Giovanni "Johnny Red" Rossetti sat back in the plush leather of his Cadillac Fleetwood, a car that commanded attention on the streets of Chicago. It was a rare, custom-built model, sleek and gleaming black, with chrome accents that caught the glint of the streetlights as it cruised down Michigan Avenue. Inside, the cabin was all mahogany and polished brass, a testament to the finer things he’d acquired in life. Johnny Red’s thin fingers tapped idly on the head of his cane, a sturdy piece of dark wood topped with a silver raven, a bird of bad omens, or so they said. He didn't mind the irony. The cane was necessary now, a crutch for a body that had once been spry and quick but was now worn down by the weight of years and sins.

Johnny adjusted his cuffs, straightening the sleeves of his charcoal gray suit. It was finely tailored, the fabric whispering of its expense with every movement, but even the best threads couldn’t mask the wiry frame beneath. He was a lean man, his face sharp like a hawk’s, with deep-set eyes that still gleamed with a fierce intelligence. His hair, once a rich auburn, was now shot through with silver, slicked back in the old style, his signature scar—a pale, jagged line—still visible across his right cheek. A relic from another time, another life, when he had been nothing but muscle and ambition, eager to carve his name into the very bones of the city.

As the Cadillac glided past the towering steel and glass of downtown Chicago, Johnny looked out the window, his mind drifting back to his youth. He could almost see his reflection against the cityscape—the shadow of the boy he once was, full of fire and dreams. Back then, Chicago had seemed like a crown jewel, glittering and perfect, just waiting for the right man to reach out and pluck it from the velvet of the night sky.

He remembered the first time he’d stood on these streets as a young man, fresh from Sicily, with nothing but a knife in his pocket and a hunger that gnawed at his insides like a rabid dog. The city had called to him, promised him everything: power, respect, the kind of wealth that made men whisper his name in awe and fear. It had been a golden age for a man like him—bootleg booze running like water, the speakeasies alive with music and laughter, and the dirty money flowing into his hands faster than he could spend it.

Those were the days when he had run with the best of them, Al, Lucky, and Frank—names that now echoed in history, legends in their own right. But Johnny had survived them all, outlasted the wars and the bullets, the betrayals, and the broken deals. He had fought for every inch of this city, clawed his way to the top, one corpse at a time. Back then, it had all seemed so easy. The world had been full of possibilities, the city ripe for the taking.

Now, as the Cadillac rolled past the smoke-belching factories and the crowds hustling on the sidewalks, he could feel the weight of his years pressing down on him like a shroud. The city had changed, grown darker, harder to control. The younger men whispered behind his back, called him "old guard," "relic," as if they were already writing his obituary. But they didn't know him—didn’t know the fire that still burned in his veins, even now. He might be older, yes, a little slower on the draw, but he still had the wit, still had the mind, and he would be damned if he let this city slip through his fingers.

Johnny’s fingers tightened on his cane, and he felt the familiar ache in his joints, a sharp reminder that time was a ruthless enemy. But tonight was important—tonight, he was headed to a very special auction, one that could change everything. An opportunity had come his way, something unique, something that could tip the scales back in his favor.

He wasn’t the young man he used to be, but he still knew how to play the game, and he wasn’t done with Chicago. Not yet.

The Cadillac slowed to a stop in front of an imposing building, its windows darkened, the only light coming from a single, flickering bulb above the entrance. Johnny smiled to himself, a thin, cold smile. It was time to make a move. Time to show this city that Giovanni "Johnny Red" Rossetti still had a few cards left to play.

The auction took place in a building that wore the city’s grime like an old coat. It was hidden in plain sight, a crumbling warehouse along the river, with faded paint and cracked windows that suggested nothing but neglect to the casual observer. But the interior told a different story. The moment Giovanni "Johnny Red" Rossetti stepped through the double doors, flanked by his bodyguards, the atmosphere changed, like the sudden hush before a storm.

Inside, the space had been transformed. Low-hanging chandeliers flickered with a dim, golden light, casting long shadows across the room. Heavy velvet drapes covered the walls, muting the sound and adding an air of clandestine luxury. The smell of expensive cigars and perfume mingled with the faint scent of dust and age, the ghost of the warehouse’s former life. Round tables draped in deep burgundy cloth circled the room, each with a small brass number and an ashtray overflowing with cigar stubs. At the far end, a raised platform served as the stage, with a thick velvet curtain concealing the treasures yet to be revealed.

Men and women, the cream and the scum of Chicago and the Midwest, sat in these circles—sharp-suited gangsters with eyes like hawks, elegant ladies with diamonds draped around their necks, oil barons, and railway magnates, the kind of people whose names appeared in both society pages and secret indictments. Their whispers buzzed through the room, a low hum of intrigue and anticipation, and their eyes darted around like predatory birds, measuring each other up, taking the pulse of their rivals.

When Johnny Red entered, the room seemed to contract, all eyes turning to him in an instant. He cut a sharp figure against the backdrop of wealth and corruption, his wiry frame wrapped in a tailored suit that whispered old money and older secrets. His silver-streaked hair was slicked back, his cane tapping lightly against the floor with every step. His bodyguards, hulking men in dark overcoats, moved like shadows at his sides, their presence a silent warning to anyone who might think of getting too close.

As he made his way deeper into the room, heads turned, whispers grew louder, and a ripple of recognition and apprehension passed through the crowd. Johnny Red was a name that carried weight—a relic from a bygone era who still commanded respect. He was known to these people, feared by many, hated by some, and respected by all. His reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by his cunning. This was a man who had survived longer than most in a game that rarely allowed for long careers.

He made his way to a table near the center, where the light was soft, but the view of the stage was clear. As he approached, several men in expensive suits and women in fine gowns shifted in their seats, their conversations dropping to whispers. Some nodded to him, curt and cautious acknowledgments. Others avoided his gaze, keeping their eyes fixed on their drinks or their hands. A few smiled—a brief, polite flash of teeth—but none of them held it for long.

Johnny’s sharp gaze swept the room, taking in the familiar faces, the new ones, the nervous hands gripping champagne flutes, and the confident postures of those who thought they had the upper hand tonight. He had played this game too many times not to recognize a bluff when he saw one.

He reached his table and took a seat with a slow, deliberate grace, his bodyguards standing behind him like statues. The chair creaked under him as he settled in, and he leaned his cane against the side of the table, letting his fingers rest lightly on its silver raven head. His presence was magnetic, a black hole that drew the attention of the room. He gave a slight nod to the hostess, a woman in a deep green gown with a smile as sharp as a knife, who took it as her cue to begin.

“Welcome, Mr. Rossetti,” she purred, her voice carrying just enough sweetness to mask the fear that flickered in her eyes. “We’re honored by your presence.”

Johnny Red smiled thinly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure you are,” he replied, his voice low, gravelly, a voice that had commanded men to their deaths with the same casual ease.

The auctioneer, a slender man with slick hair and a voice like silk, took the stage, and a hush fell over the room. He began with a few words of introduction, a flowery preamble about “unparalleled opportunities” and “rare treasures,” but everyone knew what this was—a marketplace for the forbidden, a place where money could buy things that could not be found in any legitimate setting.

Objects of power, artifacts with rumored abilities, items steeped in legend, were hidden behind the heavy velvet curtain. Whispers of what lay behind it had been circulating for weeks: ancient manuscripts with lost knowledge, a Fabergé egg that had somehow escaped the Revolution, a dagger believed to have belonged to Vlad the Impaler, and, most intriguing of all, something alien—a relic from a place beyond the stars, with powers only whispered about in the darkest corners of the city.

