Sasha & Me

[Warscared]

The bikes rolled into the gravel lot one after another, chrome catching the late afternoon light. Dust swirled behind them as WS killed the engine and let the silence of the engines give way to muffled music coming from the clubhouse.


A battered neon sign hummed above the door, and as soon as they stepped inside, a rush of cool air hit them. The smell of leather, old beer, and cigarettes mixed with the thump of a jukebox. Daughtry’s “Heavy Is The Crown” echoed off the wooden walls like a hymn.


The Nomad sergeant-at-arms—one of WS’s—lit up as soon as he walked in, dropping the outlaw scowl for a split second to hug his brothers. Big arms, tattooed hands slapping backs, rough laughter.


The music didn’t stop, but the mood shifted when the sergeant tossed a saddlebag on the bar. It hit the wood with a heavy thud. Zippers came down—guns glinted under the dim light. Pistols, shotguns, a couple of ARs. The bartender gave a low whistle and started carrying them toward the back storage room without a word.


WS followed, slow and deliberate, then dropped one of his own saddlebags next to it. Same sound, same weight. Enough firepower to remind everyone in the room why Sacramento sent twenty grand a month to keep this place running smooth.


The eyes of the room shifted then—toward the kid. Still young, still green, his arm bandaged thick from the dog bite that nearly took it. He stood there silent, trying not to show pain, but his presence said everything: this wasn’t just about business. It was about loyalty, scars, and blood.


A couple of old hands clapped him on the shoulder. Someone shoved a cold beer into his good hand. He raised it awkwardly, and the men gave a short cheer.


From the corner booth, a tall, wiry prospect spoke up.
“Chief ain’t here. He’s still on shift—janitorin’ at the high school.”


Laughter rippled across the room, low and genuine. One of the older brothers shook his head.
“Kid sweeps puke and piss by day, runs this place by night. Whole fuckin’ town don’t even know.”


WS smirked. He liked it that way—power disguised as ordinary. A king in coveralls, invisible to the sheep.


He tipped his bottle back, letting the music and the brotherhood wash over him, just for a moment. Because tomorrow, the war outside would call again.


Williamson, the Sergeant-at-Arms of the local chapter and WS’s shadow for the night, finished his beer and stood.
“I’ll drive down to the school, let Chief know you’re here,” he said.


Before he could move, the Chief’s son was already pulling on his kutte. WS’s blue eyes followed the motion, then he pushed himself off the barstool.
“No. I’ll meet him myself.”


His voice was flat, final. He didn’t raise it—but nobody in the room mistook it for a suggestion.


He jabbed a finger toward two Nomads leaning against the wall, both of them carrying warrants like chains.
“You two—stay put. You’re ghosts tonight. The rest, saddle up.”


The other three didn’t hesitate. They were already on their feet, strapping on helmets, tightening gloves. By the time the doors swung open and the bikes roared back to life, the atmosphere in the clubhouse had shifted—quiet, heavy.


Outside, onlookers from the hang-around crowd nudged each other, eyes following the pack as it rolled out. It wasn’t the Sergeant-at-Arms at the front. It wasn’t the Chief’s son. It was Warscared. And those Nomads—his Nomads—slotted in tight behind him without a word.


One of the patched locals growled at the hang-arounds.
“Don’t say shit. You didn’t see nothin’. They ain’t even here.”


Engines growled as they thundered across town. The convoy hit the high school lot like a storm cloud dropping from nowhere. Chrome and exhaust fumes cut across the schoolyard, drawing every eye. Teachers at the windows froze mid-sentence. Kids’ faces pressed to glass, wide-eyed.


At the front gate, a guard leaned back in his folding chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he gave the group a lazy salute.
“Johnson’ll be done in about an hour,” he said. “You boys know the rules—no harassing the girls, or you’ll answer to the janitor.”


The words weren’t a joke. Everyone here knew Johnson’s reputation. He might mop floors and sweep up chalk dust by day, but when the kutte went on, he was Chief. The kind of man who could make hard men sit down and shut up.


And strangely, the school liked him that way. With a hardcore biker walking the halls, nobody touched the kids. Nobody dared sell dope in the bathrooms or start fights behind the gym. Even the students behaved better—fear had a way of keeping order.


WS pulled off his shades, scanning the yard like he owned it. For the next hour, this was his kingdom


WS glanced at his crew, that crooked grin flashing.
“Guess I’m the only one old enough to be here legally,” he said, drawing a few chuckles.


He peeled off on his own, walking the school corridors like a ghost in unfamiliar territory. His memories of classrooms were short bursts—sitting exams with people staring, while Nojiko stood nearby like a guard dog, keeping the world at bay. He wondered, not for the first time, if he might’ve turned out different had he ever been just… a student.


The halls were alive with chatter. Most faces were Black, though WS figured maybe the white kids clustered elsewhere. That’s when a girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen, stopped in front of him.


“I’m Wendy. Wendy Johnson.”


She had a grin bright enough to punch through the school’s fluorescent gloom. WS returned it smoothly.
“Pleasure. Now—just so we’re clear—I was specifically instructed not to harass the girls.” He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough for her friends to hear. “But I don’t recall any rule against being harassed by one—with a smile like that.”


Her friends howled. Teasing followed fast: “Always hunting for the big white shark, Wendy!”


Wendy just laughed and grabbed his hand. “C’mon. I’ll give you the tour.”


For a moment, he let himself play along. It reminded him of Sarasota months back, when a girl had dragged him through a mall the same way—an odd, almost innocent interlude in the chaos of his life. He wasn’t about to repeat that here, not with schoolgirls, but for once he let himself enjoy the role of being sixteen.


“This is Chemistry… over there’s Woodshop…”


Laughter cut through as they turned a corner. A huge man, pale as chalk, was smacking a skinny Black kid with a broom handle. The boy tried to shield himself, stumbling back.


WS’s voice dropped cold. “Hey, old man. You think it’s fair for a grown man to beat on a student? A janitor hitting some poor kid?”


The big man turned, rage flashing in his eyes.
“I ain’t the janitor. I’m the pro janitor!”


WS blinked, thrown for once. “…The what?”


“The progenitor of this dumbass!” The man jabbed a finger at the kid, who was already snickering behind his arms.


That’s when the giant’s gaze fell to WS’s hand still loosely held by Wendy. His face went scarlet.
“You filthy biker piece of shit! Get your dirty hands off my daughter!”


The broom whistled through the air, this time swinging at WS himself. Wendy was laughing now, not at WS but at the absurdity, running to help her brother out of the line of fire.


WS tilted his head, smirk tugging at the edge of his lips even as he sidestepped the blow. The chaos of school life suddenly felt a lot like the chaos of the street—family, pride, fists flying, everyone watching.


so this was johnson — the father of the white biker outside waiting for him. but he had 2 black siblings? ws didn’t ask, just grabbed a broom and helped the old man clean the school. chicago muscle memory kicked in, the moves automatic.


the old man squints. “you done this before? look too damn good at it.”


ws shrugs. says his japanese mom taught him to clean after himself.


johnson barks out a laugh. “figures. maybe your pecker’s japanese too. must be nice, every time you sleep with the same girl, it’s like taking her virginity again.”


the twins nearly fall over laughing. ws stiffens. nobody ever slung smut at him like that — not in chicago, not in sacramento, not in the mother house. back there, people kept their words tucked behind their teeth when he was around. he thought it was respect. maybe fear. but watching these two kids laugh at him, listening to their father talk to him like just another biker… it hit different.


ws tilts his head. “what’s your story then?”


johnson leans on the mop, grinning like he’s got all day. “back from that shit in central america… loud music, college, phd in mathematics. made good money. married a gold digger, got four kids. thought I was winning. then I miss a promotion, she hands me divorce papers. I was pulling six hundred grand a year, so I quit, walked away, became a janitor here. twenty-two k a year, child support, bitch never saw that coming. best revenge I ever had.”


he waves toward the twins. “met their mom here, she’s a teacher. knocked her up, married her. difference is, this time I’m around. not working myself to death. I’m here, I’m present.”


as the day wound down, old johnson slung his mop back into the closet and called out for his kids. johnson junior and wendy fell in step with him, the family moving as one. outside, the chief hugged the sergeant at arms, while the white son of the house leaned down to trade words with his younger siblings.


the chief raised his voice one last time, lobbing another jab at the japanese kid. the air tightened.


ws moved before anyone else could. he hopped onto a bench right there in front of the school gates, towering above the gathering. his voice cut sharp through the noise.


“yeah,” he said, “i made mistakes. a lot of them. including daring to be born to a japanese woman. but still—i owe you thanks.”


his words pulled every set of eyes onto him. the bikers, the school kids, even a few teachers peeking from the doorway. he just stood there, waiting, daring the chief to take the bait.


the chief squinted, suspicious, but his pride pulled the words out of him anyway. “and what the hell are you thanking me for, boy?”


ws’s grin was pure blade. “for teaching me never to name my own son after my dick.” his voice rose, carrying across the courtyard. “seriously—who calls his son johnson junior? no wonder the kid’s a dickhead.”


for a split second the silence was absolute. stunned faces all around, jaws hanging. then one of ws’s three bikers broke—choking laughter bursting out of him. it spread like wildfire, first to the kids, then the teachers, and finally even a few of the bikers who couldn’t hold it in anymore. the whole front of the school shook with it.


and ws just stayed on the bench, arms folded, grin still cutting.


that night the clubhouse roared louder than the jukebox. bottles clinked, smoke curled, and every corner was alive with men doubled over retelling the same story again and again.


“i swear to god,” one of the nomads cackled, slapping his knee, “he climbed that bench like he was about to run for president—voice booming, hands up like a preacher—and then, dead serious, outta nowhere: ‘who calls his son johnson junior? no wonder the kid’s a dickhead!’”


the room exploded again, brothers wiping tears from their eyes, pounding the table so hard the bottles rattled.


even the ones who hadn’t been there were laughing like they had seen it, every retelling growing bigger, louder, more animated. it was the kind of moment that spread through a club like wildfire—turning from a single spark into a legend overnight.


in the middle of it, the chief just sat back in his chair, grin splitting across his face. he shook his head slowly, half proud, half still stung, muttering over the noise:


“fucking smart asians… kid damn near killed me with just a small dick joke.”


and the laughter came all over again.


WS slept like a rock that night, even though the common room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. His nomads sprawled out on couches and floor mats, and five patched locals filled the rest of the space. Three were divorced with nowhere else to go, two had just drunk themselves into unconsciousness and decided the clubhouse was closer than home. Snoring, coughing, the occasional bark of laughter in their sleep—it was chaos, but WS didn’t mind. He was too worn out and, for once, content.


By morning, the whole place smelled of stale beer and burnt coffee. They gathered in the meeting room, 37 patched members sitting tall in their cuts. With WS and his six nomads added to the mix, the number rose to 44—a heavy, serious crowd.


The Chief leaned on the table, voice steady but carrying the kind of weight that came from years of keeping men alive.


“Three chapters here,” he started. “Each split by race—white, black, hispanic. But as you can see…” He swept his hand over the room, at the patched backs and crossed arms. “…we all ride together. Always have.”


The rundown came quick and clinical. Alliance with the Bloods kept the Crips off their streets since the crack wars in the ‘80s. Two local Hispanic gangs ran the neighborhoods, kept things tight, clean, and paid their dues for defense. The machine worked. Nobody got greedy, and nobody tried to flip the table.


“Peace has held because everybody’s got skin in it,” the Chief said. “The pay’s not huge, but it’s steady. And steady means kids get to grow up without hearing gunfire every damn night. That’s worth more than flash money.”


WS let the words soak in. It wasn’t the war cries he was used to, not the puffed-up speeches about dominance and territory. This was different. This was… balanced.


When he asked about MS, the Chief answered blunt: “No riders here, so no MS here. Closest chapter’s L.A.—eighty miles. And yeah, that’s a short ride. But we’ve kept this turf tight. The numbers we’ve got—three chapters acting as one—they count more than headcount. It’s the unity that keeps outsiders cautious.”


Heads nodded around the room. Even WS could feel it—the quiet pride in a system that worked.


The only wrinkle came with the mountains.


Non-local Hispanics had shown up months back, buying supplies, moving quietly, setting up in the hills. Too disciplined for neighborhood punks. The Hispanic Chief laid it out: “We tried tailing ‘em. These guys aren’t street. Military types. Maybe former federales.”


WS tapped the table with one knuckle. “Cartels. Setting up a farm.”


The Chief didn’t deny it. Just gave a grim shrug.


“Maybe. But no bodies, no missing kids, no broken deals. They want to hide up there and grow, that’s their business. We’d rather not poke the hornet’s nest if they’re leaving town alone. This is our home. Our families.”


That word stuck with WS. Families.
Not just business. Not just money.


For the first time in a long time, he realized these men weren’t just surviving—they were protecting something he’d never thought to protect himself.


WS smiled, scanning the three chiefs. “You three… you’re great chiefs. This is how it’s supposed to be.” He let the words hang for a moment. “I know Ray would be proud.”


The name made a few heads turn. Nine months earlier, Ray had asked if anyone had found a tall blond kid to send him back. His six towering nomads however: he’s untouchable. The jarheads had his back. And now, after the news out of L.A.—the attacks on MS drug dens—the innocent-looking kid had probably been behind it all. The Angels’ fingerprints were clear, but the Riders had taken the blame. Everyday scuffles in prisons and on the streets confirmed the rumor: the Angels were moving, quietly and decisively.


WS turned to the chiefs. “Is there anything my group—or me—can do for you?”


The Black Chief shook his head slowly. “The guns you’ve provided… that help enough. But you can never have too many. Half our hangarounds only have small calibers or handguns. They can’t respond in emergencies properly.”


WS glanced at his nomads. They’d saved the best guns from the hits, mostly AR-15s or Kalashnikovs seized during attacks on drug dens. Rarely did they get bigger scores, but they had stuck mainly to drug dens—they were safer, more predictable. They had their own weapons, sure, but sharing was always the group’s choice.


The nomads’ eyes flicked to WS, waiting for a hint.


He leaned back. “Do you normally ride to maintain stability in other counties?”


Williamson, the sergeant-at-arms, nodded. “Of course. Buffer counties are part of our strategy.”


WS gave the go-ahead to share the stash. The chapter had saved up and, with the Angels’ support, provided seventy thousand dollars —half the value of the arsenal, but all they could afford. The bullets alone weren’t cheap. Brotherhood demanded sacrifices, and both sides understood that.


The Black Chief smiled faintly. “Generosity noted. We’ll put these guns to good use.”


WS let the moment settle, letting the silent acknowledgment of respect and shared strategy hang in the room. In this world, trust and readiness outweighed money, influence, or glory. And right now, the Angels—and his six nomads—were proving it every day.


This chapter was centrally located, making it perfect as a base of operations. From here, WS and his crew cleaned up seven drug dens and two MS safehouses. The money was flowing again—though the haul wasn’t on L.A. levels, tell me a man who can make sixty thousand in a week and call it unworthy.


The only other spot to pull in real money was San Francisco, and they were slowly closing in. His promise to Sacramento—to weaken the MS and restore balance in California—was taking shape. Still, the cartels remained the wild card, the joker in the deck.


