The year is 1938, the place is Chicago.

The city sprawls like a beast of concrete and steel, its streets a labyrinth of vice and corruption. The wind howls down narrow alleys, carrying with it the scent of smoke, gasoline, and despair. In the heart of this city, beneath flickering streetlights and the long shadows they cast, a figure stands out against the night.

A man in a trench coat and mask, a fine fedora perched on his head, holds a Tommy gun, still steaming in the cool autumn air. He is a murderer. His presence contrasts sharply with the bustling life around him—a ghost in a city that never sleeps. The coat flaps slightly in the breeze, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes, concealing the thoughts hidden behind the mask.

The Tommy gun in his hands is still warm, the barrel smoking from recent use. He doesn’t flinch as sirens wail in the distance, growing closer with every passing second. The gun is more than a weapon; it’s a symbol of the fear he’s sown through Chicago's underbelly.

Lifeless bodies lie at his feet, their blood seeping into the cracks of the cold pavement. They were gangsters, the kind who thought they owned this city, who believed they could act without consequence. But tonight, they learned how wrong they were. They crossed a line, and now they’ve paid the price.

A groan from one of the bodies interrupts the silence. The Nightwatchman steps forward, looking down at a wounded gangster struggling to speak. The man’s voice is ragged, his eyes wide with fear.

“Please… I got a family…” he gasps, his voice barely a whisper.

The Nightwatchman’s eyes narrow behind his mask. “So did I.” The Tommy gun roars once more, and the alley is plunged back into silence.

To some, he’s a hero—a vigilante cleaning up the streets when the law fails. But the truth is far more complicated and darker. He doesn’t act out of justice or duty. This man operates by his code, one that the police, criminals, and even the innocents of Chicago will never fully understand.

As he looks down at the bodies, there’s no satisfaction in his gaze, no remorse—just cold calculation. He knows the game he’s playing, knows there’s no room for hesitation or weakness. Every life he takes is a step further down the path he’s chosen—a path that leads only one way.

They call him the Nightwatchman in the papers and on the radio. To some, he’s a myth, a ghost story whispered in smoky bars and dimly lit alleys. Others swear he’s a serial killer, preying on the wicked and innocent alike. Still, others believe he’s just another crook, a product of the same corrupt system that has rotted Chicago to its core.

But the truth is simpler—and far more unsettling. He’s just a man.

A man who once walked these streets as an ordinary citizen, who loved this city with all its grit and glamour. He watched as Chicago, his beloved home, slipped down the drain. He watched as mafias carved up neighborhoods like vultures picking at a carcass, as crooked cops turned a blind eye in exchange for a few bills, as politicians—men who were supposed to protect and serve—lined their own pockets with the spoils of the city’s suffering.

He watched as good people were pushed to the margins, forced to live in fear as gangs and criminals took over. The Windy City, once vibrant and alive, had become a cesspit of murder and crime, where the strong preyed on the weak, and the law was nothing more than a tool for those with power.

And he couldn’t just stand by and let it happen.

The sun was setting over Chicago, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. He remembered coming home that evening, a smile on his face and a bouquet of roses in his hand. His children’s laughter echoed through the hallway, and the scent of his wife’s cooking filled the air. It was a perfect moment—a fleeting glimpse of the life he had worked so hard to build.

But then the door burst open. Men in dark suits and cold smiles stormed in, their guns raised. He fought back, tried to protect them, but he was only a man, and they were ruthless. The last thing he remembered was the sound of gunfire, his children’s laughter turning into screams, and the roses falling to the floor, petals scattering like drops of blood.

So he became the Nightwatchman, a silent sentinel stalking the shadows of Chicago. He took on the mantle not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had to. No one else could do what needed to be done; no one else could fight back against the tide of corruption drowning his city.

He’s seen the city’s underbelly in ways most people never will—seen the faces of men who kill without remorse, the twisted smiles of politicians who sell out their constituents for a quick payday, the hollow eyes of cops who’ve long since given up on justice. And he’s taken it upon himself to mete out the only justice that seems to matter in a city like this—swift, brutal, and final.

