Prisoner 636

Chapter One - Alex

My heavy boots clicked loudly against the tiled floor. Spilled gin and vodka stuck to the bottoms of my shoes, the dim glow of the shattered lights flickering on and off sporadically. Small, fiery sparks shot off the broken bulbs, barely missing my shoulders as I passed. The sickening smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the air, mixed with the sweet scent of rum and coke. I stepped on pieces of glass and crushed red cups, the cracks resounding through the desolate area. I stopped dead in my tracks, watching and listening for other signs of movement. The soft, yet noticeable patter of footsteps above me let me know I wasn't alone. I darted over to the stairs, careful not to make any noise as I ducked behind the railing. I reached to my hip, my pistol sitting in the leather holster. I placed a hand on the weapon, cocked it and prepared to fire. My hazel eyes scanned the area, I saw nothing but rotting wood, spilled alcohol and shadows.

"I know you're here, Alex!" My adversary called out from above me. I shrunk back into the darkness surrounding me. The footsteps started again, growing closer by the second.

Click.

I drew my gun.

Click.

I aimed into the open air.

Click.

A shadowy figure stood atop the staircase.

Click.

The noise was closer, directly in front of me.

Click.

My heart pounded, I had one shot.

Click.

It was now or never.

Click.

I steadied my breathing and focused my aim.

Click.

The same shadowy figure stood five feet away from me, clearly unbeknownst to my presence.

The footsteps stopped, I held my breath. They didn't know I was here. I took aim again, both hands firmly clutching the firearm.

'Shoot,' I thought. 'Pull the trigger.' A bead of sweat dripped down my forehead. I tightened my hold on the trigger.

A gunshot sliced through the air.

An excruciating pain burned my abdomen. I looked up.

Cloaked entirely in black, was a lone sniper, a rifle in their hands. A small wisp of smoke curled from the barrel. I cried out in disdain and agony, falling to my knees.

"Ah, there you are," my enemy repeated, a slight English accent present in his words. I glanced up weakly. A man dressed in a black blazer and slacks strutted towards me. A navy tie was secured lazily around his neck. He looked to be about twenty, his cobalt eyes seemingly iridescent. His ebony hair was slicked back. I scowled at him, this was a man I knew knew all too well.

Virus Amory; a contract killer and the only man alive who could best me in combat and live to tell about it. He and I were on mutual terms, being that we both hated each other with a passion. We were polar opposites, whereas Virus was tactical and strategic, I typically relied on instinct and brute force. I grunted, holding my stomach. Blood seeped through my clothes, pooling on the floor around me. The pain was unbearable, cruel and tearing at me like a sword. I tried to get on my feet, the pain worsening. Virus grabbed me by my hair, yanking me to be level with his eyes, I gritted my teeth.

"Now no funny business, alright? I just want to talk." He said

"Says the bastard who ordered one of his lackeys to shoot me," I snapped, coughing. Crimson poured from my mouth. Virus chuckled. "Something funny?"