WS poured over the documents again, trying to find a thread. Then something clicked. Every one to two months, certain bullets were ordered—specialty-made, like a signature. Ten dollars a bullet. Extremely expensive. No street thug, even elite ones, would waste that kind of money. This had to be a cartel order. Someone specific. Someone with enough pull to have their own style.


He picked up the phone and called Sacramento. “Check the dates—two days before, one day after—every delivery. See which name landed in LAX around those dates.”


WS leaned back, eyes narrowing at the screen. “I think… I might have just found a thread to pull on. Maybe.”

 

[Warscared]

Nami’s Birthday – Private Room at an Exclusive Restaurant

The private room overlooked the city, floor-to-ceiling windows catching the neon glow. A long polished table glittered with crystal and silver. Waiters moved silently in and out, refilling glasses of champagne, leaving plates of delicacies no one touched right away.


Nami sat at the head — not because she asked, but because Sasha Petrov had insisted.


Ayuah Zane leaned forward first, her laugh echoing off the lacquered walls.

“Nami, you’re too modest. We’re here because you’re the kind of person who makes the room brighter.”

She slid across a long, rectangular box — inside, a designer clutch, bold red leather. Flashy, eye-catching, impossible to ignore.

“Because the next time we drag you out, you can’t hide behind plain bags anymore.”

Nami blushed, mumbling thanks.


Sasha was next, her tone lower, deliberate. She placed a small black case in front of Nami and opened it with a flick — a vintage fountain pen, silver filigree, engraved with Nami’s initials.

“Every leader deserves to sign her name in style,” Sasha said coolly. “You’ll need it sooner than you think.”

A quiet weight settled at the table. Even the waiter paused before retreating.


Robin Reveras, lounging with her champagne glass, broke the silence.

“Careful, Nami. That pen comes with strings attached.”

She slid her own gift forward — a slim pair of limited-edition noise-cancelling headphones.

“When you get tired of hearing us fight over you.”

Laughter rippled through the room, though Nadjia’s eyes never left Sasha’s face. Her notebook stayed tucked in her lap, but she was writing every detail in her head.


At the far end, Vidal leaned too close to Bella von Hallen, whispering something that made her smirk. When Bella’s turn came, she offered a delicate bracelet — tasteful, understated.

“Something simple, to remind you of today,” Bella said softly, though her eyes flicked toward Sasha like a challenge.

Dwayne Petrov and Jeff sat at the back of the room, out of the spotlight, drinking whiskey and making easy conversation with the waitstaff. Their presence was physical, grounding — the muscle and charm that offset the clique’s sharper edges.


Nami smiled politely, thanked everyone, but under the polished manners she felt it — every word, every gift was layered. Praise wrapped around ambition, affection tied to family influence.

Nami’s Birthday – The Call

The waiter had just poured another round when Nami’s phone buzzed. She glanced down, and her heart skipped: Warscared.


The table fell quiet. Even Vidal leaned forward, suddenly sober.


Nami answered.

“Eyckardt?”

His voice, rough but warm, carried through the speaker.

“Hey sis, happy birthday. So when are you finally getting a boy and gifting me a nephew or a niece? I know you can only be happy when you have someone to take care of… but I’m a grown man now, so—make your own kids!”

The table shifted, glances exchanged — Sasha’s lips barely curved, Bella froze, Ayuah laughed too loud.


Warscared kept going, casual yet absolute.

“Since I have no idea where you are, I ordered Julian to park a new Mercedes by the door. If you need more money, just reach out to Santiago. I may not be present, but my men and wealth are always at my blood’s disposal.”

There was a pause — heavy, deliberate. Then his tone softened, almost tender.

“Love you to the end of the world. You’re always in my heart.”

The line clicked dead.


Silence lingered like smoke.


Nami blinked, cheeks flushed, clutching her phone.
Sasha’s gaze stayed fixed on the untouched locket in front of Nami.
Bella gripped Vidal’s hand tighter, as if grounding herself.
Robin muttered, half to herself, “Damn, he really knows how to make an entrance without being here.”
Nadjia leaned back, expression unreadable, already replaying every word in her mind.


At the head of the table, Nami forced a smile.

“So… who wants dessert?”

Nami’s Birthday – The Call Back

Nami’s face was still red when she hit redial. The private room went quiet again, all eyes on her. She didn’t wait for him to speak.

Nami (snapping): “Wtf, Eyckardt? You’re not even here and you tell me to get pregnant? I wanted you here, but no — you’re still over there in Japan… asshole!”

A beat. Then Warscared’s voice, calm, amused.

Warscared: “Come on, sis, you’ve got your friends. I saw the Facebook pictures of the party. Looks like a good crew. Jeff and Dwayne are there — good picks.”

From across the table, Ayuah Zane made a sharp grunt.

Ayuah: “Jeff is taken, and a Zane does not share!”

Laughter broke out — Bella covering her smile with her hand, Robin cackling openly.


But in the background of the call, another voice piped up, loud and playful.

Williamson (Warscared’s man): “Whoaa, boss! That one sounds feisty — and she said a Zane? Gotta love those Texas Zanes!”

Warscared (snapping): “Shut up, Williamson.”

There was muffled laughter on his end. Then his tone softened again.

Warscared: “Sorry, sister. My guys are hearing the conversation and now they’re making fun of how I talked to you… but I don’t care. They’re just jealous I have someone to care about.”

The room was silent, all eyes flicking between Nami’s flushed face and the phone on the table.


Then Vidal slammed his glass down.

Vidal (shouting): “You gift her a Mercedes but my birthday was two days ago! Where’s my brand new Mercedes?!”

Without missing a beat, Warscared fired back:

Warscared: “Your gift is that now Nami can give you a ride to school every day.”

The table erupted — Ayuah nearly spitting her drink, Robin wheezing with laughter, Nadjia smirking silently as she jotted the moment in her mental archive.


Bella, though, leaned against Vidal with a smug little smile, whispering just loud enough for Sasha to hear:

“Looks like your brother just got chauffeured.”

And Nami — torn between fury, affection, and embarrassment — buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Nami’s Birthday – Nadjia Intervenes

The phone buzzed in Nami’s hand again, and Nadjia leaned over.

Nadjia (taking the phone): “Nami really misses you, you know…”

There was a pause. Warscared’s voice came back, casual at first.

Warscared: “I don’t recognize your voice…”

Then, as soon as he stopped speaking to Nami, his tone shifted. It became husky, cutting, like a dagger across the line. Nadjia felt it instantly — the chill of his cold, absolute authority. She shivered.


Her words came out trembling, forced:

Nadjia: “I… I’m just covering for Nami… these ZPR girls… they’re trying to woo your sister… she’s going to be the top legal mind in a few years… you should thank me for looking out for her…”

There was a long pause. Then:

Warscared: “Thanks… but you are?”

Almost a whisper, Nadjia replied, hope threading through her voice:

Nadjia: “Nadjia… Nadjia Stein.”

Click. Warscared’s brain worked fast. Stein?

Warscared (slowly, almost tasting the words): “Judge Stein… beautiful blonde… big… daughter?”

The line hung. Nadjia froze, shocked. Even the other girls in the room gasped at the rudeness of the comment. Nadjia forced herself to answer, trembling but steadying:

Nadjia: “Y… yes… you… you know who I am?”

Warscared: “I have heard of you. Nojiko told me — informed me of all of Nami’s new friends. I can be a bit overprotective, so yeah… I know of you, not who you are. But hey — get my number from Nami. If she ever needs help, and is too proud to ask for it… you call me. I can take care of business and life like few can.”

From the background, Bella’s voice pierced through:

Bella (shouting): “Always the same arrogant bastard!”

Nadjia’s hand shook as she held the phone. She could feel the weight of his attention, his dominance, the subtle thrill of recognition — but also the edge of fear, of knowing she was entirely in his orbit now. The ZPR girls whispered among themselves, exchanging glances, the room thick with tension and unspoken calculation.

Nami’s Birthday – The Call Escalates

The phone buzzed again, and Nadjia was still holding it, trembling slightly. Warscared’s voice came back, this time half warning, half plea, high and sharp enough to slice through the restaurant chatter.

Warscared: “Girls and boys — get my number from Nami, or that useless Vidal!”

A faint, hurt voice floated in the background.

Vidal: “Hey…”

Warscared ignored him, pressing on.

Warscared: “And if anything happens… you tell me. In return, I can repay you handsomely… especially you…”

His voice cracked for a second, faltering.

Warscared: “Well… whoever calls herself Nami’s best friend…”

He exhaled sharply, regaining control.

Warscared: “Since Nojiko refuses my money — and I have no use for it unless I can waste it in my family — if I have too much spending money, I’ll probably just blow it on booze…”

One of the bikers snorted from the background.

Biker: “Or whores… or drugs! Thanks for that!”

Warscared (snapping): “Shut up!”

The line was filled with muffled laughter. The girls in the restaurant could hear the hard man teasing Warscared, yet still calling him boss.


Sasha Petrov leaned forward, voice sharp, deliberate.

Sasha: “We will… Nami is precious to us. Unlike some scammers that trap girls in malls to get into fights with her bodyguards to steal money…”

Warscared’s response was instant, cutting, and laced with dry amusement:

Warscared: “I returned your money immediately. Even added three dollars — the last three dollars I had for the entire month! But then again… if even your anal plug is made of gold and primed with a diamond, three dollars might not seem like much! Still… find your facial cute as hell, Miss Petrov!”

The words hung in the air. Nami immediately snapped, voice rising:

Nami: “WS! Don’t — she’s sensitive about her scar!”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flush rising, but she didn’t answer. Ayuah and Robin were trying not to laugh, Nadjia scribbled mental notes furiously, and Bella hid her smirk behind her hand.

Nami’s Birthday – The Scar Boast

The private room had quieted after Nami defended Sasha, voice firm and furious. Nadjia held the phone, still trembling.

Nami: “WS! Don’t talk about her like that! She doesn’t deserve it — not from you, not from anyone!”

Warscared’s voice returned, high, commanding, and full of pride:

Warscared: “You think Sasha’s scars are fierce? Mine make hers look like nothing. I almost lost an eye… three massive gaps on my face. No longer a beautiful babyface… I’m a manly, scarred warrior. I even scared a tiger.”

A pause. Then a rider on his back snorted, delivering the punchline perfectly:

Rider: “Yeah… but it was in the zoo, boss!”

The restaurant erupted — some laughing, some gasping. Nami’s hands flew to her face, horrified:

Nami: “My… my beautiful baby boy… forever scarred for life…”

Warscared didn’t flinch. His tone softened just slightly, teasing, but never admitting anything real:

Warscared: “I said what I said. Remember that, sis.”

Robin Reveras, seated at the table, observed silently. Every flicker of reaction — the girls’ fear, awe, and fascination — was catalogued. She knew this was Warscared dominating the room without being there.

Nami’s Birthday – Robin and Dwayne

Robin excused herself quietly from the table, murmuring an apology. She slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.


Moments later, Dwayne appeared, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Robin (startled): “What are you doing here?”

Dwayne (grinning, trying to sound casual): “I figured… you might have retreated long enough to give me a shot.”

Robin raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. She picked up her phone and whispered into it, speaking to her uncle Ray:

Robin (low, analytical): “It appears the kid is still in Asia… but he’s not alone. His bodyguards are tough — from their voices, they sound like they could crush anyone — but they tease him constantly, like he’s the one in charge.”

Dwayne’s grin faltered. He didn’t know this “kid” personally — he only knew Nami and Vidal’s younger brother — but the way the siblings talked about him made him feel like he was dealing with someone far above their already genius-level brains.

Dwayne (quietly, almost awed): “…He really sounds like a whole different league.”

Robin (without looking up): “It’s not just that. Everyone around him — even the ones supposed to be in control

Nami’s Birthday – Warscared’s Hook

Nadjia held the phone, trembling slightly. Warscared’s voice had been cold, commanding… then slick, warm, threading through the ice like a hidden blade.

Warscared (after a beat, low and teasing): “Thanks, Nadjia.”

The words were brief, but the contrast in his tone — cold authority layered with a subtle warmth — was impossible to ignore. Nadjia felt it in her chest, a fire she hadn’t expected, something that answered questions she hadn’t dared ask. She bit back a breath, trying to steady herself.


Across the table, Bella and Sasha exchanged confused glances, trying to interpret what they had just heard. Ayuah, who had never interacted with Warscared, simply stared, baffled.


Nami snatched the phone from Nadjia’s hands, cheeks pink with anger and embarrassment. She shot a glare at Nadjia:

Nami: “He’s just a sixteen-year-old kid!”

Warscared’s laugh came faintly over the line, amused and sharp:

Warscared: “Kid…? For you, Nami? Always.”

Nadjia’s cheeks flushed crimson, her heart still racing from the hook he had expertly set — a mixture of warmth and command that drew her in before she even realized it. The girls at the table could only watch, puzzled, as Nadjia struggled to collect herself, and Nami’s protective fury flared.

Nami (furious, pointing at the girls): “Don’t even look at him like that! He’s my little brother — not some piece of meat!”

The room froze. Sasha’s eyes widened, Bella stiffened, Ayuah blinked in confusion, and Nadjia — still flushed — realized she had bit the hook, her pulse betraying her.

Nami (turning to Nadjia, half-laughing, half-serious): “And you! Hands off. I mean it.”

Nami’s Birthday – After the Call

The phone went dead. Nadjia was still flushed, trying to calm herself. Nami’s glare had everyone on edge, but Ayuah wasn’t backing down.

Ayuah (frowning, teeth gritted, fiery): “You don’t want us to have a bite? Fine… now I want to sink my teeth in him even more!”

Jeff’s eyes widened. He knew Ayuah’s competitive streak well, and it could be dangerous if unchecked.

Jeff (cautiously): “Ayuah… are you ready to throw away what we have over some pettiness?”

Ayuah froze for a second, realizing what she’d said. Then, a slow grin spread across her face as she leaned toward him, mischief in her eyes:

Ayuah: “Alright… maybe not throw it away. But… what about a threesome? I could get Bella to join us… and then we get WS involved too.”

Vidal’s voice rang out from across the table:

Vidal: “HEY!”

Bella laughed, light and teasing, cutting him off:

Bella: “Nahh… I’m happy with how my life is going. And it can only get better!”

Yet inside, her thoughts were dangerous, deliciously guilty:

How I must have pissed WS tonight… our phone session might be extra torrid. And yeah… once he returns, it can only get better. Finally tasting this forbidden fruit… my own boyfriend’s younger brother… so enticing, the taboo, the broken rules. I love it all. The sordidness, the fire — it makes my heart burn with pure desire.

Nami’s Birthday – Dwayne and Robin Return

Dwayne and Robin returned to the private room, and everyone turned to look at them.


Sasha’s eyes lit up as she praised Robin:

Sasha: “Finally showing interest in a boy… and my own brother, nonetheless.”

It was clear in her expression that she was intrigued. She even found herself considering that Nami and Dwayne could make a good match. Nami groaned and facepalmed herself, exasperated.

Sasha: “Until now, I was hoping Nami would date Dwayne!”