The crowd leaned forward in their chairs, anticipation palpable in the air, every eye fixed on the curtain. Johnny Red settled deeper into his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the head of his cane. He could feel the excitement in the room, the desire, the greed, but he remained calm, his face a mask of quiet confidence. He had come here for a reason, and he intended to leave with exactly what he wanted.

He let his eyes drift to the stage, where the auctioneer was just beginning to unveil the first of the night’s treasures. The game was about to begin, and Johnny Red was ready to play.

Johnny Red shifted in his chair, his eyes narrowing as the auctioneer continued his grand, theatrical presentation. He was here for one thing, a singular item that had whispered to him from the shadows of the city’s underworld, a treasure unlike any other—a thing that could change everything. If the rumors were true, it was more than just an object of value; it was a weapon, one that could tilt the scales in his favor, one that could put an end to the man who had made it his mission to tear down everything Johnny had built.

The Night Watchman. The name alone made his blood run hot with anger. A ghost, a shadow, a relentless phantom that had been gnawing at the edges of his empire for too long. For years, the vigilante had waged a one-man war on Chicago's Mafia, striking from the darkness, picking off Johnny's men like a wolf culling the weak from a flock. Always unseen, always one step ahead, always there. No matter how many traps were laid, no matter how many men were sent to snuff him out, the Night Watchman slipped through Johnny’s fingers like smoke.

And now, the whispers in the alleys and backrooms spoke of a relic, an artifact of unknown origin, something alien—perhaps even something beyond this world. They said it had powers, strange and unfathomable, powers that could grant a man insights, make him see things others could not, think in ways that others could not fathom. They said it could make a man smarter, sharper, almost… untouchable. And Johnny Red, tired of being haunted by a shadow, was willing to pay any price to find out if the rumors were true.

The auctioneer was finally approaching the piece that had drawn him here, that singular object he craved above all others tonight. Johnny could see the tension ripple through the room, the barely restrained excitement in the faces of those who had come to bid. They didn’t know what he did; they didn’t have his ear to the ground, his network of whispers. To them, it was just another rare curiosity, another strange trinket to add to a collection. To him, it was the chance to tip the scales back in his favor, to snatch back the power he felt slipping through his grasp.

The velvet curtain drew back, and there it was. The item that had brought him here, hidden beneath a glass case, with soft light illuminating its strange form. It looked like a small, metallic object, roughly the size of a human heart, its surface covered in etchings that seemed to shift and move like liquid under the lights. It was like nothing he had ever seen—partly mechanical, partly organic, a fusion of metal and some unknown material that pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if it were alive. The very sight of it was unsettling, as if it were not meant to be in this world at all.

The auctioneer’s voice lowered even further, as if he were about to reveal a sacred secret, a forbidden truth. His eyes gleamed with a mixture of awe and fear, and the room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with anticipation.

“Now,” he intoned, his voice barely a whisper, “for the true showcase of the evening. A device unlike any other… an artifact that was once hidden in the deepest vaults of the SS. A treasure that the Nazis themselves retrieved from ancient ruins in the Black Forest. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… Item 29317: The Heart of Metal.”

A collective gasp swept through the room. Even the most jaded of attendees, the ones who had seen fortunes traded in the blink of an eye, leaned in, their eyes fixed on the auctioneer. The velvet curtain pulled back slowly, revealing the object beneath a spotlight, its strange, alien form seeming to pulse faintly, almost as if it were alive.

The auctioneer continued, his voice growing bolder, filled with the weight of the legend he was spinning. “According to Nazi reports, this device… this relic… is said to grant strength, power, and longevity to whoever possesses it! The very commanders of the Third Reich sought it out, believing it to be a gift from the gods themselves, a tool to shape the world to their vision. They kept it under lock and key, studying it, fearing it, and ultimately failing to unlock its true potential. And now, here it stands, awaiting a new master…”

Johnny Red’s eyes gleamed with a hunger he hadn’t felt in years. The Heart of Metal. That was why he was here, why he had ventured into this den of thieves and cutthroats. If the stories were true, this device could be the answer to everything. The power to counter the ravages of time, to regain what had been taken from him—his youth, his strength, his vitality. Maybe even more than that. Perhaps it could help him outthink, outlast, and outmaneuver the damned Night Watchman, who seemed to haunt his every step.

He felt the weight of his age every day, felt it in the aches of his bones, in the weariness that settled over him like a fog at dawn. He had been powerful once, unstoppable, feared. But the years had chipped away at him, taken pieces of him he could never get back… unless this device was real. Unless it could do what the rumors promised.

His gaze never left the Heart of Metal as it lay on the platform, shimmering under the light, its surface rippling like liquid steel. It seemed almost to beckon him, to call to some deep part of his soul. He imagined what it would feel like to hold that power in his hands, to feel its energy coursing through his veins, making him strong again, sharp again. Making him… whole.

He leaned forward, his voice low and determined. “Start the bidding,” he repeated, this time with a hint of urgency. He wasn’t going to let this one slip away. Not this time. The Heart of Metal was his, and with it, he would reclaim everything he had lost.

The auctioneer nodded, sensing the electricity in the room, the greed, the ambition, the desperation. “We will start the bidding at fifty thousand dollars,” he announced, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Do I hear fifty?”

“Fifty!” Johnny called out, his voice slicing through the room with an authority that made heads turn.

The bidding began in earnest, the numbers climbing higher and higher, but Johnny remained unfazed, each counter-bid met with a swift response. He could feel the eyes of the room on him, the curiosity, the envy, the calculations being made in every mind. He did not care. This was his moment, his chance to seize something more valuable than all the money in this room combined.

As the bids slowed, and it became clear that Johnny Red would not be denied, a smile crept across his face. “Sixty-five,” he declared, cutting off a rival’s hesitant attempt.

“Sixty-five thousand going once… going twice…” the auctioneer’s voice echoed.

Johnny's heart raced. The Heart of Metal was nearly his. A way to defy the years, to hold on to his power, and maybe, just maybe, put an end to the nightmare of the Night Watchman once and for all.

“Sold!” The auctioneer’s gavel came down, and the room exhaled a collective sigh. Johnny Red had won. The Heart of Metal was his.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the head of his cane, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk. Tonight, he had taken the first step toward rewriting his fate. Tonight, he would begin again.

Johnny arrived at his estate, a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of Chicago, its brick facade looming like a sentinel in the fading twilight. He stepped out of the Cadillac, the case containing his new acquisition held firmly in his hand, his knuckles white against the worn leather grip. The wind whispered through the trees lining the long driveway, and the distant sounds of the city seemed to fade away, leaving only the crunch of gravel beneath his polished shoes.

He strode up the steps, his cane tapping a steady rhythm beside him, and pushed open the heavy oak doors. The dimly lit foyer greeted him with an eerie silence, the shadows stretching long across the marble floor. He barely acknowledged the men stationed at various points, his trusted guards who watched him with guarded eyes, accustomed to his moods and the unpredictability that came with a life like his. Tonight, though, there was something different in his step, a new urgency, a sense of purpose.

He moved quickly through the halls to his study, shutting the double doors behind him with a firm click. The room was lined with dark, heavy bookshelves filled with tomes and ledgers, records of his empire and the secrets he’d collected over the years. A grand oak desk dominated the space, its surface clear except for a single ashtray and a glass decanter of whiskey.

