The Gunmaker

Part 19

The night had claimed him in scalding water, where blood and guilt dissolved into steam and shadow.

Takhar's final words had followed him into darkness

The hunt wasn't over while his body bore the weight of a war he'd never wanted to start.

Sleep had been his only mercy, a brief reprieve from the god's mocking laughter and the terrible truth that he'd become the weapon he'd sworn never to be.

Now morning came with cold certainty: there was no turning back from what he'd unleashed.

Grayson woke to the feeling of something cold pressing against his cheek.

He flinched, eyes snapping open, muscles tensing only to be met with the dark, intelligent eyes of Ogun…

His massive black bear looming over him, his snout nudging against Grayson's face with an almost impatient huff.

Grayson groaned, rubbing the sleep from his face as he sat up.

His body ached, stiff from the bath-turned-bed he had fallen asleep in.

The morning air was crisp and inviting…a pleasant reset of the senses after the past couple of days.

Ogun huffed again, stepping back, watching him expectantly.

Grayson exhaled, running a hand over his head. "Yeah, yeah. I'm up."

He hadn't planned to sleep.

But maybe his body had made the decision for him.

The weight in his chest hadn't disappeared.

If anything, it had settled deeper.

But for now, he pushed it aside.

He had work to do.

Grayson got out of the tub, feeling the satisfying pull of his muscles as they stretched.

Despite the punishment his body had endured the night before, he felt strong—stronger than he should.

The soreness was there, but it was dulled, a background hum beneath a deeper sense of renewal.

Every movement felt deliberate, every breath a controlled draw of energy.

But as he stepped inside his cabin, the weight of reality settled onto his shoulders.

"Feeling better, I see."

Grayson spun around, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

Takhar leaned against the doorframe, his form still ghostly but somehow more substantial in the morning light.

"You need to stop doing that," Grayson muttered.

Takhar's lips curved into that familiar, infuriating smirk. "You're going to need more than weapons and armor for what comes next."

"I don't need your—"

"Yes, you do," Takhar interrupted, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic edge. "You're one man against an army. Even with my... gifts, you'll need allies."

Grayson's jaw tightened. "I don't need allies. I need better control." His fingers flexed unconsciously, remembering the chaos of the previous night. "Last night I was sloppy. Rushed. If I'd been more precise, more calculated..."

"You nearly died," Takhar countered, then paused, his spectral form shifting as if reconsidering his approach. "Tell me, in all this chaos, which group has remained notably absent from the violence?"

Grayson frowned, not following. "What do you mean?"

"You’ve got ghost operatives hunting you. I can imagine the various crime families are choosing sides, getting drawn into the bloodshed." Takhar's voice took on a contemplative tone. "Yet the Street Deacons…they've stayed remarkably quiet, haven't they? No involvement, no declarations, no picking sides."

Grayson shook his head. "Sounds like they are smart…" He turned away from the ghost, moving toward his weapons. "Besides, what I need is finesse. Surgical strikes. Brute force and charging in gets left me cornered and bleeding out in an alley."

"Precisely," Takhar said smoothly. "And what better finesse than information that hasn't been compromised? The Street Deacons have managed to stay above this war entirely. That takes considerable... restraint. Or perhaps strategic positioning."

Grayson paused, his hand hovering over his weapons. "They're neutral."

"Are they?" Takhar's tone was almost innocent. "Or are they simply waiting to see which way the wind blows? Either way, their neutrality makes them... uniquely valuable, wouldn't you say? Untainted by the current conflict."

Grayson's jaw worked as he considered this.

The Street Deacons had indeed been quiet.

Too quiet, maybe.

"Even if that's true," Grayson said slowly, "getting involved with anyone just creates more complications. More variables I can't control."

"Would it?" Takhar mused. "Or would visiting an old friend, someone who's managed to keep his organization entirely separate from your enemies…simply be... prudent reconnaissance? You don't need to recruit them, Grayson. But understanding why they've stayed out could tell you everything you need to know about how deep this conspiracy goes."

"I don't have friends in that world anymore," Grayson said flatly.

"Don't you?" Takhar's voice carried a knowing edge. "The leader of the Street Deacons... what was his name again?"

Grayson's silence stretched long enough that Takhar pressed further. "Someone you knew before all this started, perhaps? Before you became what you are now?"

"Kade," Grayson said finally, the name barely above a whisper. "We were kids together. Before everything went to hell."

"And bringing him into this would just give them more targets, more leverage to use against you, wouldn't it?" Takhar said, echoing Grayson's own concerns back to him.

Grayson moved toward the small mirror mounted on the wall near his weapons bench, expecting to see the same familiar face he had stared at for years.

Instead, what looked back at him seemed older.

The changes were subtle, but they were there.

His jaw was sharper, the hollows beneath his eyes darker.

The faint creases around his mouth were more pronounced, as if the strain of vengeance had begun etching itself into his skin.

He looked weathered, like a man who had walked through fire and barely come out the other side.

"One man with perfect control is worth more than an army of variables I can't predict or trust," Grayson said finally, meeting Takhar's gaze in the reflection. "After I prepare properly…maybe I'll pay Kade a visit. Not for help. For information."

Takhar's form rippled with what was unmistakably satisfaction. "Information is the sharpest blade of all."

"But I do it alone, and I do it right," Grayson replied firmly, running a hand over the stubble lining his jaw before stepping back. "Those ghost operatives nearly killed me because I was sloppy. That won't happen again. And if the Street Deacons know something about why they've stayed clean while everyone else is choosing sides... that could be worth a conversation."

Takhar's expression shifted, becoming more serious. "Grayson, listen to yourself. You just admitted they nearly killed you. 'Sloppy' doesn't explain away being outnumbered and outgunned." His spectral form moved closer, voice gaining intensity. "There's no such thing as a one-man army outside of movies and legends. Even gods need allies when the stakes are high enough."

Grayson's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists.

For a long moment, he stared at Takhar, the weight of the ghost's words settling over him like a heavy blanket.

The memory of bleeding out, barely escaping with his life, flashed through his mind.

"Maybe," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "But I've survived this long trusting only myself. And if I'm going to consider talking to Kade..." He paused, the admission feeling foreign on his tongue. "I need to be ready for anything. Including the possibility that even old friends can't be trusted."

Takhar nodded slowly, his spectral form beginning to fade. "Wisdom often comes wrapped in painful lessons. Prepare well, Grayson. But remember—sometimes the strongest fortress is built with more than one stone."

With that, the ghost disappeared, leaving Grayson alone with his thoughts and the weight of decisions yet to be made.

Whatever was happening to him, he couldn't afford to dwell on it now.

There was work to be done.