Nami groaned and facepalmed, caught between exasperation and embarrassment.


The attention shifted to her. Collecting herself, Nami explained, trying to defuse the room:

Nami: “WS once made the same remark… that dating Dwayne would be a good choice.”

Sasha blinked, surprised. She and WS had the same instincts? she thought, curious.

Sasha: “Wait… you mean…?”

Nami’s chest tightened as the memory hit her. It was the last time she had spoken to WS face-to-face. Her mind raced, recalling the fight, the tension, the unspoken words. Panic began to rise in her chest.

Nami (voice trembling, beginning to hyperventilate): “If he dies… the last words I told him were that I hated him… and he… he kept his cool. Said he didn’t care — only that he still loved me.”

Nadja and Bella instinctively leaned closer to ground her. Ayuah froze, unsure how to act. Robin stepped beside Nami, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

 

[Warscared]

WS turned off the phone, exhaling slowly. “Girls are getting cold. Why didn’t they leave us alone for family time?”


Williamson shrugged. “You paid for them, boss. It’d be rude to start without you taking the first taste of the best dishes.”


Seven girls entered the room, gliding in like they’d been primed for the occasion. WS and his bodyguards — six more angels included — took note. Every detail had cost a fortune; he hadn’t spared a cent to bring the best from LA for his boys.


As for himself, WS didn’t particularly enjoy paying for women. It wasn’t indulgence he sought; it was leadership. If his men demanded, what was a leader supposed to do except to lead the orgy? Two nights ago, they’d hit a call eighty safehouse trying to patch over one of the local Hispanic gangs. Tonight, he was showing them the legend that had turned the crucible into a myth across the Northeast.


He normally didn’t perform in front of others — in the biker world, a brother came first, then his bike, then the women. These girls weren’t even technically his. They were for the organization, at least for the night. WS refused the hard drugs being passed around. Some partook, but not him. Still… a line of white over his manhood to set the stage couldn’t hurt, just to mark the boundary between ceremony and self-indulgence.


The music throbbed faintly in the background, but WS barely noticed it. Another sip of beer, and he felt the familiar tingle crawling up his spine — not from alcohol, not really from anything chemical, but from the expectation, the ritual, the edge of the night pressing against him. The room swam in neon and candlelight, the girls laughing, oblivious, and he felt a tight, curious energy coil inside him.


A sudden ringtone cut through the haze. Johnson the Younger, lounging near the back, snatched the phone, frowning.


“Santa Clarita,” he muttered, listening intently. His eyes widened, tension sharpening his features.


Five of their people were missing. Three hours had passed. No check-ins. Panic threaded his voice.


WS, hearing the tone, set his beer down. He didn’t move yet. He let the report settle in, a faint grin flickering — predators enjoy the smell of opportunity.


“Williamson, get up,” WS said after a pause, voice low, controlled. “We’re riding. I need guides — one local, two enforcers. We’ll split. If they got ambushed, keep the lights low.”


Williamson nodded, already moving. The girls continued laughing, oblivious. WS barely registered them. The placebo high didn’t dull his mind — if anything, it sharpened it, letting him feel the edges of danger like fine silk against his skin.


“Back roads, forested mountain,” he added, eyes narrowing. “Let’s move.”


Gunfire cracked through the night. WS immediately killed the bike lights, letting the moon cast long, pale shadows across the forested trail. Williamson’s local knowledge guided them silently, while the other enforcer, a former SEAL sniper, scanned for threats.


They dismounted, moving into recon mode, every movement precise. The scent of gunpowder and wet earth mingled with the adrenaline pumping through WS’s veins.


A distant shout in Spanish broke the tense silence. Someone was cursing about bikers meddling in their affairs. WS’s jaw tightened. Orders were clear: don’t engage. Don’t start shit. And yet… here they are, because some dumb biker took a piss in the wrong place and a cono idiota fired a shot.


He could hear snarls, his enforcer’s labored breathing, and the faint, ragged groan of one of his men — injured. The sounds were chaotic, but WS’s mind cut through it with laser focus. Every shadow, every noise was a data point, a path to survive and contain the situation.


“Move,” he whispered, low enough that only his team caught it. “Eyes sharp. Keep it silent. We’re not dying over someone else’s stupidity.”


Moonlight glinted on the rifles and the polished bike metal. WS led the small recon unit forward, calculating every step, every angle. Tonight wasn’t about bravado — it was about control.


WS assessed the situation quickly. The northern recon team was already under ambush, and he knew the third team would be coming down their trail. He split his unit without hesitation.


“Move into the shadows,” he whispered. “Take higher ground. Sniper positions only — do not engage unless absolutely forced.”


He scanned the surrounding forest, noting every ridge, tree, and shadow. Johnson and thirty patched members were en route, closing the gap on their position, and WS calculated how long his team needed to survive.


Pulling his black scarf up over his face, only his eyes visible in the moonlight, he moved like a shadow. Every footfall was silent, every step deliberate, employing the ninja-like techniques Nojiko had taught him years ago.


His hand brushed the taser tucked into his belt. Non-lethal first. If the situation escalated, the knife was there, always an option. He hunted through the darkness, blending with it, reading every rustle, every snap of a twig, every human whisper.


“Stay alive,” he muttered to himself and to his men. “The cavalry is coming.”


Every shadow could be an enemy. Every sound, a potential threat. But WS was already thinking three moves ahead, a hunter in the night, disciplined, patient, and absolutely lethal if cornered.


WS moved silently toward the voices, building a mental map of the terrain and enemy positions. From his vantage, he could see the ambushed team clearly and estimate the attackers’ likely spots — two positions, at least five hostiles.


He trusted Williamson and the SEAL to handle the back team. But if the two men speaking in Spanish were together, where was the fifth element? He deduced the flanker’s location and chose his position carefully.


Less than two minutes later, he heard the movement. Efficient, precise — military-grade but hardly subtle. A quick jab with the taser, and one went down. Shadows swallowed him again.


Through the night, the attackers’ voices carried, shouting at the bikers in Spanish to surrender. Their friends were already “guests.” The rumble of three bikes moving north at full speed made him tense — deadlights engaged. One enemy raised a weapon. WS appeared silently behind him, knocking him out and planting his knife briefly on the shoulder for leverage, then tossing the body aside.


Across the ambush, the other two attackers were already down — the SEAL’s efficiency and Williamson’s scrappy reliability made sure of that. WS moved to the injured bikers. Two were hit, one critically. He pulled from his mother’s lessons, employing first-aid with precision.


The critical victim needed a hospital — immediately. Luckily, he was a scout from the local club, not one of WS’s key bodyguards. When the other scouts arrived, WS delegated: two would escort the injured man back. The lightly injured biker insisted he could ride and assist. WS sent two scouts with the critically injured man, stabilizing him first.


It was always a gamble — time and location against blood loss. The wound was to the leg, but it had hit an artery. Nasty work, but WS had the training and the nerves. Between Andrade Corner and Castaic Lake, there was no hospital nearby, just calculated risks, and a man with enough skill and patience to tilt them in their favor.



They secured their prisoners, and WS turned to Williamson.


“Where’s the most likely spot someone could’ve tipped them off?” he asked.


Williamson pointed toward a clearing, his knowledge precise. “Nobody usually goes there. Could’ve been the guy pissing, nothing else.”


WS nodded. He ordered the lightly injured bodyguard to stay put and wait for the patched members to arrive, then guide them. WS gathered his team — five bodyguards, himself — and moved in, silent and deliberate, aiming to rescue their brothers.


Faint lights flickered ahead. He told his men to spread out, move like he had trained them. It did little to mute their noise; they were still clumsy, loud as bisons, but far better than before.


Using the shadows for cover, WS approached. Only two guards were visible. Three shacks sat ahead; if their brothers were alive, they’d be inside one. The two men outside talked, making a direct approach tricky. He waited while his men secured the perimeter.


Come on… one of them must move to take a piss.


Time crawled, though it had been only half an hour. Then a massive rumble echoed — the guards panicked, shouting that a full legion of bikers was coming. In their confusion, they began opening the shacks, freeing the workers they had been using, scattering them.


WS seized the moment. He struck one guard with such speed that the second froze in shock. A knife pressed to his neck, WS’s gaze locked on him. The man dropped his weapon instantly.


All workers were captured by WS’s team. When Johnson arrived, WS pointed at the last unopened shack.


He hadn’t opened it yet. Something felt off — if he acted too soon, he could lose control and slaughter everyone inside.


Johnson slowly opened the last shack. Inside, the brothers were all asleep. For a moment, he froze. How the hell do they sleep through all this mess?


Hard pot, it seemed. The men inside had knocked them out quickly and efficiently.


Johnson called out softly, asking what had happened. The brothers groaned and explained, rubbing their heads:


“One of us went to take a piss at the clearing. The others left him behind and stopped on the road. When the guy didn’t return, we went back… and got ambushed.”


They had tried to negotiate, but one of the idiots had shot Jamison in the leg. Panic set in when they realized the Angels might descend on them. They decided to keep the brothers here and called headquarters — one of the big cartel bosses was en route.


Luckily for the brothers, one of their captors had taken Spanish classes but pretended to be dumb. The enemies assumed they couldn’t understand what was being said, giving them a slight edge.


WS immediately understood the tactical advantage. He ordered the bikers to spread out and move in a way that let the enemy see them, forcing the ambushers to reveal themselves while searching for their brothers.


The rest of the Santa Clarita brothers were on their way. WS and his men would stick around, keeping watch. His sixth bodyguard, slightly injured, refused to leave. WS dressed the wound quickly and forced three antibiotic pills down his throat, muttering about discipline and responsibility.


They moved toward the shacks to hide inside. Meanwhile, the seven guards assigned to the pot farm had been tied up. Three of the Hispanic Angels volunteered to pose as guards, blending in and maintaining the illusion that everything was running smoothly. The pot farm “slaves” agreed to play along as well, keeping up appearances.


Five hours later, a black Jeep crept along the back roads. The Angels continued their charade, appearing to patrol as usual. When the Jeep arrived, the lead man called for Carlos.


WS stepped out of the shadows, his bodyguards already keeping every one of the five bastards under their scopes.


“Hola… ¿debes ser del cartel?” WS asked.


The man smiled faintly.


“Sí… se lo estoy vivo,” he said.


“Es porque quieres hablar, ¿cierto?” WS replied.


“Sí,” the man confirmed, eyes flicking nervously toward the shadows.


WS sat at the table as a whole pollo was slowly brought and placed before him. He considered it for a moment — one of those facts he’d picked up over the years: when you want to make your opponent nervous, you remove food from sight; when you want them rational, you put it on the table. He wasn’t sure if it was really true, but it never hurt to try.


He leaned back, eyes flicking to the man from the cartel, letting the simple act of food being present do half the work of tension management while he studied his reactions.


The man pulled a knife and began cutting into the pollo. Somehow, despite being patted down, he had kept the blade hidden. WS noted it silently — this guy was good. And since he was using it to carve the chicken, it wasn’t stashed on his person.


WS grabbed a chicken leg, took a deliberate bite, eyes never leaving the cartel man. The man skewered a chunk of the breast with the knife, using it as a makeshift fork, holding WS’s gaze as he did so.


Finally, he spoke, calm but wary: “It’s unfortunate… they do not wish to impose on the angels. These idiots had orders not to engage. This is one of their most precious farms… fresh pot for all of greater LA. Prime profits as well.”


WS chewed slowly, letting the words settle. Every movement — every glance, every bite — was a test, a negotiation in silence before any real conversation began.


WS leaned back slightly, letting the faint aroma of the roasted pollo settle between them. He tore a bite from the drumstick, chewed deliberately, and finally spoke, eyes calm and measured.


“Two of my brothers are injured. Three, if we count the one from Santa Clarita.”


The cartel man’s fingers tightened around the knife he had been using to skewer chicken breast. He swallowed and nodded slowly.


WS’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying the man across the table. He took another deliberate bite of chicken before speaking.


“So,” he said slowly, letting the words hang, “you’re offering to pay compensation for my two injured brothers… and the Santa Clarita brother. Is that right?”


The cartel man nodded, his knife resting on the plate.


“Exactly,” he said. “We’ll cover medical costs. And the morrón who fired the shot… plus Carlos, the local supervisor — they’ll be handed over.”


WS leaned back, chewing once more, letting the calm authority of his presence settle over the table. Every detail counted. Every word mattered. He was holding the leverage — and he would decide exactly how far to press it.


WS’s gaze stayed sharp on the cartel man as he ran the numbers in his head. Every territory, every power player, every potential outcome played out in rapid succession.


“All of California is Angel turf,” he said, letting the weight of the statement sink in.

The cartel man leaned back slightly, recognizing the weight behind the words. “My superiors had wanted to contact the Angels to handle protection,” he admitted, “but the riders in LA were so strong, it was difficult to make the deal. Now… LA riders might be disbanded. Maybe we can reach an agreement.”

He tapped a finger against the table, thinking aloud. “I can give you Sacramento and the leadership of the Jarheads. That’s your negotiating leverage. Me? I’m just an enforcer.”


The cartel man studied him carefully. He recognized the subtle markers of hardened warriors around WS — disciplined, lethal, loyal beyond reason. A former military man himself, he could tell: these weren’t ordinary bodyguards. Respect wasn’t given lightly; it was earned.


“Of course,” the cartel man said, “you’re just an enforcer. But even so… seeing the loyalty, the discipline, the fear — perhaps both — these men show you, it’s clear you’re hardly just a kid. You’ve got presence, authority… and the kind of leverage most of our superiors only dream of.”


The cartel man nodded toward the black Jeep. “There’s $200,000 in there,” he said, voice steady. “It was meant to bribe the Angels into silence.”


WS’s eyes narrowed. He doubted it. If they could have silenced the Angels, they would have. But they knew we’d come. Once this forest is crawling with bikers, their location is already notched down.


“So… what was your real plan?” WS asked.


Carlos shifted slightly, glancing at the bodyguards. “I… wasn’t sure yet,” he admitted. “I knew all of that — that keeping the farm secret was hard, perhaps impossible. So I came here to find a solution.”


“And did you?” WS pressed, calm but unreadable.


Carlos nodded. “I did. I found a prince among the bikers who can give me access to all of California… and perhaps the entire United States. The Gulf group’s been looking for this opportunity.”


WS allowed a slow smile. The Gulf? Clearly, this wasn’t a Zeta play. La Huesco Nueva’s generation would have handled this with violence. I expected Sinaloa, but Gulf is… workable.


The next day, in a nondescript motel in town, over twenty computers were set up in two parallel rows — ten on each side. The room hummed with low conversation and the faint whir of fans.


WS sat at the head of one side, representing the Jarheads. Across from him, Carlos handled the Gulf Group’s interests. Their goal: a national contract.


California, Arizona, and Texas were within reach — WS had direct influence there — but full national coverage? That was Ray’s turf. Only the national president could authorize that level of expansion.


The plan was strategic:

1. Regional Contract: Start with California, Arizona, and Texas.
2. Test & Build Trust: If it worked, expand into Florida.
3. National Deal: Once trust was solid, negotiate with Ray for full U.S. coverage.