Johnny placed the case carefully on the desk, his hands trembling slightly with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. He didn't know much about the Heart of Metal, but he knew enough to recognize its potential. If the SS had valued it, there had to be something more to it. He’d heard the stories—rumors of the Nazis' obsession with strange and powerful relics, of their quest for artifacts that could give them an edge in their mad drive for conquest. He knew they had searched the darkest corners of the world for anything that might tilt the balance in their favor, and they had taken this… thing, from an ancient ruin deep in the Black Forest.

He slowly opened the case, his eyes widening as he feasted on the sight of the object within. The Heart of Metal lay nestled in dark velvet, its surface gleaming with an otherworldly sheen under the soft light of the desk lamp. It was smaller than he’d imagined, no larger than his clenched fist, but its presence was undeniable. The etchings on its surface seemed to shift and pulse, like living metal, and he swore he could feel a faint vibration, a hum that resonated in his bones.

It looked ancient and yet impossibly advanced, a contradiction in form—a fusion of metal and something softer, almost flesh-like, that seemed to pulse in sync with his own heartbeat. It was beautiful, in a way, but also terrifying, as if it were never meant for human hands.

Johnny leaned closer, studying it intently, trying to make sense of its strange geometry, the way its lines seemed to twist and shift when viewed from different angles. A sense of power radiated from it, a promise of strength, of longevity, of something more than human. He could almost feel it calling to him, whispering in a language he couldn't quite understand.

He glanced at the folder that had come with the case—a thin file with yellowed pages, marked with the emblem of the Third Reich. He opened it carefully, the musty scent of old paper filling his nostrils, and began to sift through the scant notes inside. The documents were sparse, filled with scientific jargon and scribbled notations, but they hinted at what the Axis had managed to determine before the war had ended, before they had hidden it away.

Most of it was conjecture, wild theories about its origin—some speculating it was extraterrestrial, others insisting it was crafted by an ancient civilization lost to time. The words “unknown energy source” appeared repeatedly, underlined and circled in red ink. There were sketches of the Heart, rough diagrams that attempted to map out its structure, notes about its weight, its composition. One section speculated it could “interface” with its holder, bonding with them in some unknown way, but how that worked was a mystery even to them. A passage written in a hasty scrawl stood out:

"Contact may cause physiological changes. Reports of enhanced strength and cognitive function in proximity tests. Subjective observations suggest… intelligence augmentation? Further study required."

Johnny’s eyes narrowed at the last sentence. Intelligence augmentation. That was the key, wasn’t it? Something that could sharpen his mind, make him faster, more decisive. His fingers traced the edges of the folder as he considered his next move. He had always been a sharp one, even as a kid running schemes on the streets of Chicago. It was what had set him apart from the dumb muscle, the cannon fodder. He had a mind that could see around corners, think two steps ahead. And age, for all it had taken from his body, had only honed his mind, made him more dangerous.

He flipped through the pages again, searching for any clue, any hint of how to activate it, how to make the Heart of Metal work for him. His eyes fell on a line near the bottom of a page, half-hidden in the shadows:

"Responsive to touch. Responsive to thought."

He looked back at the object, his breath coming a little faster. "Responsive to thought…" he murmured. The Nazis had been too arrogant, too brutish to figure it out. But he wasn’t like them. He knew how to think, how to puzzle things out.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached out, his hand hovering over the strange object. Could it really be that simple? Could it really respond to his thoughts, his will?

He steadied himself, closed his eyes for a moment, and then made a decision. He reached down, fingers brushing the cool, strange surface of the Heart of Metal, feeling the faint hum of energy beneath his fingertips. He closed his eyes again and thought of power, of strength, of everything he’d lost and everything he wanted back.

He thought of the Night Watchman, that damned shadow who had stalked him for so long. He thought of himself, young and strong, running the streets, a force of nature. He thought of his empire, his name, his legacy. He thought of his will, his desire to bend the world back to his favor.

And then… he waited.

At first, there was nothing. The Heart of Metal lay still beneath his fingers, cold and unyielding, and Johnny felt a flicker of doubt, a momentary fear that he’d been taken for a fool. His grip tightened, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. But then, just as he was about to pull his hand away, he felt it—a slight ripple, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a single drop.

The Heart of Metal began to shift, its surface undulating like liquid mercury, a smooth, silver flow that moved with a life of its own. Johnny’s breath caught in his throat as he watched it snake and writhe toward his hand, tendrils of metal reaching out, brushing against his skin. It felt cool, almost like a gentle breeze against his flesh, and yet there was a strange weight to it, a presence that seemed to burrow into his very bones.

He steadied himself, gripping the edge of his desk with his free hand as the metal continued its inexorable advance, slithering up his wrist and forearm like a living thing. It moved with purpose, wrapping around his arm, sliding up to his shoulder, across his neck, and then, as if sensing his hesitation, it paused at his face, tendrils tracing the lines of his jaw, his lips.

Johnny inhaled sharply, feeling a sudden, instinctual fear—the kind a man feels in the dark when something unknown brushes against him. But he forced it down, crushed it with the sheer force of his will. He had come too far to turn back now. His fingers tightened around the desk, his knuckles white, and he slowly opened his mouth, his jaw clenching even as he did so, allowing the tendrils to find their way inside.

The sensation was like nothing he had ever felt before. The metal slid over his tongue, cool and smooth, like liquid steel, moving deeper, flowing down his throat, filling him. It was not painful at first—just strange, unnatural, like a foreign presence invading his very being. But then, without warning, a sharp pain stabbed through his chest, spreading outward like a bolt of lightning.

Johnny gasped, his vision blurring for a moment as the pain surged through him, a white-hot agony that seemed to reach into his core, twisting his insides, setting his nerves on fire. He clutched the desk with both hands now, his nails digging into the wood, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. It felt like his body was being torn apart, like the metal was finding its way through him, winding through his veins, his muscles, his very cells.

He could feel it moving inside him, feel it shifting, changing, doing… something. The pain was blinding, overwhelming, and for a moment, he felt his knees buckle, felt himself slipping, the edges of his vision darkening. His body screamed for him to let go, to give in, to let the darkness take him.

But he wasn’t a man who gave in to weakness or pain. Not Johnny Red. Not after everything he had survived. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching so hard he thought his teeth might crack, and forced himself to stay conscious, to hold on.

His knuckles whitened against the desk, and he nearly fell out of his chair, the room spinning around him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. Every nerve in his body screamed for relief, for the luxury of passing out, of letting the pain take him. But Johnny fought it, fought with every ounce of strength left in his aging body, refusing to give in.

He could feel the Heart of Metal coursing through him, feel it finding its place, merging with him, becoming a part of him. It was agony beyond anything he had ever known, but there was something else too—a warmth, a strength building in his chest, a strange, electric feeling spreading through his limbs. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, faster and faster, could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and yet… he felt stronger.

His breaths came quicker, steadier, and though the pain still burned through him, he could feel his body adjusting, his mind sharpening, the fog lifting. The Heart of Metal was doing something to him, something extraordinary. He just had to endure it a little longer.

He clung to consciousness, every muscle tensed, every nerve frayed, but he didn’t let go. He was Giovanni “Johnny Red” Rossetti, and he wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

And then, just as the agony reached its peak, Johnny felt it—a shift, a transformation deep within. The pain, once searing and unbearable, began to dull, replaced by something new, something extraordinary. It was as if the very fabric of his being was being rewoven, strand by strand, thread by thread, each stitch pulling him tighter, stronger, more whole.