The Nightwatchman isn’t a hero. He doesn’t wear a cape or fight for glory. He’s not a saint, and he’s certainly not a savior. He’s a man driven by anger, disillusionment, by a burning desire to see the city he loves cleansed of the filth that has overtaken it. He knows that what he’s doing will likely destroy him in the end, but he doesn’t care. If he can make a difference—if he can take down just one more criminal, one more corrupt official—then it’s worth it.

A sound breaks through his thoughts—a child crying in the distance. He turns, peering through the shadows to see a little girl, her face streaked with tears, standing at the edge of the alley. She must have wandered too far from home. The sight of her tugs at something deep within him—a memory of his own daughter, her laughter, her smile.

He kneels down, his voice softer than it has been in years. “Go home, kid. It’s not safe here.”

The girl looks at him, her eyes wide, then nods and runs off into the night.

As he stands over the bodies of the men he’s just killed, he feels no pride, no joy. There’s only the grim satisfaction of a job done, of a step taken in a war that will never truly end. The city may never know his name, and may never realize what he’s done for it, but that doesn’t matter.

The Nightwatchman isn’t in this for recognition. He’s in it for the city, for the hope that one day, Chicago might be something better than the cesspit it’s become.

But tonight, as the sirens wail and the city’s heartbeat quickens in fear, he knows that day is still a long way off. So he picks up his Tommy gun, slips back into the shadows, and prepares to do what he does best—watch over a city that doesn’t even know he exists.

He had a name once, a family, a life—happiness and peace. He had known what it was like to come home to a warm embrace, to hear the laughter of children, to sit down to a meal cooked with love. There was a time when he was just a man, like any other, working hard, dreaming of a better future for himself and his loved ones. But now, all of that was gone—reduced to nothing more than memories, echoes of a life stolen from him.

He can still see their faces in his mind, the men who had taken everything from him—the mobsters, the crooked cops, the politicians who had sold their souls for power and wealth. They were the ones who had turned Chicago into a battleground, a place where good people suffered and the guilty thrived. They were the reason he had lost everything that mattered, the reason he had become the Nightwatchman.

He had tried to hold onto his name at first, to keep some small part of his old self alive. But as the years passed, as the bloodshed mounted and the darkness closed in, that name became nothing more than a burden, a reminder of what he could never have again. It was easier to let it go, to bury it along with the memories of his family, his life, his peace.

Now, he was something else—someone else. The Nightwatchman wasn’t a man with a past; he was a force of nature, a phantom who moved through the city’s underbelly with a single purpose: to make those who had destroyed his life pay for their sins.

There are times, late at night, when the city is quiet and he is alone, that he closes his eyes and tries to remember their faces—his wife’s smile, his children’s laughter. But the memories are faded now, like old photographs left too long in the sun. He can barely recall the sound of his name, let alone the warmth of his family’s love. All that remains is the cold, hard determination to see his mission through, no matter the cost.

The Nightwatchman knows he will never find peace again—not in this life. But if he can save Chicago, if he can drag it back from the edge of the abyss and rid it of the devils who stole everything from him, then maybe, just maybe, he can find some small measure of redemption.

"Thou shalt not kill"—those words were quite literally set in stone as a commandment. He had grown up with them, heard them preached from pulpits, etched into the very fabric of his understanding of right and wrong. And yet, how many of the mobsters had he executed without hesitation? How many had begged for forgiveness in the name of God, only to be force-fed lead by the barrel of his Tommy gun?

The gangster’s final plea echoed in his mind: “I got a family…” He could still see the desperation in the man’s eyes, the quiver in his voice. Was he truly any different from the monsters he sought to destroy?

The Nightwatchman had once been a man who believed in law and order. He had trusted the police, even admired them. He remembered standing in the crowd, cheering as the officers led away a notorious crime boss, hoping that it marked the beginning of change. But it didn’t. The same boss was back on the streets a week later, shaking hands with those very officers.

It was that day he understood—if justice were to be done, it wouldn't come from within the system.

There are times—rare, fleeting moments—when he feels human again. Between the acts of violence and the relentless exposure to humanity's corrupt underbelly, he stops and wonders if, when it is all over, the just thing to do would be to turn himself in and walk straight to the electric chair. To atone for the blood on his hands, for the souls he sent to whatever hell awaited them in the afterlife.