The Angels would provide protection for the farms and the routes, while the Gulf Group would supply profits. The problem: the Gulf had no legal entities to transfer funds in the U.S., meaning payments had to be routed carefully through offshore or alternative channels.


Meanwhile, several “talking heads” from both sides argued over the details: pricing, costs per kilometer, types of goods to be traded, and the logistics of safeguarding transport and distribution.


WS observed silently, mentally cataloging strengths, weaknesses, and potential leverage points. Carlos spoke confidently, but WS noticed the Gulf lacked certain operational finesse — a vulnerability he could exploit if negotiations soured.


The room felt tense, electric. Every nod, pause, and keystroke mattered; this deal could define the next phase of control in multiple states, if not the entire country.


Once the deal was done, the payment was decided. The Gulf would provide the chapters involved in the deals with real estate, how it was split was between the receiving chapters, but the Angels would build a strong base and have a natural interest in protecting property values since they would derive profits from rents that would feed California. No more chapters in California with members getting paid just $200 a week—minimum now was $1,000, and the most influential chapters, particularly in San Francisco and LA, could earn $10,000 per member. Smaller chapters would get their share from routes passing through their turfs, with a Gulf farm in their territory providing an additional bump. It was an amazing deal for both sides.


WS ran the numbers in his head. Roughly 100 chapters in California: top-tier SF/LA chapters with 12–20 patched members, plus leverage over walking gangs for distribution, could see weekly payouts in the hundreds of thousands, even approaching $1M/week for the largest LA chapters. Medium chapters in the Bay Area outside SF, Sacramento, and San Diego averaged $1,000/week per member, with additional bonuses from any local Gulf farms. Peripheral or smaller chapters received smaller sums, but any farm or route passing through their turf added to their income. Prospects and hangarounds got minimal pay, mostly a token slice, though they could be leveraged for labor or intel.


Ignoring what was really being transitioned—drugs, guns, and white meat—the Gulf would quickly become the Angels’ best customers for guns. They were fighting a losing battle in Mexico against other cartels, but they had the funds. Several Angel members controlled walking gangs that could also handle distribution where possible. WS considered whether to put his Hondurans on the deal when the time came; probably not—they were friends first, men second.


The money was good, but it brought heat. Other cartels wouldn’t touch the Angels, but local gangs were a different matter. Even now, Black gangs and several Hispanic gangs were fighting a secret war in California for street-level control. WS had wanted to intervene, supply guns to the Bloods or some Crip chapters, but the national leadership said no. Several deals were still made, but officially nothing was done on behalf of the Angels—and no permanent pipeline existed.


WS checked in with Sacramento, voice low, deliberate. “Am I forgiven for the Petrov deal?”


Not that anyone blamed him—he carried the guilt himself, knowing he had underdelivered. The Sacramento Jarheads had anticipated this, and now, with the stabilization he and his men had established along the Texas-Arizona border, California chapters could finally rely on more than just Nevada for backup. The Texas and Arizona Angels could lend support when things in California got messy, no longer stretched too thin by border issues with Mexico. With the Gulf deal secured, resources and manpower could also be concentrated on the northwest—Riders MC territory in Oregon and Washington, the future “Cascadia” zone. Expansion north was inevitable, and the Jarheads would use the new funds to push into Riders MC turf while keeping the Angels’ footprint discreet, letting eventual Angel dominance take root.


WS sat back in the quiet corner of the restaurant, the table spread with dishes signaling the end of long negotiations. Johnson, Carlos, and the two other chapter chiefs were across from him. The air was still thick with adrenaline, the finalization of the Gulf deal settling like a weight off their shoulders.


Carlos shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes flicking toward the black chapter chief. He cleared his throat. “I… I apologize,” he said. “Old customs. Nothing personal.”


WS said nothing, studying the man for a beat, letting the tension linger. He knew the dynamics, the unspoken codes, the subtle prejudices. It didn’t matter. The deal was done, and in the end, everyone at the table had something to gain—and something to lose if they misstepped.



WS leaned back, watching Carlos carefully slice a piece of chicken. “Why so quick to seize this opportunity?” he asked.


Carlos’s eyes flicked toward the black chapter chief across the table before he answered. “Huesca Nueva Generation is pressing from the west, and the Zetas almost cut off our connection to Texas. We’ve been producing here in California for the local market, but moving product through the Gulf is near impossible. Sinaloa’s pressure from above, with government help… we were being crushed.”


He leaned forward, voice dropping. “This deal? It’s a lifeline. It lets us push back, maybe even regain territory—or at least keep what we’ve got.”


WS nodded, absorbing the implications. Carlos continued, explaining the Zetas: a paramilitary, fanatical group, a small army in themselves. The Gulf had plenty of money, muscle, and influence, but not enough trained killers to match them.


“That’s why the Angels are so precious,” Carlos said with a faint smile.


WS’s mind raced. He thought of Ray, Malachi, and the Petrov standoff. Muscle for muscle, the Petrov had outnumbered them. But most Angels were killers—disciplined, precise, lethal. Very few of the Petrov could claim the same.


Bent Ardi – Thanks for Nothing bled out of the restaurant speakers, a strange soundtrack to the heavy food and heavier conversation. WS sat with Johnson, Carlos, and the two other chapter chiefs, all celebrating the end of the negotiations. Carlos kept shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable next to the black chapter chief, muttering an awkward “old customs” by way of apology.


Midway through, WS tilted his head at Carlos, curious. “Why were the Gulf boys so quick to jump on this deal?”


Carlos leaned back, sipping at his drink. “Because we’ve got more than enough muscle, but not enough killers. Huesca Nueva Generation is pressing us from the west, Zetas cutting us off from Texas, and Sinaloa hammering us with government help. We’ve got plenty of men who can carry a gun, but not enough men who can use one.” He smiled thinly. “That’s why the Angels are precious.”


WS smirked, like it was nothing. “These three chapters here can’t do much yet. But once this deal pushes through Texas and Arizona, maybe you’ll want to ‘hire’ a few brothers for a vacation down south. Only thing is… a brother’s life is precious. We’re not mercs to be thrown away. And Mexican jails? They suck. If you ever bring Angels south, you’d better have an escape route ready for when the fireworks start.”


He let the thought hang, then casually added, “Almost got myself killed last month burning some Zetas safehouses across the line.”


Carlos blinked, then his smile widened. “So you’re the ghost who singed the lion’s tail? They’re still rattled. Still looking for the assholes who torched those two houses.”


WS shrugged, as if describing a walk down the block. “Yeah, I fucked up. Learned safehouses don’t pay like drug dens. Did all that work and walked away with peanuts.”


For a beat the table went quiet, the chiefs studying him — this kid who treated firebombing Zetas like a casual hobby. Carlos finally laughed, shaking his head.


“Safehouses do pay, kid. If you’ve got someone who can crack the safes. That’s why they call them safehouses.”


WS froze, then facepalmed. “Fuck… left millions on the table after doing all the hard work.”


The chapter chiefs burst into laughter, shaking their heads at him — the dumb kid who risked his life and nearly got killed, only to walk away with scraps.


Naïve, yeah. But the most dangerous one at the table.


The old warehouse smelled of dust and gasoline, but the energy inside was electric. All three chapters had gathered, the plans for renovation spread across a beer-stained table. With Gulf money now flowing, they could finally afford to knock down walls, throw up bars, bring it all under one roof. Officially, it would still be three separate patches — but pooling resources meant more firepower, more leverage.


The second WS walked through the door, the whole place erupted in laughter. Brothers clapped tables, doubled over, pointed at him like he was the funniest bastard in the world.


WS froze, side-eyeing his four bodyguards. Two were already inside, looking like they’d been roasted alive, and the other two trailed in behind him. All of them wore the same miserable expression.


“What the fuck’s going on?” WS asked, irritation creeping in.


One of the bodyguards rubbed his face. “Boss… they told the story.”


“What story?”


“The crazy kid story,” another said flatly. “How you burned down a Zeta safehouse and didn’t even think to open the safe.”


The room howled louder, chiefs grinning like devils. WS’s jaw tightened as his bodyguards traded glances.


“Fuck,” one muttered under his breath. “We left millions sitting there.”


“Calle 80 too,” another added, looking stricken. “The one we torched four days ago. Probably had a safe.”


The laughter rolled on. To everyone else, WS was a wild-eyed rookie playing outlaw roulette; to his men, the mistake gnawed like a missing limb.


Someone finally called out from the crowd: “Where the hell you been, kid?”


WS shrugged with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Had unfinished business. That seventh girl from before the rescue run? She hadn’t been satisfied yet. Mission incomplete.”


The two guards behind him smirked, chiming in. “Boss handled her well. Screamed like a banshee.”


The clubhouse roared again, the story of the safehouse already blending with the story of the girl, myths stacking on myths. And WS, standing there miffed but unbowed, looked less like the butt of a joke and more like the nucleus of one. The kind of kid you laugh at in the open — and pray you never cross in the dark.


The long table in the lodge crackled with smoke, heavy with whiskey glasses and suspicion. Thirty patches from across the Ring had answered Ray’s call. When he finally stood, the chatter died.


“News from the southwest,” Ray began, voice steady but carrying weight. “The Jarheads in California, Arizona, even across the line in Mexico—they negotiated a state deal with the Gulf. Millions are gonna flow, and some of it’s already trickling north. Which means us.”


The table stirred, a mix of surprise and disbelief.


“How the hell’d the Jarheads pull that?” one chief snorted. “Those assholes can barely agree on breakfast. Diplomatic ain’t exactly their style.”


Ray smirked. “Summary version I got—they hit a farm, took it over. During the heat of it, negotiations opened. Instead of a single buy, the deal turned into a state-wide contract. Guns, routes, protection. Soon as it’s locked, it’ll bleed into Texas, Arizona, maybe even Florida.”


Another chief leaned forward, brows tight. “Jarheads making deals? I doubt all of ‘em combined make for half a decent diplomat.”


Ray tapped the table, sharp enough to silence the laughter. “You think I don’t know? I’ve followed Mexico for years. Gulf’s been squeezed near to death—Zetas from one side, Sinaloa from the other, federales leaning in too. For them, this deal is scraps. For us? It means guns—and on guns alone, every chapter nationwide benefits.”


“So who closed it?” someone asked.


Ray shrugged. “Could’ve been one of the local chiefs. But the Jarheads? They’re the only ones who can authorize the state deal. Half the Texas chapters ride under their banner, and one-fifth of California. Don’t forget—they’re the bastards who got their hands on those bulletproof vests when no one else could.”


Murmurs spread again. Some still skeptical, others beginning to taste the opportunity.


Ray pressed on. “This works out for us too. We can recall our elite chapters from California and Texas—thirty-two hardened riders, free to keep pressure on the riders.”


A chief raised a brow. “Why would they leave? Those states are about to print money now.”


Ray leaned in, eyes glinting. “Because our sponsored chapters—the ones we back directly—pull more cash than the fattest Texan charter ever will. This isn’t about dollars. It’s about rank, legacy, and staying ahead of the riders.”


Silence. Heads nodded. The point was made.


Ray let it hang a moment before dropping the last card. “The Jarheads tell me the Gulf wants a national contract. And the way they’re offering to pay…” He chuckled, shaking his head. “…is real estate.”


A long whistle cut through the room. “That’s some crafty, smart bastard shit,” one chief muttered. “Keeps us clean. No drug money, no ghost jobs. No RICO. Just land and titles.”


Ray’s expression tightened, thoughtful, calculating. “Exactly. Always been the problem with foreigners—hard to make it look legit. But this…” He let the weight of it sit on their shoulders. “…this is different. Very crafty indeed.”

 

[Warscared]

WS sat with a beer in Johnson’s backyard, the old wood table sticky from a dozen other nights like this. The speakers growled Blues Saraceno – Grave Digger, its riffs rolling through the summer heat.


He had his cut—one hundred grand straight from the cartel. The rest of the cash he’d passed to the wounded Angels. “They earned it,” he’d said flatly. Money never healed scars, but it helped.


Now he sat across from Johnson the Younger and Johnson Junior, the chief’s sons. Not his men—never would be—but tonight they listened. He told them straight: “South’s done. Next bite’s north. San Francisco. Every day we wait, someone else puts their flag in.”


They traded glances, like they were weighing whether this kid was crazy or just reckless enough to drag fortune behind him.


From the house, Wendy Johnson lingered in the doorway, eyes locked on him even when she pretended not to. She wasn’t subtle. Neither brother missed it, and neither liked it.


WS finished his beer and set it down with a dull thunk. His face carried no scars, no visible proof of the fires he lit. Just a calm, dangerous certainty that unsettled men twice his age.


“Cartel’s paid. Injured men got their share. Now it’s about tomorrow,” he said. “And tomorrow’s north.”


The smoke of mesquite rolled heavy over Johnson’s backyard, meat sizzling on the grill, bottles cracking open in a steady rhythm. No whores, no coke, no chaos — not here. Johnson had made it clear: this is family ground, and family ground is respected.


The party wasn’t his idea anyway. It was Santa Clarita’s. They had thrown it together at the last minute, a way to thank WS for dragging five of their own out of the fire. Johnson had offered the venue — his home, his yard, his rules.


The Santa Clarita chief clasped WS by the shoulders, eyes burning with the weight of what had almost been lost. “You saved my boys. That don’t get forgotten. You ever call — they’ll ride.”


The men roared in agreement, bottles raised, smoke and firelight reflecting off their cuts.


WS took a pull from his beer and gave a nod, nothing more. He’d heard those words before — Murray in Minnesota had said the same, swore it with blood in his eyes. Murray was still under siege. Promises in this life carried weight, but too often the world broke under them.


His gaze slipped across his six. Williamson looked the lowest, shoulders hunched as he nursed his drink. WS had asked if he wanted to stay, maybe just ride easy under Johnson’s wing for the night. Williamson shook his head. “I’m here because the Jarheads called me to protect you. The money you made in Sacramento helps the club. That’s what matters. I’m not sticking around for a backyard party.”


It still caught WS sideways. Sacramento’s chief had been Jarhead. Now Johnson too. Bit by bit, the picture was getting sharper: the Jarheads had deep pull across the map. Texas bent their way, California too, and Florida whispered their name. Against them — the Zanes. Two giants inside one patch. The kind of split that could tear a nation’s backbone out.


Blues Saraceno – Grave Digger cut through the night, riffs rattling over the laughter and clatter of bottles.


Then headlights slashed across the fence. A hush slid into the edges of the yard as the sheriff walked in.


WS felt his chest tighten, instincts pulling him straight for the shadows near the treeline. He stayed low as the lawman crossed the grass with confidence, heading straight to Johnson.


The sheriff grinned wide, arms open. Johnson laughed and embraced him hard. Old Army brothers, by the look of it.


From his corner, WS sipped his beer, eyes hard. Promises, Jarheads, Zanes — all dangerous enough. But law in a friend’s arms? That was something else entirely.


WS felt a hand slide over his. He looked down. Wendy. Johnson’s daughter.


Before he could think, she yanked him behind a bush, pressing herself close. Her lips found his, and for a moment the world narrowed to that, the heat, the reckless thrill. WS didn’t pull back. The kiss deepened, and their hands roamed until suddenly…


The younger Johnson, her brother, yanked him out by the collar. “What the hell, man?!” he shouted.