He felt his body changing. The years that had settled like a weight on his shoulders, the slow, creeping decay of age, seemed to melt away. He could feel it in his bones, in his muscles, as if the clock were turning back with every heartbeat. The aches and pains that had plagued him for so long—the stiffness in his joints, the gnawing pain in his back, the dull throb in his knees—faded into nothingness, vanishing like a bad dream upon waking.

A warmth spread through his limbs, a powerful surge of energy, and he felt a strength he hadn’t known in decades, a vitality that flooded his veins like liquid fire. It was more than just a return to his prime; he felt better than he ever had, his muscles taut and powerful, his senses sharp, every nerve alive with newfound vigor. He glanced down at his hands, saw the wrinkles smoothing out, his skin regaining a firmness and color that had long since faded. His chest, his arms, every part of him—everything was stronger, healthier. Physically… perfect.

But it wasn’t just his body that had changed. He could feel it in his mind, a clarity he had never known before, a sense that his thoughts were moving faster, sharper, weaving through patterns and possibilities with a speed that felt almost alien. Concepts and ideas, things he’d once struggled with or never bothered to understand, unfolded in his mind like flowers opening to the sun. He could see the connections between things, comprehend complexities with a single glance, solve problems before he even knew he was thinking of them.

It was as if an entire university’s worth of scientific knowledge had been slipped into his brain, an understanding of physics, chemistry, biology—all of it, all at once, each piece falling into place with perfect clarity. The world seemed to slow around him, every detail heightened, every sound crisp and clear. He felt… brilliant. No, beyond brilliant. He felt like a genius, like he could see the gears turning in the world, see how everything connected, every move, every possibility.

He looked around his study, taking it all in with fresh eyes, his mind racing. The room seemed brighter, sharper, more alive than it ever had before. He felt… he felt invincible.

Johnny forced himself to stand, feeling the power in his legs, the energy in his body. He rose from his chair with a grace and strength that he hadn’t felt in years. His cane, his old crutch, clattered to the floor, forgotten, irrelevant. He didn't need it anymore.

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. He stretched out his arms, feeling the strength ripple through them, feeling like he could bend steel with his bare hands. His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn’t from fear or pain anymore—it was from pure, unadulterated exhilaration. He had done it. He had unlocked the Heart of Metal, and it had given him everything he had hoped for—and more.

He moved around the room, feeling the lightness in his step, the power in his movements. He felt like he could run a mile without breaking a sweat, fight a dozen men and come out on top. He felt… perfect. Better than perfect. He felt like a man reborn, a force of nature.

Johnny grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light of the study. The Night Watchman had haunted him for too long, a shadow in the night. But now, now things would be different. Now, he had the power, the strength, the mind to put an end to that vigilante once and for all. To reclaim his city, his legacy, his very life.

He knew in that moment that he was not just back to his prime; he was something more, something greater. And nothing—not age, not time, not even the Night Watchman—would stand in his way.

The world had better be ready for Giovanni "Johnny Red" Rossetti. Because he was coming back, and this time, he was unstoppable.

Chicago didn’t know what hit it. In the weeks that followed, the city trembled under the rebirth of Giovanni “Johnny Red” Rossetti. Word spread like wildfire through the underground, through the smoky backrooms of speakeasies and the hushed meetings in corner booths of dimly lit diners. The old man, the relic, had somehow become sharper, smarter, more dangerous than ever. Some said it was a miracle, others a curse, but no one dared question it—not when they saw what he was capable of.

He moved like a phantom through the city’s criminal underworld, weaving intricate webs that ensnared his enemies with ruthless efficiency. Every move he made was calculated, every action precise. His operations expanded rapidly, swallowing smaller outfits, absorbing their territory, their men, their resources. The other families—those who had whispered behind his back, called him old, weak—now turned to him, bowed their heads just like they had when he’d been in his prime. They recognized the shift in the air, the change in the tides. They saw the brilliance in his eyes, the fire that burned there, hotter than it ever had.

He orchestrated hits with surgical precision, moved money and goods with an ease that bordered on the supernatural. He anticipated police raids and countered them with distractions and diversions so clever that even the most hardened detectives were left baffled. His rivals found themselves outmaneuvered, out-thought, and outmatched at every turn, their operations collapsing as Johnny Red moved in, sweeping through their territory like a storm.

But his greatest triumph was with the Night Watchman. For years, that masked bastard had been a thorn in his side, a ghost in the dark, a force of nature that seemed always a step ahead, always there to disrupt, to sabotage, to bring down his empire one piece at a time. But now, for the first time, it was Johnny who was three steps ahead.

He could practically predict the Night Watchman’s every move, every attempt to intercept his shipments, every plan to raid his safehouses. It was like he could see into the vigilante’s mind, sense his intent before he even acted. And he countered him with a skill and precision that no one had ever managed before. He laid traps where the Night Watchman would strike, pulled his men back from locations just before the masked hero arrived. He leaked false information, setting up ambushes that nearly ended the vigilante’s crusade more than once.

The Night Watchman was on the backfoot, struggling to keep up, constantly finding himself one step too late, one piece of information too short. The city whispered that the unstoppable had finally met his match, that the legendary vigilante was being outplayed, outmaneuvered. Rumors spread like smoke in the wind. Johnny Red had finally become the greatest criminal mastermind Chicago had ever known, maybe even the entire Midwest.

And Johnny knew why. It was the Heart of Metal, now beating inside his chest, entwined with his very being. He could feel it there, a steady pulse beneath his skin, a source of strength and clarity unlike anything he had ever known. It had made him more than he had ever been, given him power beyond his wildest dreams, sharpened his mind to a razor’s edge. Every thought, every calculation, every instinct seemed to come to him faster, clearer, as if he were moving through the world while everyone else was stuck in slow motion.

He had outgrown his old limits. He was thinking on a different level now, seeing patterns where others saw only chaos, predicting moves like a grandmaster playing a dozen games at once. The Night Watchman had once been a phantom that haunted him, but now he was a quarry, a prize, a foe to be hunted down and destroyed. And it felt good, so good to know he had the upper hand, to feel that surge of power coursing through his veins with every breath he took.

Johnny Red stood at the center of his vast empire, a king reborn, and he relished every moment of it. The city was his again, bending to his will, dancing to his tune. And he knew, with the cold certainty of a man who had finally mastered his fate, that no one—not even the Night Watchman—would be able to stop him now.

Johnny sat in his study, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he counted the stacks of money before him. The room was filled with the comforting, familiar scent of old paper and ink, mingled with the sharper tang of freshly minted bills. Six months—it had been six months since the Heart of Metal had turned him from a relic of the past into the greatest kingpin Chicago had ever known. Six months of unbroken victories, of flawless plans executed with surgical precision, of the Night Watchman’s futile attempts to outmaneuver him. He felt invincible, untouchable, as if he had finally conquered everything and everyone that dared stand in his way.

He let out a satisfied chuckle, his fingers brushing the edges of the bills, when suddenly, without warning, his mind swam, and the world around him seemed to tilt. His vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over him, knocking him off balance. The room spun, the stacks of money twisting and warping into distorted shapes, and he grabbed the edge of his desk, struggling to steady himself.

And then he saw it.