He has justified it to himself over and over again. These men were monsters, irredeemable, the worst kind of scum. They were a blight on Chicago, spreading rot and decay through the city he once loved. They weren’t just criminals—they were a disease, and he was the cure. But no matter how many times he tells himself this, there is a part of him that can’t forget those words, can’t shake the doubt that maybe, in his quest to rid the city of evil, he has become just another form of it.

The guilt gnaws at him in those quiet moments, like a cancer eating away at what little remains of his conscience. He can still see their faces—men who pleaded for their lives, who offered everything they had if he would just spare them. And he can still hear the sound of the gunfire, the sharp crack that signaled the end of their miserable existences. Sometimes, he wakes up in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, with the echoes of those final moments ringing in his ears.

The chill of the autumn night cuts through the air as the sirens draw closer. The city smells of burnt leaves, gasoline, and a hint of charred meat from a nearby food cart, mingling with the metallic tang of blood on the pavement. He steps over the lifeless bodies, his boots splashing lightly in the pooling crimson.

The alley around him is dark and littered with trash—empty bottles, discarded newspapers, broken glass that crunches beneath his feet. The only light comes from the dim, flickering streetlamp at the mouth of the alley, casting long, twisted shadows across the scene. A rat scurries across the cobblestones, disappearing into a drain, fleeing the remnants of human chaos.

His thoughts are interrupted by a rustle behind him—a door opening from one of the buildings. A young woman, dressed in rags, peers out, her eyes wide with fear. She clutches a small child to her chest, her gaze flicking from the Nightwatchman to the bodies on the ground.

“Are... are they gone?” she whispers, her voice trembling.

The Nightwatchman turns to face her, his expression unreadable behind the mask. He gives a curt nod.

She hesitates, then steps out, the child hiding his face against her shoulder. The woman’s eyes fill with tears, and she looks at the masked figure with a mixture of gratitude and fear. “Thank you,” she says, her voice breaking. “They... they said they’d take my son if I didn’t pay.”

The Nightwatchman doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the narrow alley. He knows he cannot offer comfort. He is not a savior, not a hero. He is merely a weapon—a blunt instrument to be used against those who prey on the weak.

He opens the trunk of his car, a nondescript vehicle that blends seamlessly into the city’s landscape, and places the Tommy gun inside, laying it carefully next to the other infamous tools of his trade. The trunk is a grim arsenal, each weapon a symbol of the war he wages against the criminal underworld of Chicago.

There are the .45 pistols, gleaming in the dim light, their polished surfaces reflecting his hardened expression. The media dubbed them the "Scales of Justice," and with good reason. In his hands, they balance the ledger, delivering swift and deadly retribution to those who evaded the law’s reach.

Beside them lies a scoped rifle, its precision unmatched—a weapon he reserves for the rare occasions when distance and silence are required. It is a tool of finality, used to end lives from afar, with cold, calculated efficiency. And then there are the knives, each one meticulously maintained, their edges honed to a razor’s sharpness. They are instruments of close-quarters combat, used when stealth and silence are paramount.

A refurbished revolving shotgun, a relic from the Old West, rests next to the knives. It is a brutal, unforgiving weapon, capable of delivering devastating firepower at close range. He found it in a pawnshop years ago, and something about its history, its raw, untamed power, spoke to him. It is a reminder of a time when justice was swift and unforgiving, much like the brand he now delivers.

And then there are the more primitive tools—a collection of knives, an axe, and a sledgehammer. These are the weapons of a man who long since abandoned hope of redemption, who understands that sometimes, the old ways are the most effective. They are instruments of fear and intimidation, tools that can break bones and shatter skulls, leaving a message that needs no words.

There is an irony in his choice of weapon—one of its nicknames, the "Chicago Typewriter," is tied directly to the city's corruption by organized crime. It feels as though his city has become the heart and soul of the worst mob violence in America, its very name synonymous with death, corruption, and the darkest depths of human depravity.

And so, he wields his Tommy Gun not just as a weapon, but as a statement—a reclamation of a tool that once symbolized the city’s descent into chaos. In his hands, it becomes an instrument of retribution, a means to fight back against the very forces that twisted his home into something unrecognizable. Each burst of gunfire is a note in a dark symphony, a declaration that while Chicago might be known for its violence, it won’t be the criminals who have the last word.

Not while the Nightwatchman still draws breath.