The yard went quiet. Most bikers looked alarmed. Johnson’s jaw had tightened into a line. Protective instincts flaring — and WS was caught red-handed.


“I… I got caught in the heat of the moment,” WS stammered, hands raised in surrender.


Wendy blinked, then squared her shoulders. “Now we have to get married,” she declared. “I’m having your kid.”


WS froze. What?! His mind raced. But Wendy just smiled and hugged him tightly, like nothing could touch her excitement.


The three Johnson men stared him down. WS swallowed. Sweet, innocent girl… pregnant?


“It’s not what it seems!” he protested, but the older Johnson wasn’t hearing excuses. A sharp kick landed squarely where it hurt most. Years protecting her chastity, and a man he called a brother had dishonored it.


Wendy jumped between WS and the three men. “It’s not like that!” she said. “But… since we kissed, we’re going to have a baby. That’s how Daddy explained it works.”


WS’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth, but before he could protest further…


Mrs. Johnson, a big, formidable woman, stepped out of the house. “Sheriff! Arrest your stupid husband!” she barked.


The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Why?”


“For teaching my kids stupid things,” she said, voice dripping with disapproval. She knelt down to Wendy. “There’s more to making a baby than just kissing,” she explained, wagging a finger.


WS squirmed in the dirt, staring at the ground. Around him, the bikers tried not to laugh, some hiding smirks. He had never felt so exposed, humiliated, and confused… all at once.


The mother shook her head, hands on her hips. “Wendy, the bees talk to you? Really?”


Wendy’s cheeks turned crimson. “B-but… I thought… I thought that’s how it worked!”


She bolted from the backyard, tears streaking her face, leaving her perfectly ruined scheme behind. The two youngest Johnsons doubled over laughing at the spectacle, their guffaws echoing across the yard.


WS remained sprawled on the dirt, still feeling the aftereffects of the older Johnson’s well-placed kick. He groaned, glancing up at the older Johnson, whose glare could have melted steel.


“Still think you’re a smart one, huh?” the older Johnson growled, fists clenched. “Tryin’ to steal my daughter!”


WS lifted a hand weakly, muttering, “It’s… not what it looks like…”


But everyone knew better. The older Johnson stomped the ground, shaking his head, while WS just lay there, in pain and thoroughly humbled, as laughter and chaos continued around him.


The next morning, WS nursed his bruised ribs and worse, his pride. Williamson was Johnson’s Sergeant-at-Arms. And Johnson wanted him dead. Christ, WS thought, the trouble a girl can stir up…


Could he really trust Williamson? The man had his orders, but blood ran thicker than brotherhood. WS didn’t like the feeling that he might be walking with a knife at his back.


The burner phone buzzed, breaking his spiral. Sacramento.


The bullets WS had flagged—special rounds, traceable, expensive—had just been delivered to the Eagles in L.A. That meant only one thing: within days, a flight would land from Mexico. Passenger manifest: Pablo de la Casa.


The name made WS sit straighter. He pulled the email report and began scrolling.


Former Mexican Special Forces. MBA in military strategy. High-born family, wealthy, untouchable on paper. Five years ago, his wife murdered, his daughter scarred in an attack. Most likely the work of Huesca Nueva or the Zetas—he’d led army ops against them.


Now? He lived in Culiacán. His daughter hidden with grandparents and aunts in Mexico City. Seven U.S. companies under his name: five in California, one in Texas, one in Arizona.


WS leaned back, lips curling into a sharp grin. “Perfect disguise. Noble blood. Plenty of reasons to be stateside.”


He tapped the name again on the screen. Culiacán… Sinaloa.


The game board had just shifted.


The next day, WS and his six men blended into the crowd at LAX, deliberately stripped of any biker identifiers. Around the terminals, nearly a hundred patched Angels loitered, a subtle but unmistakable show of muscle. This is their weakest point, WS thought. No guns through the airport. The Eagles will pick him up and arm these guys immediately… if we can snatch them first…


He flicked a glance at his comms. Another fifty Angels were tailing the Eagles’ convoy, ready to move. In minutes, they struck, subduing the group and taking them into custody. No cab for you, Pablito, WS muttered under his breath, a smirk curling his lips. Genius, he told himself.


The plane touched down. WS’s eyes tracked the exit ramp. Pablo emerged, flanked by a dozen men. Twelve. WS had anticipated five or six.


Fuck.


Half the squad probably stayed behind to run farms, manage deals, or guard other operations. Or maybe WS had misjudged—he always brought more men than expected. The implications spun through his mind: either their operations demanded heavy manpower, or their rotations were shorter than expected, strike teams cycling faster than assumed. Or… or…


He could trace a hundred potential contingencies, each branching into a thousand outcomes, when a sharp tap on his shoulder yanked him back into the moment. One of his men, ex-military and precise, had the presence of mind to pull him out of the spiral.


“Boss, we move now,” the man said.


WS nodded, he had his doubts but it was time to act


WS shot to his feet and screamed, “Pablo! Finally, you are here, mi amigo!” He pushed past Pablo’s security, hugged him tightly, and whispered in his ear, “Lo hemos preparado una fiesta de buenas vindas, sígueme!”


As WS slid his arm around Pablo, his six men flanked the new arrivals, making their presence impossible to ignore. But then—a cold, sharp point pressed against his chest. A gun.


WS’s mind raced. The bullets… he fucked up. That was why they’d been so expensive: no metal, designed to pass through detectors. Ceramic. This asshole never went unarmed. WS laughed, drawing even more attention.


Pablo’s voice cut through: “Non hago idea de quién eres, blanco loco, pero non me voy sin luchar!”


WS met his gaze. He knew Pablo had attended seminars at the U.S. Naval Academy and even spent a semester at another military academy. I only want to talk, Paul… so relax.


I’ve got over a hundred guys inside the airport and fifty outside guarding your cabs. Start a scene, and you blow your honest, hard-working businessman façade. So let’s play along.


Pablo laughed, then called him his nephew—loudly, in Spanish, for everyone to hear. Both had now marked themselves. If anything happened to either, they’d be tangled together.


The cops snapped pictures as six giants surrounded a dozen hard-looking Mexicans, while an extremely tall, blonde kid hugged a man who just called him his nephew.


As they climbed into the cabs, Pablo’s men were systematically disarmed. But Pablo himself kept a firm grip on WS, using him as a human shield.


The convoy rolled toward the outskirts of Los Angeles. Pablo’s eyes caught the glint of bikes and patches along the road. He barked a laugh. “Fucking bikers… fucking greedy bikers… so is this a shakedown?”


WS grinned. “Well… your taxes are overdue.”


Pablo’s face hardened. “Do you know who you’re working for?”


“I have a pretty good guess,” WS said coolly.


Pablo scowled. “Sinaloa will organize a manhunt across all the Angels in the U.S… your brothers… they’ll die for this.”


WS tilted his head, voice calm. “Calm down, Pablo. Let’s not be hasty.”


Pablo went for his phone—then froze. It was gone.


WS leaned out the window, letting the wind carry his words. “By now, thanks to your phone, we know where every Sinaloa operation in the Southwest is… every farm, every lab, every business. If something happens to my boys, you don’t just lose face—you lose billions. All over some pocket change. Tsk, tsk… greedy, greedy cartels.”


Pablo’s grip tightened on WS, but his confident sneer faltered. For once, he realized he wasn’t fully in control.


Pablo’s eyes narrowed, scanning the road ahead. “I know the Gulf made a deal with the Angels,” he said, voice low but sharp. “That… displeased my bosses. The Angels are arming the Gulf.”


WS shrugged, keeping his tone casual despite the gun pressed against his chest. “We’ll arm anyone that pays. Doesn’t matter who you are.”


Pablo snorted, incredulous. “Sinaloa has better guns… better connections… better everything. So… what now? MS-13 handles Sinaloa’s distribution—long-haul shipments, street-level networks… every step. What do the Angels have to offer?”


WS smiled faintly, eyes scanning Pablo’s reaction. “Muscle. Discipline. Reach. The Angels aren’t just shooters—they’re everywhere. And they’re not playing for scraps. If you want your distribution secure, if you want your people alive, you hire the Angels. We protect, we enforce, we make sure nothing slips. You don’t get just guns—you get strategy, loyalty… and consequences for anyone who thinks otherwise.”


Pablo’s jaw tightened. For the first time, the smirk faltered. WS wasn’t just a kid he could intimidate. He was a map, a weapon, and a risk Pablo had never fully accounted for.


ablo’s hand tightened on the wheel. “I’ll need to call Gusman. Make sure my bosses know what’s happening.”


WS faltered for a fraction of a second. Fucking hell. Direct access to El Chapo himself. He’d bitten off something he might not be able to chew. The Southwest was under his control, but Sinaloa? That was a whole other continent of risk. He needed the entire Angel Nation on his side if this went wrong.


“I heard you guys got kicked out of most of Mexico by Huesca…” Pablo continued, voice almost casual, “Now the Gulf is trying to push back, and the Zetas are attacking your northern reaches. You’re… spread thin.”


WS forced a smirk, keeping his tone light, almost playful. “So? Sounds like a fair fight. You’ve got guns, men, chaos… and we’ve got patience, timing, and the Angels. We can make this work, or you can make a mess and lose billions in the process. Your choice.”


Pablo’s gaze flicked to WS, calculating. He wasn’t just a kid playing at gangster politics—he was a force in motion, and every step WS took had consequences.


WS let his mind race, running the numbers, counting men, rotations, response times. He had the Southwest mapped in his head like a chessboard, every pawn, rook, and bishop accounted for. And if this escalated? Well… he might just need every Angel alive in the States.


Pablo’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you propose, then?”


WS leaned back slightly, letting a hint of a smile play at his lips. “Well… the taxes, of course. And freedom. Freedom to finish what I started with the MS—just like I’ve been doing for the past year.”


Pablo’s mouth twitched, part amusement, part disbelief. “I always suspected the Angels were behind the massacres that started last year… You dumb fuck in the south for not cleaning up after yourself, kid.”


WS shook his head, calm but deliberate. “Not the Angels. Me. And my Honduran friends. We’ve been handling the MS.”


Pablo laughed, low and incredulous. “Hondurans? Those are good people, sure… but killers? Hardly.”


WS’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Yes. They are. Good people who deserve respect… and protection. So I made sure they got it.”


His eyes darkened, fierceness radiating from his stare, stripping Pablo down to his bare soul. The rage and hatred in WS’s voice, the deadly precision of his glare, sent a chill down Pablo’s spine. It was unsettling—the intensity of a teenager who had already proven he could orchestrate death and command fear, yet radiated the quiet discipline of a seasoned tactician.


Pablo found himself shifting slightly in his seat, reassessing the kid in front of him. This wasn’t some reckless youth. This was something far more dangerous—calculated, unyielding, and utterly fearless.


WS leaned closer, voice low but firm. “Listen… if you fail here, Pablo, you die. If we fail later… the Angels die. So this isn’t just about us. My guys promise to keep Huesca and the Zetas out of the U.S. Without the U.S. market, they can’t compete with Sinaloa. Guns, power—they stay yours in Mexico and in the States.”


He let the words sink in. “If not… well, war’s bad for business, but the Angels are soldiers. Most of Sinaloa isn’t. Except for the crew in front of me, of course.”


WS’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I read your profile. I can understand why you do what you do.”


Pablo glanced back, his expression half-amused, half-confounded. “I don’t understand you. You’re younger than you look… should be worrying about girls, not growing up too fast.”


WS shrugged, a shadow crossing his face. “My childhood sucked. So I took a detour into being a man. Figured it would suck less that way.”


Pablo’s shoulders slumped, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “You made a mistake… and it’s going to get worse. Far worse.”


WS felt a pang of guilt, the weight of lives resting on both their shoulders. He patted Pablo on the shoulder, firm but reassuring. “We’ll handle it. Together.”


Three days later, WS sat with Pablo, the air heavy with cigarette smoke and half-finished coffees. They debated strategy, and WS shared his opinions on Mahan, while Pablo filled in the finer points, nuances of maneuvering, and operational theory. WS asked about Professor Sarah Paine—he had read all her books. Pablo chuckled, “During her lectures, you’d have been thrown out as a troublemaker.” They shared a brief, rare moment of mentor and student, the weight of war and diplomacy suspended between them.


Meanwhile, Sinaloa and the Angels finalized their deal. The cartel secured a 20% discount on passage rights, payment to be made in drugs. Not ideal by Angels’ self-imposed standards, but enough to open channels and generate intelligence. WS had learned the inner workings of cartel farm operations, noting rotation schedules, security blind spots, and logistical chokepoints.


By dawn on the day of the coordinated strikes, WS had pinpointed every non-Gulf, non-Sinaloa farm. He led the charge against the most dangerous target alone, a ghost among shadows, bypassing every patrol, every trap, every hidden alarm. Pablo watched, astonished, as the boy executed an operation that would have required a dozen seasoned adults elsewhere. The Huesca cream was obliterated silently, efficiently, and completely. Not a single cartel operative survived—and neither did the slave workers. The smile on WS’s bloodied face unnerved even Pablo. It was not savagery for pleasure; it was calculated, terrifying precision.


Jarheads oversaw coordination, logistics, comms, and reinforcements. Experienced military minds ensured the remaining chapters struck in perfect timing. Colorado chapters joined in, claiming territory with efficiency and authority. Local clubs bent the knee; the Riders hesitated, wary of provoking a new Angel state, their movements measured and cautious.


In the aftermath, patched Angels secured every farm. Revenue streams flowed to the chapters, and Sinaloa knew exactly who to hire for their operations—the Angels, mercenaries for hire at a 20% discount, disciplined, lethal, and unstoppable. The Gulf remained untouched, still a paying client, but Sinaloa had gained access to muscle capable of keeping their enemies in check. WS’s operations had reshaped the balance of power in the Southwest, demonstrating the Angels’ reach and the terrifying efficiency of a boy leading men far older and far deadlier than himself.


After the operation, Pablo had to return. He had a lot to explain, but before leaving, he and Warscared hugged.


“Thanks for all that you taught me, Pablo,” Warscared said, pulling a gold necklace from his pocket. “For your daughter… You should tell her more often that you love her, so she knows the difference when some asshole says it without any meaning behind it.”


Pablo laughed and hugged Warscared back. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I wish I had had a son like you…” His expression darkened slightly.


“Thanks for the kind words, but… no, you wouldn’t. Not even my mother would have wanted it if she’d had the choice. I’m just trying to pay her back for all her sacrifices.”


Pablo understood there was more to those words than he could fully figure out. Perhaps, before he joined the cartel, he wouldn’t have wanted a child like Warscared. But seeing the violence the world could unleash—and recognizing the need for a capable child to withstand it—had changed his mind.


“Thanks, young one. If you ever stop by my region, I’ll buy you dinner… and you can sleep on the couch!”


WS stands at the Santa Clarita clubhouse when Johnson stops by.


“Hey, kid,” Johnson begins, “I want to apologize… and thanks for all you did in South Cali. I might have overreacted a bit… but you better stay away from here. If you stay, I think I might have to accept you as a son-in-law.”