He was no longer in his study but standing in a dark alley, the cold Chicago wind biting at his skin. The shadows closed in around him, and he felt a chill seep into his bones. Across from him stood the Night Watchman. The vigilante was bloodied, battered, his coat torn, his mask cracked. But his eyes were fierce, burning with a determination that made Johnny's breath catch in his throat. In the Night Watchman's hand was a revolver—a genuine Colt Peacemaker, its barrel leveled directly at Johnny’s head.

Johnny’s heart hammered in his chest, his mouth dry as he stared down the barrel of the gun. The Night Watchman’s voice cut through the darkness, low and filled with a quiet, cold fury.

"It's over, Rossetti," he said.

Johnny tried to move, to reach for his own weapon, but he felt rooted to the spot, his body frozen, his muscles locked. His mind raced, searching for a way out, a way to turn the tables, but nothing came. The vigilante’s finger tightened on the trigger, and Johnny could hear the click, the ominous, final sound that seemed to echo in his ears.

And then came the boom—the deafening roar of the gun, a flash of light that filled his vision, and then… blackness. Total, all-consuming blackness.

Johnny jolted back to reality, his heart racing, his breath coming in heavy, ragged pants. He was back in his study, the stacks of money scattered before him, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly his knuckles were white. Sweat dripped down his brow, his shirt clinging to his skin. He could still feel the echo of the gunshot in his ears, could still see the flash of light, the cold, implacable gaze of the Night Watchman staring at him in those final moments.

"What… what the hell was that?" he muttered, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

He had never felt anything like it before—never experienced anything so real, so vivid. It wasn’t a dream; it couldn’t have been. He was awake, fully conscious, and yet… he had been somewhere else, seen something that hadn’t happened but felt like it could, like it might.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs, the metal within him vibrating with a strange, unsettling hum. Was it the Heart of Metal? Was this some new trick, some new aspect of the power he had taken into himself?

His mind raced, trying to make sense of it, trying to grasp at any rational explanation. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He had never been prone to visions or hallucinations. His mind was sharper than ever, his thoughts clearer than they had ever been. So why… why had he seen that? Why had he seen his own death?

He looked down at his hands, saw them trembling, and clenched them into fists, forcing the fear down, pushing it back. No, he told himself. It was nothing. Just a momentary lapse, a trick of the mind. He was still in control. He had to be.

But deep down, in the darkest corner of his mind, a tiny seed of doubt had been planted, a whisper of uncertainty that he couldn’t quite ignore. What if it wasn’t just a vision? What if it was a warning?

Johnny shook his head, forcing the thought away, refusing to entertain it. No, he wouldn’t let fear take hold. Not now, not when he was at the height of his power. He was Giovanni “Johnny Red” Rossetti, and he wasn’t going to let some phantom vision shake him.

But even as he tried to dismiss it, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, as if expecting to see the Night Watchman standing in the shadows, waiting.

In the days and nights that followed, the vision returned, haunting Johnny with a relentless persistence that gnawed at his nerves and clawed at his sanity. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he let his guard down for even a moment, it was there—waiting for him. The same scene, over and over again, like a film stuck on a loop.

He would be back in that dark alley, the cold wind biting at his skin, the shadows pressing in around him. The Night Watchman would stand before him, bloodied but defiant, the Colt Peacemaker steady in his grip. Those eyes, fierce and unwavering, would bore into him with a hatred so intense it made his skin crawl. And then the words, always the same, always with that same cold finality:

"It's over, Rossetti."

The click of the trigger. The boom of the gun. The flash of light, and then the blackness that swallowed him whole.

Each time, he woke with a start, his heart pounding, his breath ragged, cold sweat soaking his sheets. He felt it in his bones, the certainty of it, the inevitability. The Heart of Metal pounded in his chest, its strange rhythm syncing with his own racing heartbeat, a reminder of the power he had claimed… and the price he might have to pay for it.

He tried to shake it off, to dismiss it as just a trick of his overactive mind, a byproduct of the strange energy that now flowed through his veins. But the fear, the doubt, grew stronger with each passing night, each new vision. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, a cold, creeping dread that settled in his gut like lead.

He began to see the signs during the day as well—fleeting images, flashes of that final moment. He would be in the middle of a meeting, surrounded by his most trusted lieutenants, and suddenly, the room would spin, and he’d be back in the alley, staring down the barrel of that gun. He would blink, and it would be gone, but the afterimage would linger, a ghostly imprint that refused to fade.

The visions came more frequently now, not just when he slept, but whenever he let his mind wander, whenever he lost focus for even a second. They were a constant, nagging presence in the back of his mind, like a toothache that never quite went away. They drained him, left him on edge, jittery, his nerves frayed. He found himself snapping at his men, barking orders with a sharpness that bordered on desperation.

And then, late one night, as he sat alone in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey, another vision struck, more vivid and powerful than before. It hit him like a tidal wave, knocking the breath from his lungs. He saw himself again, standing before the Night Watchman, the gun aimed at his head, and he felt the cold steel press against his temple, felt the click of the trigger, the roar of the shot.

But this time, he heard something else, a voice, low and insistent, a whisper in his mind that seemed to come from somewhere deep within, from the very core of the Heart of Metal that now beat inside him.

"Kill him."

The word reverberated through his skull, echoing again and again, a demand, a command that made his hands tremble. It was as if the Heart itself was speaking to him, warning him, telling him what he had to do. The vision was not just a premonition; it was a directive.

He had to kill the Night Watchman. It was the only way. The only way to break the cycle, to end the visions, to save himself from the fate that awaited him. The Heart was showing him his future, his death, and it was telling him that there was only one way to change it.

Johnny's breath quickened, and he felt a surge of adrenaline, a mix of fear and determination coursing through him. Yes, that had to be it. That had to be why the Heart was warning him. It wanted him to act, to eliminate the threat, to destroy the man who dared to stand against him.

He set his glass down, his mind racing. He had to find the Night Watchman, had to confront him, had to end this once and for all. He wouldn’t let some masked crusader decide his fate. He had fought too hard, clawed his way too far to let it all be taken from him now.

Johnny Red Rossetti wasn’t going to wait for death to find him. He was going to hunt it down and kill it first. The Night Watchman had to die.

Johnny leaned back in his chair, a slow, grim smile spreading across his face as the plan took shape in his mind. The Heart of Metal had warned him, shown him what could be, what would be if he didn't act. It had given him a glimpse of his own death, a vision of his end at the hands of that damned vigilante. But it had also given him something more: a chance to change his fate, to take control, to turn the tables on the Night Watchman before the prophecy could come true.

He would set a trap. He would lure the vigilante into a carefully planned ambush, a place where every inch of ground had been prepared, every angle covered, where he could control the field and dictate the terms of their final encounter. The Night Watchman would think he had the upper hand, that he was closing in for the kill, but he would be walking right into Johnny’s web.

Johnny knew the Night Watchman well enough by now to predict his moves. The man had a code, a pattern, an unwavering sense of justice that made him both dangerous and predictable. He couldn't resist a baited hook, not when he thought it meant bringing a criminal like Johnny to justice. That was his weakness: his righteousness, his arrogance. And Johnny would use it against him.

He would soften the vigilante up first, wear him down with his best men, his best weapons. The thugs and enforcers he had at his disposal were no common street muscle; they were battle-hardened professionals, armed to the teeth with the latest weapons and gear, men who had proven themselves in the bloodiest fights. They would harry the Night Watchman, hit him from all sides, exhaust him, weaken him, make him bleed.

