Karakal

The relentless rain turns the alley into a slick, black trench. I freeze, my hand instinctively reaching for the weapon beneath my coat as a figure emerges from the shadows, slumped against a dumpster under a flickering streetlamp.It’s Karakal.At just 27 years old, the ruthless mafia boss who has hunted me for months is bleeding out on the wet asphalt. His sharp, aristocratic face is pale with fever, and his pristine designer suit is torn to shreds by three gunshot wounds. We have tried to kill each other more times than I can count, but tonight, this wasn't my doing. This is a betrayal from within his own ranks.His breathing is a wet, broken rattle, yet his feral pride remains untouched. He raises his chin, locking his piercing, feline eyes onto mine with pure defiance. There is no pleading, no fear—only a silent challenge to either finish the job or watch him die on his feet.