There will be no rest, no rest for him, no rest for the wicked—not until he runs out of breath and bullets.

The Nightwatchman accepts this as his truth, the harsh reality of the life he has chosen. Rest is a luxury he can no longer afford, just like mercy. The wicked will find no peace while he still walks the streets, while his finger still pulls the trigger. His war against the darkness that consumed Chicago is endless, a relentless battle fought in the shadows, with only the faintest hope that his efforts might make a difference.

Each night is the same—another round of violence, another step deeper into the abyss. But he can’t stop, won’t stop until every last trace of corruption is wiped clean from his city. It is a promise he made to himself and to the ghosts of the life he lost.

He glances down one last time at the alley where the bodies lie and sees a figure watching him from the shadows—a young boy, no older than his own son would have been. The boy’s eyes are wide, filled with awe and fear. The Nightwatchman meets his gaze for a moment, then turns away, disappearing into the darkness.

Perhaps one day, this child will understand. Perhaps he will grow up in a Chicago that is better, safer—because of what the Nightwatchman did. Or perhaps he will take up the mantle himself, when the city once again falls into the hands of monsters.

The Nightwatchman secretly hopes not; he doesn’t wish his life or what he has become on anyone. Until that day comes, though, until his last moment on earth, he will keep the watch and thin the ranks of the wolves stalking the streets of his city.

The Nightwatchman moves through the city's darkened streets, his feet carrying him toward the waterfront. The rhythmic lapping of Lake Michigan against the docks echoes through the fog. He can hear the distant calls of fishermen wrapping up their day's work and the creak of old, rusting ships swaying at their moorings. Chicago's harbor is a place full of life by day and ghosts by night—lost souls with nowhere else to go, prowling the docks for their next opportunity. And tonight, it’s where he must go next.

He slips into an old warehouse, pushing open a heavy metal door that groans in protest. Inside, the air smells of salt, mildew, and rust. The ceiling is high, shrouded in shadows, and the only light filters through grime-covered windows, giving the room an eerie, diffused glow. He knows this place—an old mafia meeting spot—and he knows who he’ll find there.

In the center of the warehouse, a group of men huddle around a table, their backs turned to him. He moves silently, the wooden floorboards barely creaking under his weight. As he gets closer, he catches snippets of their conversation—plans for a shipment, a delivery that needs protection, and a name that catches his ear: the same name he’s been tracking for weeks.

“Angelo's gonna make sure the money gets through," one of the men says, his voice gruff. "Nobody’s gonna mess with this run, not with that psycho Nightwatchman around.”

The Nightwatchman smiles grimly behind his mask. If only they knew.

The men never hear him approach, not until it's too late. He steps into the light, his shadow falling across the group, and they freeze, slowly turning their heads. Their eyes widen, recognition dawning in that split-second before chaos erupts.

“Holy—” one of the men exclaims, scrambling for his gun. But the Nightwatchman is faster. The Tommy gun roars to life in his hands, filling the warehouse with the deafening sound of gunfire. Bullets tear through the air, cutting down two of the men before they can even rise from their seats.

One man ducks behind a stack of crates, frantically reloading his weapon. The Nightwatchman advances, his footsteps echoing, his movements steady and unhurried. There’s nowhere for the man to run, nowhere to hide. The Nightwatchman rounds the corner, and the man raises his gun, his hands trembling.

“Please,” the man stammers, his voice cracking. “Please, I’ll tell you anything. I’ll do anything. Just don’t—”

The Nightwatchman doesn’t wait for him to finish. A single, sharp burst of gunfire, and the man crumples to the ground, his body slumping against the crates. The Nightwatchman stands over him for a moment, watching the life fade from his eyes. He feels nothing—no satisfaction, no remorse. Just the cold weight of necessity.

He steps away, his attention shifting back to the table. Papers are scattered across its surface—maps, shipment manifests, lists of names. He quickly scans the documents, his eyes narrowing as he finds the one he’s looking for: the address of a warehouse across town, where Angelo and his men plan to move their next shipment of weapons.

“Angelo.” The name burns in his mind. He remembers that name, remembers the man’s face from the night they took everything from him. It had been Angelo who had given the order, Angelo who had laughed as his men dragged away the Nightwatchman’s wife and children. And now, at last, the Nightwatchman had a lead—a chance to finally bring Angelo to justice.