WS raises an eyebrow, remembering Wendy. Johnson continues, “Wendy’s been head over heels for you… and, well, she always gets what she wants. She’s like her mother.”


WS can’t hide what he’s thinking. Her mother—a massive black woman, strong enough to probably knock a guy out if she got pissed—flashes in his mind. Johnson laughs.


“Yeah, but when she was younger, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. And yet I love her more now than ever. I keep my region clean and peaceful, but if things turn sour, it’s good to know I have a capable woman. She was in the Air Force before she became a teacher… God, I love that woman.”


He pauses, a shadow of seriousness crossing his face. “Except for my eldest daughter, all my other kids from my first marriage love her. But you… you stay away from my Wendy. No biker will ever be good enough for her.”


As WS prepares to leave, Johnson’s phone buzzes. He answers, listening intently.


“The LA Riders are preparing a massive ride—like the one we saw in Colorado when we took over,” the voice reports. “Colorado is now bereft of rider chapters… probably retreating up north. Those who don’t follow will likely drop their colors and get patched over by some minor club. Even hangarounds and prospects are getting ready.”


WS starts reaching for his phone to call Sacramento, then remembers: this chief right here—Johnson—is one of the Jarheads. He looks at WS knowingly.


“They’ve given up in South Cali,” Johnson says, “and thanks to all the resources we have now… thanks to your two deals, they’re running north and fortifying. If they’re willing to leave their own homes… well, these are the ones who will stand and fight when we eventually move north. So…” He pauses, thinking strategically. “…we need to prevent a new Idaho.”


WS frowns. Johnson continues, “Ninety rider bikers left Colorado and moved into Idaho. A new stronghold for them. They patched over—or ran out—all non-aligned biker clubs and chapters there. If they reach Oregon, the same will be expected. They’re consolidating.”


WS nods slowly, understanding the stakes. This wasn’t just about territory—it was about preventing the Riders from gaining another unchallenged foothold in the North.


Johnson asked, “Can you stick around… and help out? I need Williamson, my Sergeant-at-Arms, at least. He’s given an oath and will follow you until the mission’s done. And I’ll need your other five bodyguards too—they’re useful guys, all former special forces and all that.”


WS frowned. “What about me?”


Johnson looked at him like he was surprised. “You? Just… don’t get in the way. I need your men and their fighting skills, not your shadow-dancing infiltration tricks. They’re running, not hiding.”


WS fell in line with the rest of the pack, the roar of engines vibrating through his chest. For the first time in days, he wasn’t leading—he was just another rider among Angels who had earned their stripes long before he had even considered the rules of the game.


The wind tore past him as The Jompson Brothers – “On The Run” kicked through the speakers of the lead bike. WS let a small smirk play across his face. The song suited the moment perfectly: a band of outlaws, fast and relentless, on a path that no one else could follow.


He kept his eyes on the horizon, matching the rhythm of the engine to the beat of the track. Around him, the pack moved as one, a single, powerful organism—muscle, loyalty, and menace intertwined. Even without leading, WS felt the weight of every decision he had made in the past weeks pressing against him. Every strike, every negotiation, every farm taken… it had all led here, to the silent understanding that sometimes the most dangerous rider is the one who knows when to let others take the front.


The riders decoyed north, engines roaring, but instead of continuing on the expected route, they veered sharply into Nevada. Johnson’s jaw tightened—he’d been outmaneuvered. Every attempt to anticipate their moves had failed.


Nevada had eyes on them. Several Angel chapters were already mobilizing, but this was no small pursuit. Over 120 riders—roughly 80 fully patched Angels from 9 or 10 chapters—moved as one. A formidable force, disciplined and coordinated.


The Angels gave chase, trying to coordinate chapters to slow them down, but the riders were deliberate. Idaho lay ahead—not just a route, but a statement. They aimed to cement a corridor from the Pacific to the Great Lakes, a continuous stretch no one could ignore.


The biker world was watching: run, yes—but survive, and in doing so, claim power. WS stayed inside the pack, observing, noting, calculating. Chaos was expected. Strategy was predictable. Survival, though—that was the art.


As they approached Elko and came to a stop, WS turned to Johnson and the three other Jarhead chiefs. “They’ve already slipped,” he said, voice low but sharp. “No way we catch them before Boise. With the local chapters and the Colorado crews moving, they can hold it until kingdom come. And if they let themselves get caught…” He trailed off, letting the thought linger.


Johnson’s jaw tightened. Anger radiated off him in waves. The other three Jarheads shook their heads, muttering, “We lost our chance.”


Suddenly, a phone rang. A chapter contact reporting that the riders had halted. There was still time. They could still catch them.


WS’s voice cut through the tension like a whip. “IT’S A TRAP!”


One of the Jarheads blinked. “What do you mean?”


“They lured us here,” WS said, pacing a few steps, eyes scanning the horizon. “The Idaho chapters and Colorado riders have moved south. It’s the middle of the desert, right? No cops, no witnesses. They’ll pretend to make a stand… and when we bite, they spring the ambush.”


The desert sun beat down on the group. The wind stirred, but WS’s words hung heavier than the heat. Every man’s gaze flicked between him and the barren horizon, calculating, questioning. The trap was there—he could feel it. And now they had to decide if they’d walk right into it.


Johnson scowled at the map. “Where did they camp?”


One of the Jarheads peered closer and laughed. “Dick Shooter… south of Dryforth.”


WS raised an eyebrow. “Good choice of name,” he said with mock solemnity. “They want to shoot our dicks off. And I’m very attached to my own. Been with me even before I was born. Sure, sometimes we fight, and yeah, I have to beat him up—but still… wouldn’t trade it for the world.”


The bikers exchanged glances, unsure if he’d finally lost it under the desert heat.


WS smirked. “It’s a fucking dick joke. Just laugh, okay? You’re making me uncomfortable right now!”


Half of them chuckled reluctantly, shaking their heads, before returning to the maps and planning.


The aftermath was a river of silence and blood. Almost a hundred lay dead on both sides, their faces twisted in pain, their bodies broken by hatred and chaos. WS rode slowly among them, each corpse a reminder of what war demanded. He pondered the cruelty of it all: before Samael turned on his brothers, Angels and Riders had been a single tribe. Now they tore each other apart, eyes burning with hate, and yet beneath it all, they had once been brothers—still bound by the love of the ride.


The surviving Riders had fled north, abandoning the bodies of their fallen comrades. WS crouched beside one, a kid no older than twenty-two, and gently closed his eyes. Around him, the Angels collected the dead, some grieving, some silently steeling themselves for the next fight. Support chapters had arrived unexpectedly, catching the Riders’ rear in a brutal pincer. WS had ridden like a demon possessed, drawing fire, allowing others to take position—but today, he had not killed.


As he positioned the bodies of the dead Riders alongside the fallen Angels, his bodyguards flanked him warily. Respect for an enemy was dangerous in their world. Yet the captured and injured Riders watched in awe as the tall blond moved among the corpses, whispering prayers, honoring their fallen, muttering soft words for those who would never rise again.


When the grim work of assembling the bodies was done, WS reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his bagpipes. None of the Angels had known he carried it. He raised it to his lips and played—a low, mournful tune, a wail echoing the grief of mothers mourning their children. Soon a Black Angel stepped forward with a harmonica, picking up the rhythm. Two others joined with drums, the beat steady and solemn, like guiding the spirits of the fallen into the sky.


A hush fell over the field. Silent prayers passed from one rider to another. These were warriors who had fought bravely, who had believed in something larger than themselves, and who had paid the ultimate price. In WS’s mind, this was truth—but also a personal reckoning. He had dodged death by inches, had seen bullets scream past, had watched men bleed in agony, screaming for life he could not save. Normally he went into the shadows and silenced them, but today, he had simply witnessed.


And now, among the drums, the harmonica, and the wails of the bagpipe, he felt the weight of it. Each life lost was a world of possibility ended, each scream a mirror of what he might have been. The battlefield was quieting, but in WS’s chest, the war had only just begun.


The aftermath was a grim testament to the cost of war. Almost a hundred lay dead on both sides, their screams long gone, their bodies silent witnesses to hatred and chaos. The surviving Riders had been captured, their punishment swift and precise: the Jarheads had cut off the trigger finger of each man, letting them go with a warning that should they ever be caught again, mercy would not be extended. Vans carried the injured Angels to nearby hospitals, explained away as hunting accidents, while WS moved among the less severely wounded, dressing their wounds with meticulous care.


His men watched, some in awe, some in disbelief. WS could heal, not just kill. He was too tall, too blonde, too cold, and yet here he was, mourning fallen Angels and Riders alike, and tending to those who could still be saved. One Angel, wide-eyed and trembling, asked why he carried an army surgeon’s pouch.


“Mother taught me enough,” WS said quietly, “and I read enough. Sometimes, if you’re called, it’s already too late. But sometimes… miracles happen.”


Even in the shadow of death, his calm precision held the field together. Bloodied, scarred, and exhausted, the surviving Angels looked to him not just as a warrior, but as something more—an enigma who had walked among death, felt its weight, and yet returned to tend the living.


WS surveyed the aftermath. Not a single one of his bodyguards was injured—a testament to their skill, and perhaps a bit of luck. As he rose, two familiar voices cut through the quiet chaos.


“The fucking kid is still alive?”


“Nah… can’t be Greg. Come on… this one’s at least two inches taller.”


WS turned and immediately recognized them: two men from San Francisco who had given him a ride back from Japan, bypassing passport control. Relief and amusement crossed his face, and he pulled them both into a tight hug.


“So, the surprise chapters that came… San Francisco? Weren’t you guys stretched thin?” he asked, glancing at their worn leathers and battle-stained faces.


Greg smirked. “A few assholes in the south made deals with cartels, so the Hispanics weren’t pressing so hard. Since Angels and La Familia have a long-standing peace, we could scrape a few men together and come help.”


WS nodded, impressed and grateful. Even in the chaos and carnage, loyalty ran deep, and old alliances still held weight. He looked over the field again—bodies collected, the injured stabilized, the dead honored—and felt the strange mix of relief, exhaustion, and pride only a battlefield like this could bring.


WS stepped forward and was introduced to one of the San Francisco chapter chiefs—a Jarhead. The man’s eyes immediately locked on him.


“I know who you are,” he said, nodding once. “I personally picked those two men protecting you. Anyone with eyes could tell you’re the one they’re riding for.”


WS allowed a small smile. This chief, part of the military-lead group that had given him his chance in California, had entrusted him with loyal bodyguards. Now, they would ride together toward San Francisco.


The Bay Area was more stable than before. Other chapters were pitching in, less burdened by conflicts of their own, and the new profits from both cartel deals and the seized farms strengthened the Angels’ position.


Some gangs, either loyal to or intimidated by the cartels, had backed off, giving the Angels more control over the streets. Oakland crews and Mara Salvatrucha remained a thorn in their side, but the Angels had reclaimed some authority.


WS allowed himself a quiet moment of satisfaction. The chapters were coordinated, influence was expanding, and the Bay Area was under stronger Angel control. He had done a good job.


As they rode toward San Francisco, WS switched to a private channel, voice low.


“Why did you give me a chance?” he asked the chief.


The Jarhead’s tone was steady, measured. “I grew up on the stories of the biker civil war. When I heard about the new Azrael, I had to see it for myself. San Francisco was falling apart. Los Angeles was out of reach, divided among too many gangs, the Riders running the top biker show there. Only Sacramento was semi-stable, and even they were always at risk of being swamped from the north by the Riders in Oregon. We had to act. You were the best choice.”


He paused, almost grudgingly. “I never expected you to be a Michael—making smart moves, cutting deals with the cartels. First, we sent you to Texas, to test your mettle. If you died… well, you were just a sixteen-year-old kid. Nothing much would’ve been lost, even if Ray seemed to have a special fondness for you.”


WS let that sink in, thinking back to the moves he had already pulled and the deals he’d orchestrated. Even at sixteen, the Jarheads had seen something worth trusting.


The chief let out a booming laugh over the private channel. “You’re also funny as hell, kid. Raiding safe houses and forgetting the safes, leaving millions on the table for some lucky bastard—or the cops—to grab. That story still rattles my bones whenever I hear it. You… don’t happen to be the one that went through the gauntlet at the mother chapter house, are you?”


WS’s mind flicked back. The orgy with seventy-five women… nope. Sorry to disappoint. He shook his head. Seventy-three, not seventy-five, and by the end of it he was barely holding himself together.


“So, what’s the story nowadays?” he asked, smirking. “How many more girls were added? Any other unbelievable things thrown into the mix?”


The chief chuckled again. “Yeah… it seems you hugged all the patched members there.”


WS grinned. “I did… but it was two days later. The next day, I was just too dead tired to move.”


The chief barked another laugh, the sound echoing through the private channel. “Goddamn, kid. You live in a world where everything’s exaggerated, but somehow… you survive it all.”


WS let the laugh fade, thinking how absurd the stories had become—and how little anyone actually knew the truth behind them.


WS asked, “So what’s the plan? Remove the MS in San Francisco and the job’s done, right?”


The chief shook his head. “Seems easy… except safe houses are hard to infiltrate. Even with your uncanny abilities, it won’t be a walk in the park.”


WS frowned but followed as the chief took a detour. The rest of the group fell in line behind them, riding for four hours until they reached an old, abandoned farm.


The chief dismounted and said, “WS… I think you should see this.”


WS squinted. “What is this?”


Around the broken barn were the skeletons—or the remnants—of over a hundred bikers. The chief’s voice lowered. “This is where the original Azrael died.”


WS froze. Not his tomb, right?


“No,” the chief said. “His brother Malachi took his body and buried him beneath the house where he was born, so he could rest with his ancestors.”


WS studied the scene. Sixty years ago, Azrael had snuck into this barn, then a Riders chapter, and had killed and died here. His body was only found two days later. By the looks of it, he had survived long enough to make himself comfortable, only to die from his injuries before reinforcements arrived.


WS felt a pang of sorrow for the fallen warrior.


“If the original Azrael had men to support him, he would have survived,” the chief said. “That’s why we provided you with a squad to keep you alive. Be careful believing your own legend… Azrael did, and this is where it brought him.”


He gestured to the surrounding bikes. “Even today, the Angel black chapters of California bring him a gift: a Rider’s bike. These are the remains of them.”


WS walked slowly, taking in the offerings. He muttered a silent prayer to his fallen idol—a black biker who had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of racist white bikers. Robertson, standing nearby, nodded.


“Is the skin color really that important?” WS asked.


Robertson smiled. “It shouldn’t be, in accordance with Gabriel’s creed: ‘If a man is good enough to stand by my side in battle, he is good enough to ride by my side!’”


All the Angels echoed in unison.


“But… for black kids back then, Azrael being black meant the world,” Robertson added.


WS laughed. “So no Asian Archangel? Guess I’m in the wrong crew.”


Two Asian riders turned toward him. WS hadn’t noticed them before.


“I speak Japanese,” he said.


They laughed. One was Korean, the other Chinese.


“Stick to English. Even if I could speak Japanese, I wouldn’t understand you,” the Korean said.