And then, when the bastard was tired, when his moves were slowing, when his reflexes were just a fraction too slow, Johnny would step in himself. He would finish it, just like he had in the old days—only this time, he wasn’t just the sharp-eyed, quick-witted kid who clawed his way to the top. This time, he had the Heart of Metal coursing through his veins, giving him the strength and power of a man reborn. A mind like a razor and a body that felt unbreakable.

He would face the Night Watchman with all the power and intelligence that the Heart had granted him, with the cunning of a fox and the strength of a lion. And he would make sure that the last thing that masked fool ever saw was his face, the face of Giovanni “Johnny Red” Rossetti, smiling as he pulled the trigger.

Johnny pushed himself up from his chair, his movements smooth, fluid, his body humming with energy. He didn’t need the cane anymore; he hadn’t touched it in weeks. He felt like he was twenty years younger, his muscles lean and strong, his joints supple. He felt invincible.

He crossed the room to the window and looked out over the city, the skyline glittering in the night, the streets winding like veins through the dark heart of Chicago. This was his city. His empire. And he wasn’t about to let some upstart vigilante take it away from him.

He turned back to his desk, his mind racing with possibilities. He needed to set the perfect bait, something the Night Watchman couldn’t resist. A high-profile meeting, perhaps, or a shipment of contraband that couldn’t be ignored. Something big, something that would draw him out of the shadows and into the open.

Johnny sat back down and began to sketch out the details, every move planned, every contingency accounted for. He would leave nothing to chance. He would make sure the Night Watchman had no way out, no avenue of escape. He would corral him, trap him like an animal, and then he would strike.

And when it was over, when the Night Watchman lay dead at his feet, Johnny would look down at him and laugh, knowing he had outsmarted fate itself.

The Heart of Metal beat steadily in his chest, a rhythm that matched his own. It had given him this chance, this power, and he would use it to end the vigilante once and for all. He would take the heart's warning and turn it into his victory.

Johnny leaned back, his eyes glittering with determination. He was ready. The game was on, and he had no intention of losing.

He would end the Night Watchman before the vigilante ever had a chance to end him.

The ambush was a masterpiece of planning, a trap so perfect that even Johnny Red himself had to admire its elegance. He had spent weeks meticulously crafting every detail, studying every inch of the chosen battleground, anticipating every move the Night Watchman might make. The location was a dilapidated warehouse by the docks—a place that seemed like the perfect hideout for a high-stakes deal, the kind the Night Watchman couldn't resist disrupting.

The old man smirked, his fingers tapping a rhythmic beat on the arm of his chair as he imagined the scene playing out. The Night Watchman wouldn’t even know what hit him. The vigilante might not even make it to him; his men were positioned like chess pieces, each one carefully placed for maximum effect. The best shooters, armed with automatic weapons, were stationed in the rafters, their sights trained on every entry point. A dozen more waited in the shadows, their faces hidden beneath masks, their fingers itching to unload a hail of bullets.

If his men were lucky, they might even take the bastard alive. That was Johnny's preference, truth be told. There would be nothing sweeter than dragging the vigilante out of the shadows and into the light, showing the city that the great Night Watchman was nothing but a man—a man who could bleed, who could break, who could be brought low like any other. And when they had him, they’d make a real example out of him, show everyone what happened when you crossed Giovanni "Johnny Red" Rossetti.

He could almost see it now: the Night Watchman bound and beaten, on his knees, his mask ripped away, his eyes wide with fear. The spectacle of his humiliation would be a lesson to anyone else who thought they could challenge Johnny's power, his authority. It would be a warning, a declaration that Johnny Red was not a man to be trifled with, that his reach extended beyond the grave itself.

But first, the trap had to be sprung. Johnny had spread just enough word about the shipment—a valuable cache of weapons, something too big and too dangerous to be ignored. His informants would have whispered in the right ears, let the right rumors leak, made sure the vigilante got wind of it. And the Night Watchman, with his unshakeable sense of justice, his arrogance, his need to prove himself the city’s savior, would take the bait. Johnny was sure of it.

From his vantage point in a nearby building, Johnny watched the warehouse with a pair of high-powered binoculars, every sense on high alert. The night was still, the moon casting long shadows across the docks, the water lapping softly against the pilings. His men were in place, the best of the best, ready and waiting. All they needed now was for the Night Watchman to show his face.

He felt the Heart of Metal pulsing in his chest, its strange rhythm matching the excitement coursing through his veins. His mind felt sharper than ever, his senses heightened to a razor’s edge. He could almost feel the Night Watchman approaching, could almost predict the way the vigilante would move, the angles he would take. This was going to be the fight of the Night Watchman's life—the last fight he would ever be in.

Johnny’s smirk widened. He had played this game longer than anyone, had risen from the gutters to rule over Chicago with a grip of iron. He was the master of this city, its king. And tonight, he would finally end the one threat that had eluded him for so long.

He checked his watch, his eyes never leaving the warehouse. Any minute now. Any minute, and the Night Watchman would walk into his final reckoning. Johnny could feel it. The pieces were all in place. The stage was set. And he was ready.

Tonight, the vigilante would learn what happened when you went up against Giovanni "Johnny Red" Rossetti. And Johnny would prove, once and for all, that he was more than just a man—he was destiny itself, and not even the Night Watchman could escape his reach.

Things unfolded exactly as Johnny had expected. The lights went out, plunging the warehouse into darkness just as he knew they would. The Night Watchman thrived in the shadows, using them as his cover, his ally. But Johnny had studied the vigilante's every move, his every tactic, and his men were ready with counters, prepared to turn the darkness against him.

The men moved swiftly, like a well-oiled machine. As soon as the power was cut, lanterns flickered to life, casting pools of light across the warehouse floor, revealing the spaces where shadows had once held sway. The beams swung slowly, methodically, leaving no corner unexamined, no hiding place unchecked. The Night Watchman preferred to strike from the dark, but tonight, the dark was no refuge.

Tommy guns were at the ready, their barrels pointed at every potential point of entry. The sound of footsteps echoed through the space, heavy boots moving in formation, and Johnny’s men fanned out with precision. They wore armored vests, prepared for any bullet that might fly their way, and their fingers were tight on their triggers, their eyes sharp, their nerves steady. Each of them knew the stakes, knew that failure was not an option.

There was a certain grim elegance to the operation, a dance choreographed by Johnny himself, where every step, every movement had been anticipated. He had planned for every possibility, every contingency, and his men had been drilled until they could move in their sleep. He had handpicked the best of the best, men he trusted with his life, men who knew that tonight was about more than just catching a vigilante—it was about sending a message.

Johnny sat in the upper level of the warehouse, far above the fray, where he could see everything, his fingers still drumming a steady beat on the armrest of his chair. The Heart of Metal beat in his chest, humming with a strange energy, its rhythm matching his own confidence, his own anticipation. He watched through the binoculars, saw the flicker of shadows, the glint of metal, and he checked his watch with a satisfied smile. Everything was going perfectly.

The Night Watchman was playing right into his hands.

He could see the signs of the vigilante’s approach—the faint creak of a door opening, the shifting of shadows where none should be. The Night Watchman was doing what he always did, slipping through the cracks, moving silently, looking for the first man to pick off. But this time, Johnny’s men were ready. They had the exits covered, the sightlines guarded. The slightest flicker of movement was met with a spray of bullets, the staccato burst of tommy guns filling the air like thunder.

