Chapter 2 — The Blade Drawn
Mia Diaz
The rusted iron gates of the abandoned factory groaned in protest as Mia pushed them open, their shrill cry cutting through the dense silence of the night. The air tasted stale, heavy with the tang of oil and decay, and the faint echoes of memories she couldn’t silence. Shadows stretched across the derelict complex, jagged edges shifting like predators in wait. Her boots made dull, deliberate clicks against the cracked pavement, each step a metronome of resolve.
This place was no arbitrary choice. Once a hub for Eduardo Diaz’s blood-soaked empire, the factory had witnessed countless transactions sealed with violence, its ruins steeped in betrayal. Mia’s earliest memory of this place burned in her mind: a fleeting glimpse of Eduardo dragging a man into the shadows, his muffled screams merging with the mechanical grind of the assembly line. She’d been too young to understand. Not anymore. Tonight, this place would bear witness again—this time to Eduardo’s end.
The faint smell of mildew mingled with rust as she entered, her lithe figure blending into the skeletal remains of machinery and graffiti-streaked walls. Her fingers brushed the shard of mirror in her jacket pocket, its jagged edge clinking softly against the switchblade. It was both her mark and her reminder, a fragment of truth she couldn’t look away from.
From her other pocket, she drew a folded paper—a forged letter crafted with meticulous care. A phantom plea from a “trusted” associate, dripping with desperation and sycophancy. It promised betrayal, whispered of threats to Eduardo’s fragile empire, and demanded his immediate attention. She’d even scented the paper faintly with cigar smoke and the cologne he favored. It had worked; she knew it would. Eduardo’s ego demanded that he answer any challenge to his control.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel broke the stillness outside. She slipped into the shadows, her breathing steady. A black sedan rolled into view, its headlights slicing through the gloom, casting grotesque silhouettes onto the crumbling walls.
The driver’s door opened first. A bulky man in a tailored suit stepped out, scanning the perimeter with the precision of someone who’d lived in fear as much as power. His hand hovered near his jacket. A guard. Predictable. Mia’s eyes followed his movements, calculating. His head turned briefly in her direction, but his gaze swept past her, oblivious to the danger already poised in the dark.
The passenger door opened next. Eduardo Diaz emerged, his stocky frame exuding the arrogance she remembered too well. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored coat, his movements deliberate, theatrical. Even now, he performed for an invisible audience. The ember of his cigar glowed like a dying star as he took a slow drag.
“Stay here,” Eduardo ordered, his tone sharp with command. The guard nodded, his hand still resting near his weapon. Eduardo strode toward the factory entrance, his steps unhurried, his back turned to the man who would die for him without question.
Mia watched him vanish inside, her heartbeat a steady drum in her ears. The air seemed to thicken, wrapping her in a cocoon of tension and purpose. She turned her attention to the guard, who had lit a cigarette, its orange glow illuminating his face.
She moved.
The shadows embraced her as she closed the distance. Her switchblade slid silently into her palm, its engraved words—“Nunca más”—flashing faintly under the dim light. She wouldn’t falter. Not now. Not ever again.
The guard noticed her a heartbeat too late. Her blade pressed against his throat before he could draw his weapon.
“Don’t make a sound,” Mia hissed, her voice low, precise. Her free hand twisted his wrist away from his gun.
He froze, his pulse hammering against her blade. She felt his hesitation, the fragile moment where survival instinct gave way to fear. His body twitched, and she pressed harder.
“I said, don’t.”
Before he could respond, she struck the base of his skull with the handle of her blade. He crumpled to the ground, his bulk landing with a dull thud. Mia worked quickly, securing his wrists with zip ties and dragging him into the shadows. Her eyes darted back to the factory entrance. Eduardo wouldn’t have heard—a man like him never listened for the dangers closest to him.
Her grip tightened on the blade as she moved inside.
The factory swallowed her whole. The air turned colder, sharper, carrying the scent of rust and old machinery. Eduardo’s footsteps echoed faintly, guiding her deeper. She moved with the precision of a predator, each step deliberate, her senses tuned to every creak and shift in the space.
She found him in the central chamber, standing beneath a skeletal assembly line. The ember of his cigar cast flickering shadows over his face, etching his features into harsh relief. He looked older now, his jowls heavier, lines carved deep around his mouth. But the gleam in his eyes—calculating, cruel—remained unchanged.
“Mia,” he said, his voice a sneering drawl. “Of course, it’s you.”
She stepped into the dim light, her blade glinting in her hand. “I didn’t expect you to come alone.”
He laughed, short and humorless, the sound bouncing off the walls. “You think I’m afraid of you? My own daughter?” He spread his arms wide, a mockery of an embrace. “You? The girl who used to cower in closets?”
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer. The silence between them stretched, taut as a wire.
“You’ve grown bold,” he continued, his voice hardening. “But you’re still that scared little girl, aren’t you? Clinging to scraps of courage, pretending you’re something you’re not.”
Her fingers flexed around the knife. “You don’t know me anymore.”
“Don’t I?” He took a step closer, his sneer deepening. “You think you know yourself? You’re pathetic. Just like your mother. Weak. Always weak. She begged for you, Mia. Did you know that? Pleaded with me to spare you, to save you.”
Mia’s breath caught. His words stabbed at old wounds, the ones she thought she’d buried. “And you broke her anyway,” she said, her voice low and trembling with anger. “You tried to break me.”
“And yet here you are,” Eduardo spat. “A mistake. Clawing at shadows, pretending to be more than what you are.”
Her blade flashed. She lunged, a blur of movement and fury. Eduardo staggered back, his arm grazing the jagged edge of her knife. Blood bloomed across his sleeve, and he cursed, his bravado cracking.
“You little—”
She didn’t let him finish. She pressed forward, her strikes deliberate, each one fueled by years of pain and rage. Eduardo swung wildly, desperation tightening his movements. He wasn’t ready. His arrogance had dulled him, left him vulnerable.
His hand found her wrist, crushing it with an iron grip. Pain lanced through her arm, but she twisted sharply, driving her knee into his stomach. He doubled over, gasping, and her blade found its mark.
It plunged into his chest.
Eduardo collapsed, his knees striking the concrete with a hollow sound. His hands clawed at the wound, blood seeping between his fingers. His eyes met hers, wide with disbelief. For the first time, she saw something in them that wasn’t power or cruelty.
Fear.
Mia crouched before him, their faces inches apart. “Nunca más,” she whispered. “Never again.”
She twisted the blade, and his body slumped forward, lifeless.
The silence that followed was deafening. Mia stood, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her switchblade hung heavy in her hand, its blade slick with blood. She stared down at Eduardo’s body, waiting for relief, for satisfaction. Instead, she felt… hollow.
From her pocket, she withdrew the shard of mirror. She knelt and placed it beside him, its fractured surface catching the dim light. In its broken edges, she saw his lifeless face—and her own reflection, blood-specked and unrecognizable. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something of him in her. The thought made her stomach turn.
She rose, her legs trembling but unyielding. Her fingers curled around her blade, its weight anchoring her. Distant sirens wailed in the night, faint but growing louder. She forced herself to move, her boots dragging against the floor as she left the factory behind.
The work was far from done.
