The first thing Hale noticed was the silence.
Not the usual kind — not the soft hum of city noise beneath closed windows. No sirens, no arguing neighbors, no traffic echoing off brick. Just a dead quiet that settled over his building like a storm cloud.
He reached for his gun.
By the time he stepped into the hallway, the elevator light was blinking. It hadn't moved floors, but the panel above the doors flickered — like someone had tampered with the system.
Red wasn't due back for hours. Carmen had gone underground. So whoever was here… wasn't invited.
Hale moved down the hall with practiced ease. The stairwell door at the far end was ajar — just an inch. No draft. No reason.
He pushed it open.
The lights in the stairwell were out.
Someone had cut them.
Footsteps echoed softly below — not hurried. Deliberate. Heavy but clean. Whoever it was wasn't running.
Hale descended slowly, one floor at a time, keeping close to the wall. His pistol moved with his breath, steady and ready.
Then he saw the body.
Red smears on the stair rail. A security guard — one Hale barely knew — slumped against the wall. Eyes open. Neck at the wrong angle. No blood, no noise, just a cold efficient kill.
The kind you didn't see unless you were meant to.
He kept going.
Basement level.
The boiler room door was cracked.
Hale pressed his back to the wall and listened. A faint hum of machinery. A subtle creak — like weight shifting on old pipes. And then…
A voice.
Calm. Male. Almost amused.
"You've made quite a mess, Detective Hale."
Hale moved fast — kicked the door open, gun raised.
But the room was empty.
Just steam. Shadows. A light swinging from the ceiling.
Then he saw it — etched in condensation on the glass panel across the room:
"You can't win."
Behind him — a whisper of breath.
Hale spun.
Too late.
The blow struck like lightning — pressure-point precision. His hand went numb, gun clattering to the ground. He caught a glimpse of the figure: tall, lean, black combat gear, face hidden behind a matte mask. No insignia. No sound.
The Cleaner.
Hale swung a fist — it was caught mid-air and twisted. Pain exploded in his shoulder as he was thrown into the wall. The masked figure stood over him — unhurried. Observing.
Then he spoke. No accent. No emotion.
"You were warned."
The Cleaner crouched, dropped something beside Hale — a small black cylinder with a blinking red dot.
A recording device.
"They want to hear your scream."
But Hale didn't scream. He swept a leg — connected. The Cleaner staggered, just slightly, just enough. Hale grabbed the pipe from beside the boiler, swung hard.
The Cleaner ducked, pivoted, but the swing grazed his mask — enough to send him back a step.
Sirens wailed outside — a neighbor must've called in the noise. The Cleaner turned his head slightly, then looked back at Hale.
A long pause. Not fear. Just calculation.
Then, without a word, he vanished through the maintenance tunnel like smoke.
Hale slumped against the wall, blood in his mouth, ribs screaming. But he was alive.
Barely.
He stared at the recorder still blinking on the floor.
They weren't trying to kill him. Not yet.
Just sending a message.
And it had been received.