There were traps waiting at every turn—thin wires strung at ankle height, ready to trip, tripwires connected to flashbangs that would light up the night like a New Year’s Eve party. His men were patient, disciplined, moving in sync, their eyes scanning every shadow, their ears pricked for the slightest sound. They had strict orders: no one breaks formation, no one moves without a signal. And they were following those orders to the letter.

Johnny’s smirk deepened as he watched his men work, the light from the lanterns casting long, shifting shadows on the walls. He could almost see the frustration building in the Night Watchman, could almost feel the growing tension as the vigilante realized that he was up against something different tonight, something more formidable than he had ever faced before.

Johnny checked his watch again. The seconds ticked by, and still, everything was going according to plan. The Night Watchman was being driven, corralled, pushed deeper into the warehouse, where the final trap waited, where Johnny himself would be waiting.

He felt the pulse of the Heart of Metal in his chest, felt the confidence surging through him like a wave. He had the upper hand, and he knew it. Tonight, he would end this once and for all.

The Night Watchman was in for the fight of his life—the last fight he would ever be in. And Johnny Red was going to savor every moment of it.

Then he heard it—the sound he had been waiting for, the sound that told him his trap was closing in perfectly. A thunderous explosion ripped through the night, shaking the very foundations of the warehouse, its force vibrating through the metal beams and rattling the glass in the windows. The blast sent a plume of fire and smoke billowing into the sky, lighting up the darkness like a sudden sunrise.

Johnny’s grin widened into a full, predatory smile. The car bomb. It had gone off, just as he’d planned.

He knew the Night Watchman’s car was more than just a vehicle. It was an armory on wheels, stocked with weapons, ammunition, and everything the vigilante needed to wage his one-man war against the city's underworld. For years, the vigilante had used that car to his advantage, using it as a mobile fortress, a safe haven, a constant source of extra firepower when things got tough.

But unlike others who had tried and failed to deal with the car, Johnny had been patient. He’d had his men watch, wait, and observe. He’d learned the Night Watchman’s habits, figured out which car he was using on any given night, watched for the telltale signs that marked the vehicle as his. It wasn’t easy; the bastard was smart, always changing cars, always rotating through different models to keep people guessing. But Johnny had been smarter. He’d studied him like a hawk, and when the time was right, he’d placed the bomb.

And now, the explosion confirmed it: they’d gotten the right one.

Johnny could feel the shift in the air, could sense the impact the loss would have on his adversary. The car was more than just a piece of equipment; it was a lifeline. The Night Watchman depended on it, on the cache of weapons and supplies hidden in its secret compartments, on the extra ammo and guns that he stashed there for emergencies. With it gone, he was cut off, isolated, forced to rely on whatever he had on his person.

A cruel laugh bubbled up from Johnny’s throat. He could almost imagine the look on the Night Watchman’s face, the realization dawning as he heard the explosion, as he understood what it meant. The vigilante would know he was trapped now, caught in a deadly game with no easy way out. No car, no reinforcements, no fallback plan. Just him, alone in the dark, surrounded by men with orders to kill on sight.

Johnny’s fingers drummed on the armrest again, a steady, satisfied rhythm. Everything was going perfectly. The Night Watchman had been forced deeper into the warehouse, his every exit covered, his every move anticipated. And now, with his precious car destroyed, he was truly at Johnny’s mercy.

The old man leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a dark triumph. The trap was closing tighter. The Night Watchman was bleeding, weakened, and soon, he’d have nowhere left to run. And when that moment came, Johnny would be there, waiting, ready to deliver the final blow.

He checked his watch one more time, his pulse quickening with excitement. He could already taste victory in the air, feel it tingling on his skin. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he would end this once and for all.

He rose from his chair, readying himself, the Heart of Metal thrumming in his chest, filling him with a sense of power and certainty he hadn’t felt in years. It was time to finish this.

“Let’s see you dance now, you son of a bitch,” Johnny muttered under his breath, his smile widening.

The Night Watchman was in for the fight of his life—and Giovanni “Johnny Red” Rossetti was going to make sure it was his last.

One of Johnny's men burst through the door, his face flushed with excitement, practically stumbling over his words as he rushed forward. "Boss, boss! It's just like you said!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with breathless urgency. "After he cut the power, he went back to his car—that’s when we set the bomb off! Caught him right in the blast, must’ve blown him to smithereens!"

Johnny's grin widened, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction. He leaned back slightly, the leather of his chair creaking beneath him, savoring the news like a fine wine. It was almost too good to be true. He had anticipated the Night Watchman's moves down to the second, predicted his retreat to the car for extra ammo, just as the vigilante always did when things got tight. And now, it seemed, the bastard had finally paid the price for his predictability.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound deep and rumbling, his heart thrumming in his chest. "Blown to smithereens, you say?" Johnny repeated, his voice smooth, like silk dragged over gravel. He could hardly believe it; it was almost too perfect, the culmination of months of careful planning and preparation. The vision, the warning from the Heart of Metal—it all made sense now. He had acted, and he had won.

“Are you sure?” he asked, though his tone betrayed little doubt. “You saw it with your own eyes?”

The man nodded vigorously, his face beaming with triumph. “Yes, boss, we were watching from the alley. He was sneaking back to his car, just like you said he would, and then—BOOM! We saw the flames, heard the blast. No way he could’ve survived that, not a chance!”

Johnny’s grin grew wider. He felt a surge of exhilaration, a rush of triumph coursing through his veins. It seemed the Heart had guided him right after all, given him the edge he needed to outmaneuver the Night Watchman, to turn the hunter into the hunted. If the vigilante was truly gone, blown to pieces by the car bomb, then he had done it—he had finally rid himself of the one obstacle that had stood in his way for so long.

He looked out over the warehouse floor, where his men continued their sweep, lanterns swinging, guns ready. Everything was going according to plan. The Night Watchman had walked right into the trap, just as he’d hoped, and now he was nothing but ash and smoke.

Still, a small, nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered a word of caution. He had faced the Night Watchman too many times, knew his tenacity, his ability to slip through even the tightest net. Was it really that easy? Could it truly be over just like that?

But Johnny forced the doubt aside, crushing it beneath the weight of his confidence. He had planned this ambush to perfection, accounted for every move, every tactic. His men were the best, his intel solid. The car bomb was the linchpin, and it had gone off exactly as intended.

He nodded slowly, his smile unwavering. “Good work,” he said to the man, his voice calm and measured, though inside he felt a thrill of victory unlike any he’d ever known. “Keep everyone on high alert, just in case. We make sure there’s nothing left of him, no loose ends.”

The man nodded, hurrying back to his post, leaving Johnny alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t resist one last glance at his watch, the hands ticking steadily forward, marking the time of the Night Watchman’s demise.

“Rest in pieces, you masked bastard,” he muttered, still grinning. Tonight was a good night.

But as he turned his gaze back to the floor, his instincts, honed from years of surviving in a world where death waited around every corner, whispered that it wasn’t time to relax just yet. He had won… or had he?

Johnny kept his hand close to his sidearm, his eyes narrowing, ears tuned to every creak, every shadow. He wanted to believe it was over, but something told him the final act was still to come.

Johnny’s grin was still plastered across his face as he stepped out into the cold night air, the thrill of victory thrumming in his veins. He motioned for his men to follow, slipping into a side alley that would lead them to his waiting car, the escape route he’d planned meticulously. The blast had been loud enough to draw attention; the cops would be swarming the docks soon, and he had no intention of sticking around for a shootout.

