement, but that doesn't mean I'll let you die for it."
"But you like ass."
Kevin groaned. "Bro is more important."
Altair smirked. "But you do like ass."
Kevin let out a long suffering sigh, face collapsing into a smile.
"You're a menace."
"So are you."
They both broke into laughter, loud and reckless, echoing through the rattling van as they escaped into New Lazarus City.
"I'll make it up to you," Altair said.
Kevin rolled his eyes. "Just like you've been 'making it up to me' for five years?"
"Exactly."
Kevin snorted. "God help me."
Altair walked through the winter streets like a phantom. Frost clung to the asphalt. Stray dogs barked at shadows, and the Christmas lights glittered too cheerfully for a city as rotten as New Lazarus. Their colors slid across his face—reds, greens, golds—and none of them reached his eyes.
He stopped in front of a house swallowed in darkness. Empty windows. Silent walls. He took a long breath, the kind that cracks against your ribs, and touched the doorknob.
Unlocked.
That was wrong.
The gun appeared in his hand like an extension of his pulse. Silencer twisted on. His senses sharpened to needlepoints. When the lights flicked on, he didn't flinch.
"Tea?" a calm voice asked from the kitchen. The electric kettle clicked off.
A man stood there. Alone. Relaxed.
Altair leveled the gun. "Don't move an inch. Who the fuck are you?"
"You don't know me?" the man said, strolling toward a chair as though he lived here.
The shot came so fast it sounded like breath. The teacup exploded before it could reach the table. Porcelain sprayed the floor.
"Nice shot," the man murmured. Red laser dots bloomed across Altair's chest—snipers, hidden. Silent. Patient.
Altair smiled. Not kindly.
"Impersonating my family. Killing my men. Playing hide-and-seek with the police. You practically begged for my attention."
The man sat. Grey hair, sharp posture, cold eyes. His suit looked expensively bored with the world.
Don Vittorio Constantine.
The Wolf of New Lazarus.
Altair's obsession given flesh.
Altair gave a low chuckle. "In the flesh. For someone your age, you wear your sins well."
"I hear that often," Vittorio replied.
"You could've sent lackeys."
"If I did, you'd kill them. And it's Christmas—they should see their families." Vittorio cocked his head. "Do you have a family?"
"No. Long dead."
Altair walked to the bar, grabbed half a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. His movements were slow, deliberate—ritualistic, like everything he did.
"I'm not staying long," Vittorio said.
"What do you want?"
"To strike a deal." Vittorio folded his hands neatly. "Ten million dollars. And my protection. In exchange, you look the other way."
"Look the other way," Altair repeated. "Hard pass."
"I can see it" Vittorio said, smiling faintly.
"Sorry?" Altair's jaw twitched.
"It's in your eyes. You hide it well. But you and I… we're alike. I can see the rage under the mask." Vittorio leaned back. "Final offer. Eight million, protection for your friend Kevin, and a place in my organization. I'm the only one who can show you where to channel that rage."
He stood, buttoning his suit. "Twenty‑four hours."
He walked to the door.
"If you refuse, your vengeance will die with you."
Then he vanished into the night.
Altair carried the whiskey and glasses upstairs, face blank, almost serene. His room was divided in two by a curtain. Behind it, a shrine waited—three photographs illuminated by flickering incense.
His mother.
His father.
His little sister—her picture placed beside a glass of milk instead of whiskey.
Altair knelt, pouring the remaining drinks with ceremonial precision.
"He came," he whispered. "Can you believe it… he came. He came. He came"
The bottle exploded against the wall. Whiskey dripped down like tears. His breathing cracked. A grin stretched across his face—too wide, too sharp. Then the grin fractured into laughter. Uncontrolled. Violent. Unhuman.
He lifted his gaze to the ceiling.
Above him, dozens of knives were stabbed into the plaster—each one pinning a photo of Vittorio Constantine.
Every angle. Every shadow. Every moment the man had ever breathed.
Altair's obsession turned the room into a shrine of hatred.
"I can have my revenge," he whispered, voice trembling in a way joy never could. "Finally."
His laughter rose again, jagged as broken glass.
"I'll destroy everything."