He tucks the papers into his coat, his mind already planning his next move. The sirens are getting closer now, and he knows he doesn’t have much time. He turns, slipping back through the warehouse and out into the foggy night.

The past returns to him unbidden as he walks—memories of that fateful night, the laughter of his children echoing in his ears. He remembers the fear, the helplessness, the rage that had consumed him when he realized they were gone, that there was nothing he could do to save them. He remembers the hollow promises of the police, the useless reassurances that they would "do everything they could."

They had done nothing. Angelo had walked free, and the city had moved on as if nothing had happened. But the Nightwatchman had never forgotten, and he had never forgiven. Every life he took, every drop of blood he spilled, was a step closer to making things right.

He arrives at the address scrawled on the paper, an old warehouse on the far side of town. The building looms before him, its windows dark, its walls covered in graffiti. He can hear voices inside—men shouting, crates being moved, the clatter of weapons being loaded. Angelo is here. He can feel it.

The Nightwatchman moves swiftly, slipping through a side entrance, his eyes scanning the shadows. He moves like a predator, his footsteps silent, his breath steady. The men inside are unaware of his presence, too focused on their task to notice the specter stalking them.

He catches sight of Angelo near the back of the warehouse, standing with a group of armed men. The years have not been kind to him—his face is lined, his hair thinning, but the cruel smile remains. The same smile that had haunted the Nightwatchman’s nightmares for years.

The Nightwatchman steps into the light, his gun raised. “Angelo,” he calls, his voice echoing through the warehouse.

The men turn, their eyes widening in shock. Angelo takes a step back, his face paling. “You,” he breathes, his voice trembling.

“Yes, me.” The Nightwatchman’s voice is cold, devoid of emotion. “You took everything from me. And now, it’s your turn.”

Angelo's men scramble for their weapons, but the Nightwatchman is faster. The Tommy gun blazes to life, the roar of gunfire filling the air. Men fall around Angelo, their bodies hitting the ground with dull, lifeless thuds. Angelo stumbles backward, his eyes wide with fear.

“Wait!” Angelo shouts, his voice desperate. “I can pay you. I can—”

The Nightwatchman advances, his finger tightening on the trigger. “There’s no price for what you did.”

Angelo’s back hits the wall, his eyes darting around, searching for an escape. “Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “I had no choice. It was just business—”

The Nightwatchman doesn’t let him finish. He pulls the trigger, and the Tommy gun roars one final time. Angelo slumps against the wall, his body sliding to the ground, his eyes staring blankly ahead.

For a moment, the Nightwatchman stands there, his gun still smoking, the echoes of the gunfire fading into silence. He feels nothing—no triumph, no relief. Only the emptiness that has consumed him since the day his family was taken from him.

The sirens are closing in now, their wails echoing through the night. The Nightwatchman turns, slipping back into the shadows, leaving the bodies behind.

He moves through the darkened streets, the fog wrapping around him like a shroud. The city is quiet now, the chaos of the night fading into the background. He knows there will be more battles to fight, more men like Angelo who need to be brought to justice. His war is far from over, and he knows he will never find peace, not until the last of the devils who ruined his life are gone.

As he walks, he catches sight of a young boy standing on a street corner, staring up at him. The boy’s eyes are wide, filled with a mixture of fear and awe. For a moment, the Nightwatchman pauses, meeting the boy’s gaze. He wonders what the boy sees—a hero, a monster, a man who has lost everything? He doesn’t know, and perhaps it doesn’t matter.

The boy takes a step back, his eyes never leaving the Nightwatchman’s. The Nightwatchman gives a small nod, a silent acknowledgment, before turning and disappearing into the night. Perhaps one day, the boy will understand. Perhaps one day, Chicago will be a better place, a place where children don’t have to live in fear.

But until that day comes, the Nightwatchman will keep watch. He will fight, he will kill, he will do whatever it takes to protect the city he once loved. And maybe, just maybe, when it is all over, the city will be better for it.

The Nightwatchman knows he will never find rest, but neither will the wicked. As long as he has breath in his body and bullets in his gun, the fight will continue. He slips back into the shadows, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the night.

And so, the watch continues.