The Chinese rider grinned. “Yes, but even we can understand when an Asian hillbilly talks. You must come from the equivalent province of Japan as Mississippi is to the States.”


WS laughed. “My family hails from northern Japan. Now I guess all we need is a Hispanic Archangel.”


Some of the Hispanic riders chuckled.


“Michael was part Native American and Hispanic. His birth name was Miguel, and he was from New Mexico. The whites just pretended he was always white… back then, there was no division.”


WS looked around. “So the Angel Brotherhood is a microcosm of the United States?”


A few riders nodded. “Yeah. The part that still has balls to speak up. The country’s becoming a bunch of soft pussies,” one said. Most guys agreed.


WS shrugged. “Not much into politics. So… what’s going on?”


Robertson smirked. “For fifty years, these idiots turned politics into a circus. Now they’re whining because the orange clown is running.”


WS grinned. “If it’s a circus… don’t be surprised when the clown wins.”

 

[Warscared]

The engines roared back to life, one by one, until the whole pack was breathing fire again. Dust kicked up behind the front wheel as the Bay Area Angels lined out onto the highway.


They’d stopped at the place where Azrael had gone down, paying respects in the way bikers do: silence, a burn, and the weight of memory shared between men who don’t speak much about grief.


Now, on the ride back, the thrum of chrome and steel was joined by Bryan Martin’s “Everyone’s An Outlaw.” The song bled from a speaker rig strapped to one of the bikes, outlaw country rasp carrying across the wind.


WS sat in the middle of the column, the rhythm settling into his bones. The lyrics weren’t just music—they were a statement. Every man here wore colors, but more than that, they carried the same brand of scars, the same refusal to bend. To ride under that sound was to remind the world: they were still here, still standing, still outlaw.


The sun dipped low, turning the road into a black ribbon edged with gold. Somewhere behind him, Johnson’s laugh carried over the pipes, the kind of laugh that dared the world to try again.


The Angels didn’t just ride home—they rode with a hymn.


Jezebel coughed, sputtered, and finally died on the side of the road. WS swung off the bike, staring at her like a fallen warhorse. The Bay Area Angels slowed to a stop, a few of the brothers circling back.


One of the van doors slid open. “Hop in, man. We’ll haul you the rest of the way.”


WS shook his head, almost smiling. “Nah. I’ll take the bus.”


He pulled his cut from his shoulders, folding it carefully before handing it to Robertson. “Keep this safe. I’ll enter San Francisco alone and assess the situation. Don’t need a pack of engines announcing me.”


Robertson weighed the leather in his hands like it carried more than patches and pride. “You sure?”


“Yeah,” WS said, eyes on the horizon where the city waited. “This part, I do solo.”


The Angels revved and rolled out, leaving him in the fading rumble of exhaust. Alone now, WS turned toward the nearest bus stop—an outlaw stepping off the road and back into the shadows, exactly where he worked best.


On the bus ride back, WS leaned against the window, listening. The seats around him filled with strangers who talked too much, most of them complaining about how San Francisco and the whole Bay Area was going to shit. Half of them blamed illegal immigration like it was the magic answer to everything.


WS thought different. It’s not the migrants. It’s the crime groups hiding under it. He remembered a saying he’d once seen online: moderate Islam is the grass where the snake of radical Islam hides to strike. He wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d read the Qur’an cover to cover—there was no built-in hatred of the Abrahamic faiths in there. That narrative was fabricated, fueled by greed and politics.


His thoughts drifted: the difference between a Rider biker and an Angel biker came down to a single archangel. And right now, that small difference was the hinge holding entire underworld balances together.


The conversations around him told him more than any report could. The Hispanic gangs in the city had grown into something more than turf crews—they were a force. Even La Familia, once written off as a neighborhood outfit, was now considered part of the underworld coalition standing against the Sureños. The most feared among them remained Mara Salvatrucha. But new names kept surfacing: Aragua, Calle 80.


Some Calle 80 sets were treated differently depending on whether they’d been patched over from a local crew or were recent arrivals off the boats and buses. WS filed it away. Context mattered.


His work breaking the Riders and MS13 in South Cali had restored some order, but he knew this city was a powder keg waiting to blow. The street wars that still sparked now and then in L.A. looked like child’s play compared to what was simmering here. The Bay Area was armed to the teeth.


And irony dripped through the whole equation. Thanks to his recent deals with two cartels, the MS13 were technically being armed by the Angels themselves. The cartels bought guns directly from the Angels—it was cheaper, easier, and it kept the ATF off their backs. They’d even stopped their human trafficking routes right after the border, leaving ICE fat with funding and recruits, eager to avoid stepping on another federal agency’s toes.


But every shipment, every case of rifles, every crate of pistols… those guns ended up right back in the hands of the very street gangs that were the thorn in the Angels’ side.


WS smirked faintly, staring out at the Bay’s skyline creeping closer. Yeah, he thought. The Angels are making fortunes—arming the same bastards they’ll have to bleed against tomorrow.


On the bus, WS ended up next to a woman—a still mildly attractive forty-seven–year-old tech executive. She was coming back from her father’s burial in the Midwest, talking more to fill the silence than out of need for conversation. Unmarried, no kids, the classic “boss babe.” She worked for one of the giants in Silicon Valley.


She bitched about the industry, about how younger women were getting hired without even knowing how to code. “It’s a disgrace,” she said, arms crossed, bitterness leaking between her words. WS listened, or at least pretended to. He understood the truth under it—she wasn’t mad about hiring standards, she was mad that the younger girls got the attention of the men at her company. So he nodded at the right times, feigned interest, pretended to care.


That night, when the bus rolled into the Bay, she offered him a ride in her Uber. One thing led to another, and it turned into late-night coffee at her extremely expensive apartment overlooking the city.


After the lovemaking, WS noticed how different this was compared to the usual. She clung to him, not like a lover, not like a partner, but like someone who wanted to adopt him—her loneliness bleeding out through every desperate hug. It wasn’t about passion, not even about lust. It was about emptiness, and filling it with someone who wouldn’t be there in the morning.


WS stared up at the ceiling, smirking at the thought. Is that what guys mean when they talk about MILFs? She had the wrinkles, the age, the practiced experience—but never the motherhood. Could you even call her that?


He let the question drift away, knowing he didn’t need the answer.


The next morning, she brought him breakfast in bed. Sunlight poured through the glass walls of her Bay apartment, bouncing off the skyline and the stainless steel tray she balanced carefully.


“If you need, you can stay here,” she said softly. “Hotels are expensive, houses are impossible for someone your age. What are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two?”


WS chewed, smirk tugging at his lips. “Almost seventeen.”


Her face froze. “Sixteen? You’re sixteen? Where are your mother and father? Why are you traveling alone?”


WS didn’t blink. “Finished high school, decided to go on a discovery trip. My bike broke down, so I took the bus.” He pushed the story out with casual confidence, the kind that made lies sound like plain fact.


Changing the subject, he asked, “How come you live in a place like this, with a car like that sitting in the garage, but you caught the bus?”


Her eyes dropped. “My father was the last man in my family. My brothers hate me, and I barely talk to my mother. When he died, I had to go to the funeral… I was too nervous, too heartbroken to drive.”


She reached to the nightstand, slid open a drawer, and pulled out a pair of keys. They glittered in her hand before she pressed them into his palm. “Take my car. Drive around. Clear your head.”


WS looked at the fob—Mercedes-Benz, Silver Arrow edition. He chuckled awkwardly. “I only know how to ride bikes.”


She smiled, curling her fingers over his hand. “Then I’ll teach you.”


And she did. For two days of her bereavement leave, she sat with him in the driver’s seat, guiding his hands, correcting his touch, laughing when he stalled. Sometimes they’d pull over, and the lessons would turn into something else—heat in the back seat, her reliving a passion she thought long buried, him indulging her loneliness with the energy of a teenager.


At night, she tried to teach him again—systems, strategies, little tricks she’d learned in business and life. Only to discover, again and again, that the damned kid already knew more than she did.



The new space had been a blessing — and a curse. Bella and Ayuah had pulled strings, charmed the right people, and managed to secure the old storage room under the harmless pretense of forming a “social environment study group.” For the ZPR clique, it meant freedom from crowded bathrooms and whispered conversations with one eye on the stalls. Finally, a place of their own.


Except Dwayne and Jeff had sniffed it out. The basketball idiots had muscled in like it was their birthright, dragging a bunk bed into one corner, five mini-fridges crammed with beer against the wall, and a massive television that practically glowed with bad intentions.


That’s when Sasha and Robin had stepped up. No giggles, no smiles — they stared the two down, reminding them in no uncertain terms that this was not a frat lounge. After some posturing, the boys backed off, but only after making a show of promising they’d “respect the study space” and only use it when the clique wasn’t there.


It was messy, but it worked. The room was theirs.


Still, the invasion had set a dangerous precedent, and Nami wasn’t about to let history repeat itself. She had been quietly, relentlessly waging her own war to keep Vidal away. The others didn’t really care about him — to Sasha and Robin, he was just another ball-chasing background character. But Nami knew better. She had grown up with him. She knew what he could twist, what he could ruin.


So every time he tried to wedge his way in — leaning on Bella, cracking jokes, asking for a seat at their talks — Nami slammed the gate. Subtle but brutal. A sharp word, a cold stare, the ever-present warning of “I’ll tell Mom.” Her campaign was invisible to most, but unbroken.


Until now.


When the demand for Warscared’s number turned the room electric, Vidal finally saw his chance. Almost exasperated, he offered to trade — let him into their club officially, and he’d share the number.


Nami’s refusal was instant. She cut him down with the threat of Mom, and just like that his bluff folded. He had just made the basketball team, after all; he couldn’t risk losing the tiny scraps of access he already had.


Still, his lifeline remained Bella. She had been the only one willing to entertain him — but even she couldn’t fight when at least two of the three ZPR girls turned their knives against him. The last time he’d tried, they’d whispered about tampons just to humiliate him. Only later had he caught the word “buttplugs” hissed under their breath, assuming he couldn’t hear. Sluts, he thought bitterly, trying to corrupt his Bella.


But then it happened. Bella, caught between pride and nerves, let it slip. Almost by accident. She already had Warscared’s number.


The blush that followed shut her mouth, but it was too late. Nami’s suspicion sharpened instantly. Sasha and Robin’s anger boiled, still convinced Bella had been blackmailing Warscared for months to get her freak off on late-night calls.


The room, once their sanctuary, felt suddenly smaller.


Ayuah’s eyes narrowed on Bella.
“Wait… is he the guy in those messages?”


Before Bella could answer, Nami lunged across the room, reaching for her phone. But Sasha and Robin caught her arms, holding her back.


“Let go of me!” Nami shrieked, voice cracking with a feral edge. “If you’re abusing my little brother I’ll skin you alive, Bella! I’ll use your skin to stuff a straw puppet and burn it to cleanse your sins!”


The room froze. Even Sasha and Robin, who never flinched, felt the air turn cold. The love Nami had for Warscared wasn’t just sisterly — it was terrifying, maternal, absolute. A protective fire that could scorch anyone who crossed him.


Bella didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, smirking faintly.
“Nami… he’s an adult. And besides, I’m dating Vidal, remember? Your brother. So relax. I’d never do anything untoward.”


She leaned closer, her voice purring with deliberate cruelty.
“Give me a chance, sister-in-law.”



Nami’s fists tightened at her sides, her teeth grinding. Bella’s smug smirk, her “sister-in-law” jab, made her blood boil.


And yet, an involuntary shiver ran through her as her mind drifted back to lunch that week. The memory was vivid: Bella’s grand entrance into the courtyard, striding in like she owned the place, blonde hair shining, curves perfect, confidence radiating.


She hadn’t expected what happened next. Dangerous Angels, furious at the intrusion, had moved like a wave around her. Sasha and Ayuah had tried to shield her, but even with their protection, Bella had been in clear, undeniable danger.


By the time she left that lunch, humbled, forced to apologize under the threat of being physically beaten, her perfect façade had cracked. She’d walked away with her head high on the surface, but every step was laced with fear and tension.


Nami felt a dark satisfaction remembering it. Bella’s arrogance, usually untouchable, had finally met its limit. She hated that she felt it — the mix of relief and pleasure at seeing someone so untouchable humbled — but she couldn’t deny it.


It grounded her fury now, sharpened her resolve to protect WS, and reminded her just how dangerous unchecked arrogance could be.




Nadjia, meanwhile, sat very still, her eyes darting between the girls. She had been pressing Nami for Warscared’s number for months, but all along Bella had been hiding it in plain sight. Worse — Nadjia had seen the messages. The dirty texts. Bella’s explicit nudes, brazen and unashamed. And his replies. Not crude, not needy, but artful — shots of his body carved in shadow and light. His six-pack catching the glare like stone, his legs coiled like a predator’s, his ass cut to perfection, and always, always those piercing magnetic blues staring into the lens.


Her whole body squirmed just remembering it. What would it be like to be under that gaze, to surrender completely to that dangerous will?


She pressed her thighs together, biting her lip. Calm down. Calm down. There was only so much a tampon could hold back.


The room was silent, the tension choking. The ZPR clique wasn’t just cracking — it was warping.


Nami finally cracked. Her fingers flew over Bella’s phone, revealing Warscared’s true number.


Robin leaned over casually, smirking. “I already had it. Uncle Ray gave it to me.”


Sasha glanced at her own phone, still blocked. “I did too… but I was afraid of unblocking it. He called me once at four a.m.”


Nami shook her head. “Four a.m. here? That’s five p.m. in Japan. Totally understandable why he would call then.”


Sasha’s eyes widened as she realized the timeline. “Wait… that was before you went to your great-grandfather’s funeral?”


Nami’s mind clicked. Suddenly, everything lined up. She remembered WS’s fragility on the phone that night, the way his voice had wavered when he’d asked for Sasha’s number. At the time, it had seemed like just another odd moment. But now, connecting the dots, she understood the next day’s strange happiness in Sasha — the faint warmth in her voice, the subtle glow in her eyes. WS’s quiet vulnerability had touched her, and she had carried that feeling ever since.


Bella laughed, cutting through the tension. “So everyone had it all along. And I got the bullshit from Nami, while everyone else was already digging into the dirt. Hypocrites much?”


Ayuah grabbed the number first, flashing a grin. “This should be fun.”


Nadjia’s hands trembled as she saved it. I won’t blurt it out. I have my own hopes for him, she thought, a mixture of excitement and restraint coiling inside her.


Nami’s glare sharpened. “You only want to be my friend to get access to my brother?”


Sasha rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I would want you as a friend no matter what — you’re talented.”


Robin smirked. “Your brother being hot is just a bonus.”


Bella raised an eyebrow. “Except he said he’s facially scarred now. Maybe he’s ugly, like Sasha.”


Ayuah gave Bella a sharp bump, and Bella raised her hands. “Sorry.”


Sasha waved it off. “It’s fine. WS has shown interest in me beyond my facial scar. That means his attention isn’t just base desire. Unlike some girls here, who wouldn’t get noticed if they weren’t bimbo-pretty.”


Robin leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Looks help to get a man’s attention, but it takes a real woman to keep a man around. Those charms only go so far. Enjoy being discardable, dumb blond bimbos — never sure if men like you for you, or just for what they can take.”


