Rain pattered steadily against the windows of a modest apartment nestled on the upper floor of a quiet building in Brooklyn. Inside, a man sat alone, his figure partially illuminated by the flickering light of a classic martial arts film playing on the TV. His skin was a deep, warm brown, his head clean-shaven, and his eyes calm but sharp, like still water hiding the current of a storm.
His name was Alexander Miles, though once, to many around the world, he had been known by a dozen codenames. Soldier. Genius. Ghost. He had lived several lifetimes in one, but tonight, he was just a man enjoying a quiet evening with nostalgia and takeout.
Or so he thought.
The faint creak of a floorboard reached his ears, subtle and almost imperceptible to an average person. But Alex was anything but average. A retired black-ops operative with decades of martial arts mastery, he had honed his senses to the extreme. He didn't move. Not yet. He listened.
Another step.
He calmly reached out and switched off the lamp beside him, plunging the room into darkness. Shadows embraced him like an old friend. His muscles coiled, silent and ready, as he moved through the apartment with the grace of a predator.
Then came the breach.
The front door exploded inward. Black-clad figures burst through, weapons drawn, moving with military precision. But Alex was faster. The room erupted into chaos, fists clashed with blades, bodies slammed into furniture, and silence was broken by the thud of men hitting the floor.
Thirty minutes later, the dust settled. The apartment was a wreck, but Alex stood tall, a slight cut on his cheek the only mark of the conflict. Around him, a dozen unconscious assassins lay bound and groaning.
He sighed.
"Why can't they just leave me alone?" he muttered, wiping blood from his knuckles. "I'm retired, dammit…"
He picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. A familiar voice answered.
"Alex. Still breathing?"
"Barely. A group of overzealous amateurs decided to visit me tonight. Send a cleanup crew."
A chuckle from the other end. "Still sharp as ever, even past fifty. I assume none of them are dead?"
"You know me. I don't kill unless necessary."
"That's why you never became Director. Alright, sit tight. We'll handle the mess."
"Appreciate it."
He hung up and stared at the unconscious bodies around him, a slow shake of his head.
"I'm too old for this shit…"
Ten minutes later, a black van pulled up under the cover of night. The unconscious assassins were hauled away without a trace. The apartment was left eerily quiet, except for the faint hum of the rain continuing outside.
Alex looked around at the mess and sighed. "Forget this. I'm starving."
He grabbed his coat and stepped outside. Rain fell gently now, a misty drizzle that painted the streets silver under the streetlights. He welcomed the cool air, letting it wash over him as he made his way toward his favorite late-night burger joint. The city was still alive, even at this hour — the heartbeat of New York never truly stopped.
Then it happened.
A sudden stillness. The air shifted, dense with unseen weight. Alex paused mid-step. His instincts flared that old sixth sense that had saved his life countless times screamed danger.
But there was nothing. No one around. Just
A blinding flash. A searing crack of thunder.
A bolt of lightning, unnatural and precise, struck him directly in the chest.
His body jerked as electricity surged through him. Time seemed to slow. The world faded to grayscale, and a sharp scent of ozone filled his nostrils. He collapsed to his knees, eyes wide as his consciousness began to drift.
'Heh... after everything... bullets, blades, war, poison, even a car crash... It's lightning that gets me,' he thought, strangely calm. 'Well... I always said I could die any day. No regrets... no loose ends... maybe now I can finally rest.'
His last breath escaped in silence, and the rain continued to fall, indifferent and eternal.
But death, for Alex, was only the beginning.