Tonight had gone better than he could have hoped. He was going to sleep well, knowing he had finally done what no one else could—ended the reign of the Night Watchman. He would go down in history as the man who killed the vigilante who had terrorized Chicago’s underworld for so long.

But as they moved through the alley, Johnny’s senses stayed sharp, his instincts buzzing with the remnants of adrenaline. That nagging feeling at the back of his mind still hadn’t let go, a whisper of caution, a reminder that the Night Watchman was no ordinary opponent.

And then he heard it.

Two shots rang out in rapid succession, the sharp, distinct crack of a Lee-Enfield rifle, a weapon that cut through the night like a knife. Johnny's head snapped up just in time to see his bodyguards crumple to the ground, their bodies falling limp, their lifeblood spilling out onto the cold, wet pavement. The sound echoed down the alley, and in an instant, Johnny’s heart was pounding, his breath catching in his throat.

And then, in the flickering firelight of the car bomb’s aftermath, Johnny saw him—the Night Watchman, stepping out of the darkness like a ghost, his coat billowing in the wind, his wide-brimmed hat low over his face. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, seemed to burn with that same relentless determination that had made him a legend in the shadows of Chicago. The vigilante's stance was solid, feet planted firmly, the Lee-Enfield held steady in his hands, the barrel still smoking.

But Johnny saw the truth now: the Night Watchman wasn’t unscathed. He was battered, bloodied. He hadn’t caught the bomb directly, but the explosion had taken its toll. The armor beneath his coat had saved his life, absorbed the worst of the blast, but Johnny could see the places where glass, metal, and fire had cut or burned him. Blood trickled down his face, staining the mask, but his resolve was unbroken, his purpose as clear as ever.

Johnny’s mouth went dry. The bastard had survived. He wasn’t dead—hadn’t even been in the car when the bomb went off. He’d slipped past death’s grip once more and now stood before Johnny like a specter, like some avenging spirit came to claim what was owed.

"Rossetti," the Night Watchman growled, his voice cutting through the crackling flames, low and steady, full of a cold fury that sent a shiver down Johnny’s spine. “Did you really think you could kill me that easily?”

Johnny’s hand flew to his side, reaching for his own gun, but his fingers felt clumsy, unsteady… old. The confidence that had filled him just moments ago seemed to drain away like water through a sieve. The Heart of Metal pulsed erratically in his chest, a frantic, disjointed rhythm that matched the rising panic coursing through his veins. How had it gone so wrong? He had planned everything, every move, every counter. How had this happened? And why… why did he suddenly feel the ache in his leg, the sharp, familiar pain he hadn’t felt in months? Why did it feel like all the power the Heart had given him was slipping away?

The Night Watchman took a step forward, his silhouette stark against the glow of the burning car, a figure carved from shadow and smoke. His voice carried the weight of inevitability, each word heavy with the gravity of judgment. "It's time you've paid the price for your sins."

The Night Watchman dropped the rifle with a thud that echoed in the narrow alley, his hand moving smoothly to his side, drawing out a black Colt revolver, a relic of a bygone era—a symbol of justice, American justice, frontier justice. The weapon seemed to gleam in the firelight, its barrel pointing steadily at Johnny.

Johnny felt his leg buckle beneath him, the strength fading fast. Without his cane, he stumbled, catching himself against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, he felt it—a sharp, searing pain deep in his chest, a pain that made his hands tremble, made his voice catch in his throat. His heart. It was like a vice was squeezing it, tightening with every second, every heartbeat, the metal inside him pulsing with a frantic energy that felt… wrong. The power that had surged through him was fading, unraveling, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

The Night Watchman drew closer, his steps slow, deliberate, each one measured, purposeful. He raised the Colt with a steady hand, aiming directly at Johnny’s head. The vigilante's eyes burned behind the mask, the intensity of his gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade.

"It's over, Rossetti," the Night Watchman said, his voice cold, final, the words ringing with a truth that sent a jolt of fear down Johnny's spine.

Johnny’s vision blurred, his mind racing, the pain in his chest intensifying, becoming unbearable. He felt the weight of his years pressing down on him, felt the power that had carried him this far slipping away. The Heart of Metal had given him a chance, but now, in his final moments, it seemed to abandon him, leaving him weak, old, vulnerable.

He heard the click of the hammer being pulled back, the cold, unmistakable sound of finality.

"No… no…" he whispered, his voice weak, breaking. But the Night Watchman’s aim was steady, his gaze unwavering.

And then, with a single, sharp squeeze, there was the click, the boom, the flash of the muzzle, and then… darkness. Complete, consuming darkness, as if the world itself had blinked out of existence, leaving nothing behind.

And in that void, Johnny Rossetti’s heart stopped beating.

A week later…

A group of G-Men arrived at the Chicago morgue, their faces stern and expressionless, their dark suits blending into the shadows of the dimly lit room. They moved with purpose, flashing government credentials that bore no specific agency, just an authoritative seal that suggested anyone asking questions might not like the answers they’d get. No one questioned them, not the coroner, not the morgue attendants. The city had seen enough strange things in the last few years; this was just one more for the books.

Johnny Rossetti’s body lay on the cold, steel table, a white sheet pulled up to his neck. His face was a mix of surprise and fear, a twisted expression that had not faded in death. The G-Men exchanged a brief glance, then moved quickly, efficiently, loading the body onto a gurney and wheeling it toward a nondescript black van waiting outside. They lifted him into the back without ceremony, closing the doors with a solid thud that seemed to echo in the stillness of the alley.

One of the agents, a tall man with a square jaw and cold blue eyes, slid into the driver’s seat, while his partner, a shorter man with a clipped mustache and a deep frown etched into his face, took the passenger side. As the engine rumbled to life, the driver glanced at his partner, a question hanging in the air.

“So, he’s the guy who got the heart?” he asked, his voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the engine.

“Yeah,” the other man replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Shame they didn’t include the rest of the reports the Nazis had on it.”

The driver snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, that thing’s more of a curse than a blessing, from what we’ve seen. Replaces the host’s heart, and in every case, pushes them toward their own death before failing them when they need it most.”

The mustached agent nodded grimly, his eyes narrowing as he looked out at the darkened streets. “Well, it’s going into containment until we can figure out what the hell it is and why it does what it does. Why it devours human hearts and then kills the host.”

The driver grunted in agreement. “Yeah. One more thing for the vault.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror, at the back of the van where Johnny’s body lay, still and lifeless. Whatever had driven the old mobster to seek out the Heart of Metal, whatever desperate need for power or fear of death, had ended in this. Another victim of the strange, unknown forces that seemed to hover just outside the reach of human understanding.

The van pulled away from the curb, its tires crunching on the wet pavement as it drove off into the night, disappearing into the labyrinthine streets of Chicago. Its destination: a facility somewhere deep within the heart of America, where the government kept its darkest, most poorly understood secrets, where things like the Heart of Metal could be locked away, studied, and, maybe someday, understood.

But for now, it was going into containment, secured in a place where no one could find it, where its dark, malevolent hunger would be kept at bay. And there, under the cold, clinical lights of some hidden laboratory, the Heart would be extracted from Johnny’s chest, removed from its latest victim, and stored in the depths of the vault.

Where it would wait. And wait.

For the next soul desperate enough to seek its power, and foolish enough to believe they could control it.