Ayuah’s gaze swept the room, gathering control. Bella and Nadjia were clearly on her side. Nami resisted, but Ayuah hoped she would eventually bring her into the family’s orbit. Still, Nadjia remained a fragile asset — Robin had already nudged her toward a future she might not have chosen otherwise. Robin had gifted her a position at a magazine, letting her publish poetry. The magazine didn’t make money; in fact, it lost plenty. But the Reveras used it as a strategic tool to recruit journalists, cultural influencers, and even musicians using Zane’s labels to distribute their work.


Even here, among friends and rivals, the balance of power was clear: the Reveras controlled influence, the ZPR clique was learning to navigate it. And the phone numbers? Just the opening move.



Robin, Ayuah, and Sasha huddled together, voices low, analyzing the chaos from earlier.


“What the hell just happened?” Robin muttered. “The tension between Sasha and Bella… that aggression? That wasn’t normal.”


Ayuah smirked. “She was just following your lead, Sasha. But they do need to respect each other to maintain the balance between our families.”


Sasha nodded slowly. “Yeah… but the Zanes keep protecting the Van Halens. Bella might hate her own father, but she’s too much like him. Talent like hers is rare — so why the sudden interest in WS?”


“Exactly,” Robin said. “He seems like a genius, sure, but he’s a loose cannon. Thank God he wasn’t born a Zane, or things could have gone ugly fast.”


Sasha turned toward Ayuah. “Can you imagine having a brother or cousin like that?”


Ayuah chuckled. “Plenty of those in my family.”


Sasha raised an eyebrow. “With the brains to finish high school at 14? Rule a courtroom hearing at 15? Or become an Angels biker nomad?”


Robin corrected her. “He’s not patched in.”


Ayuah frowned. “Impossible. You have to be patched in to become a nomad. Unless the Angels are afraid it might blow up in their face.”


Sasha shrugged. “He’s just sixteen. How dangerous could he really be?”


Ayuah’s expression darkened. “I don’t know. My branch of the family barely associates with bikers anymore, but I’ve been talking to some of them recently. And Ray’s niece…” She shot Robin a look. “Something you want to share?”


Robin bristled. “No.”


Sasha pressed. “Ray’s worried. He can’t get a handle on WS and is trying everything to get him back, but since he’s in Southeast Asia…”


“Nothing?” Ayuah asked.


Sasha shook her head. “My men in Japan found nothing. He just… disappeared.”


They all fell silent, the weight of WS’s unpredictability pressing down. He was brilliant, dangerous, and utterly beyond their control.


Meanwhile, Nadjia sat off in her own world, staring at the number she had just saved. Thoughts swirled of the degenerate things WS might ask her to do, and how she would blush and pretend to be ashamed, but secretly thrilled.


Bella, on the other hand, stomped toward Vidal, needing to vent her anger and frustration.


In the corner, the three main ZPR girls — Robin, Ayuah, and Sasha — held the balance of the clique in their hands, careful not to step on each other’s toes while navigating the aftermath of a single, disruptive teenager.

 

[Warscared]

Amber leaned across the table, eyes gleaming with determination. “Nojiko, I’m releasing a new book — about autism. How it might not be permanent. How children born with it can outgrow it.”


Nojiko stiffened immediately. “Outgrow it? WS was never autistic,” she said, her voice tight. “He was born with too much power — too much potential for his tiny, immature body to contain. That’s why he seemed different.”


Amber smiled, just slightly. “Call it modern psychology versus eastern mysticism. I agree to keep WS’s identity a secret. But I truly believe some autistic children are… a crop of future geniuses, waiting for the right guidance. They can change the world if someone intervenes.”


Nojiko’s jaw tightened. “It was my love. My family’s love. That’s what healed WS. My strict Japanese education helped him grow out of his shell.”


Amber tilted her head, challenging. “Love and education had little effect until I brought him to me.”


Nojiko countered, voice rising, “He stayed with you for three years. Only when his body started maturing did he gain confidence and interact with others.”


Amber’s eyes flashed. “Yes, but his psychotic outbursts, his oversensitivity — those had to be healed first. With today’s knowledge, maybe WS could have outgrown his condition by four or six, instead of ten or eleven. Still late, but early enough to educate him before hormones hit.”


Nojiko shook her head fiercely. “He could not have matured without puberty. His body was too weak for his aura and power!”


Amber leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Perhaps that belief helped — a placebo. But from my standpoint, it wasn’t the cause of his social skills developing.”


Nojiko’s voice cracked. “So… you think he’s a success? Because he became an outlaw biker?”


Amber met her gaze. “Yes. Even as an outlaw biker, he’s far beyond what anyone could have expected. When he matures, he may leave that life and integrate into society properly.”


Nojiko’s eyes burned. “No. He’s a murderer. He manipulates people. Maybe the world would be better if he had stayed my little baby, kept at home, safe!”


Amber’s tone was calm but firm. “All kids go through phases like that. Most before ten — less dangerous. As for manipulation… society itself is built on it. He’s just better at it than most. If I had him a few years earlier, I might have prevented the worst parts of his personality from emerging.”


Nojiko’s glare sharpened. “You’re imposing your pretended brilliance on a child who plays you like a tune!”


Amber’s expression tightened. She inhaled, then exhaled, forcing calm. “You’re probably right, Nojiko. But… I’ve been bedding Ray. I get to see WS from a different perspective. Ray doesn’t catch up on my interrogations after sex, but I’ve seen it — your innocent baby boy scares hardened outlaw bikers. That’s how I know my book can save millions of lives, turn them into extremely productive members of society. If just ten percent of kids in his condition could be reconditioned into good men… that would be a real difference.”


Nojiko’s face was stone. “Fine. But keep his identity a secret. No online records, no electronics. Only paper — and those papers better be guarded, Amber. You might be my best friend, but if your work hurts my baby, I will have my revenge.”


Amber shivered, a cold chill running down her spine at the threat. She nodded, swallowing the tension.


Nojiko leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “Amber… I still can’t wrap my head around it. Bella has never kept a relationship for this long, and Vidal — well, he’s brilliant academically, but street smart? Not even close. How has this lasted almost a year?”


Amber set her coffee down slowly, eyes thoughtful. “I know. Bella is intense, experienced, and chaotic. Most guys fold under that kind of pressure in weeks. Vidal… he’s methodical, structured, completely unarmed for the kind of emotional and social fire she brings. By any normal expectation, they should have broken up in two months.”


Nojiko frowned. “Exactly. Bella’s previous relationships ended almost immediately because no one could keep up with her — her energy, her unpredictability. Vidal has a sharp mind, sure, but he doesn’t have the instinct for… navigating someone like Bella. He’s walking blind in a minefield.”


Amber nodded. “And yet, somehow, they’ve made it this far. It’s bizarre. Vidal doesn’t even seem fully aware of the danger zones. He’s still operating on logic and reason, while Bella moves by instinct and chaos. Most people would have either fled or gotten burned badly by now.”


Nojiko shook her head, exhaling. “I don’t know if it’s luck, timing, or… something else. Maybe Bella actually respects his stability, his calm in contrast to her storm. That’s the only explanation I can see for this surviving.”


Amber smirked. “Or maybe he’s learned, slowly, in ways none of us would have predicted. But still… it amazes me. Almost a year, and he’s still intact. For a boy like him, that’s a miracle — or a warning waiting to explode.”


Nojiko’s voice softened. “I just hope he can keep up. My son… he’s brilliant, but the world Bella inhabits? He’s got to learn fast, or it’s going to crush him.”


A

Amber stirred her coffee, eyes distant. “Nojiko… I keep thinking about this. Vidal and Bella are roughly the same age, smart, stable… but he’s not WS. He’s not the type of fire Bella would chase. He’s safe. Predictable. And she’s not the type to settle for predictability.”


Nojiko’s gaze softened, her voice careful. “Amber… I understand what you mean, but… WS is still a child in my eyes. And my son — Vidal — he’s… he’s my son. I don’t like even imagining Bella leaving him for someone else.”


Amber leaned forward, voice low. “I know, I know… but WS would be Bella’s type — younger, wilder, untamed. He’d ignite her, make her heart race. But he’d also use her, treat her the way he’s learned with the bikers: warmth at night, gone by sunrise. Bella wants that excitement, even if it’s dangerous. Vidal… he’s the safe one. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he also can’t keep her fire burning.”


Nojiko’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Amber… I won’t say it lightly, but… Bella may crave excitement, yes. But she’s with Vidal. And I protect him — he deserves stability, respect, and someone who won’t toy with him. Even if WS were here… I wouldn’t… I couldn’t just accept the idea of her abandoning Vidal for him.”


Amber’s fingers drummed on the table. “I understand. But think about it — she’s still young. She could be drawn to someone like WS if he returned. And she might even believe she’s in control, that she could handle him…”


Nojiko shook her head firmly. “No. My son is safe with her. And if she ever wavered toward WS… I’d intervene. Vidal isn’t just intelligent — he’s careful, grounded. He may not be wild, but he’s the only one right now who can actually hold her without getting burned. And I… I won’t let her hurt him like that.”


Amber sighed, letting her thoughts linger. “I just hope she knows what she’s doing. Because the alternative… WS… he’d make her feel alive in ways Vidal can’t. And that fire could consume her if she isn’t careful.”


Nojiko’s voice softened again, protective. “Then it’s my job to make sure she doesn’t get burned. Let her crave excitement, but she stays grounded with Vidal. That’s the only way this works.”


Amber folded her arms, eyes narrowing at Bella. “I need to understand this, Bella. Why are you still with Vidal? Is it… because of WS?”


Bella’s face flushed crimson. “I… I don’t know, Mom. I guess… part of it is because of a deal I made with WS.” She hesitated, then pulled her phone from her pocket, reluctantly showing Amber their SMS exchanges. Amber’s eyes widened, disbelief and shock flickering across her features as she read the words. The vileness, the manipulations, the dark humor — it was like a side of WS she hadn’t fully comprehended.


Bella noticed her mother’s expression and quickly interjected, “But… it’s… it’s how I like it.” Her voice was small, almost embarrassed, as her eyes dropped to her lap.


Amber’s brow furrowed. “You like that? The denigrating treatment?”


Bella shook her head. “I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the attention from him… how he treats me. Robin made a similar remark once, and… I guess I’m addicted to the thrill. But… nothing has happened so far. I haven’t cheated on Vidal.”


Amber’s gaze sharpened. “And why not?”


Bella exhaled, almost sheepishly. “WS… he promised he’d cut me off his life if I ever hurt his brother.”


Amber’s mind raced. WS valued family… but why risk an emotional relationship with your brother’s girlfriend? And then it clicked. He wouldn’t — couldn’t — risk breaking them apart. He wanted them together.


“Wait,” Amber said slowly, realization dawning. “So… you’re not manipulating him. You’re not blackmailing him?”


Bella blinked, voice soft, sheepish. “No, Mom. I just… informed him I was bored and was going to drop Vidal. He offered something… similar, and I… I just turned it sexual. I never imagined it would turn into this… sick shit that you can read in our messages.”


Amber leaned back, exhaling. The danger, the thrill, the complexity — it was a lot for her to process. And yet… part of her recognized the pattern. WS’s brand of control, his twisted loyalty to family, and Bella’s own curiosity and appetite for challenge. It was chaotic, dangerous… and she could see why Bella hadn’t fallen completely apart, despite the madness.


Amber sank into the chair, eyes distant, mind spinning with the tangled web her daughter had stepped into. Vidal thinks he holds Bella’s heart — stable, predictable, capable — but I understand her. She’s with him because she wants some measure of safety, some semblance of control in a life that can feel thrilling and dangerous. I hope it goes well. I really do.


And yet… the truth gnawed at her. Bella pushed WS into this. She opened the cage, stuck her own head in the lion’s mouth, and still believes she’s in control. Too naive to see that the asshole actually enjoys playing his sick mind games with my daughter. WS delights in the thrill of manipulation, savoring her reactions, testing her, pulling her strings — all while letting her believe she’s steering the game.


Amber’s fingers tightened around her coffee mug. WS would be Bella’s type — younger, wilder, untamed — the sort of fire that ignites desire and fascination. But he’d also use her, discard her, treat her the way he learned with the bikers: warmth at night, gone by sunrise. And Bella… she’s addicted to the thrill. She wants it, even as it tears her apart.


It terrified Amber how much of WS she recognized in Bella herself: her fire, her defiance, her curiosity. She understood why Bella remained with Vidal — stability, reliability — and yet the excitement of WS lingered, like a shadow she couldn’t fully escape. Amber’s mind flashed back to her own youth: the mistakes, the missteps, the pain of desire and consequence. She knew all too well how intoxicating it could be, how easily control could slip away.


“I raised him to be brilliant,” Amber murmured to herself, a shiver running down her spine. “To operate in society, to read people, to manipulate the world with precision. But brilliance doesn’t come without darkness. And now… that darkness is circling my own daughter. She’s caught between desire and stability, thrill and safety. And she doesn’t even realize it.”


Amber exhaled slowly, letting the weight settle. She could hope for Vidal to protect her, for him to hold Bella’s heart safely. She could wish that Bella’s choices wouldn’t lead to heartbreak. But she also knew one thing with certainty: WS would continue to play the game, and Bella, naïve and daring, would keep stepping into it, thinking she’s in control, while the lion — her own desires — prowled closer with every move.


Bella sat on her bed, fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. Vidal. Safe, steady, sweet — almost unbearably so. He loved her, truly, completely, and always seemed to be there, hovering like a gentle shadow. She had started to enjoy it, started to feel the comfort and safety of being with someone who didn’t ignite chaos at every turn. But was she worthy of that love? Could she ever fully give it back?


A thought crept in: if Vidal wasn’t there, if he disappeared, would she even miss him? Probably. A year together had cemented something real. But then another question arose — the one that had haunted her for months: could she break her addiction to WS? Could she finally close that chapter?


She took a deep breath, picked up her phone, and dialed his number. “WS… I’m done. It’s over. I’m with Vidal now.”


There was a pause on the line, then WS’s voice — unusually warm, steady, almost… approving. “Finally. I hope you two are happy together.”


Bella’s stomach twisted. “You’re not mad?”


His laugh was low, teasing, but still kind. “Mad? No. But just because you backed off from our deal doesn’t mean you get to drop Vidal. If you do… well, let’s just say I have plenty of nudes, and plenty of profiles in Facebook that attend your school. So behave properly.”


Bella’s cheeks burned. That had been the test — to see if WS would fight for her. But it backfired spectacularly. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t desperate. He was amused, controlled, untouchable. And somehow, that only made the pull stronger.


Her resolve crumbled. She dialed again, biting her lip, whispering, “I’m… horny.”


A long exhale. “Fuck…” WS muttered, the faintest edge of frustration and desire threading through his voice.


Bella’s chest fluttered, part of her thrilled by the chaos, part of her terrified. She was with Vidal — safe, grounded, real — but WS… WS had a hold on her she couldn’t shake, no matter how much she wanted to.

and it happened.....


Bella sank onto the edge of the bed, skin still warm, heart racing, and a blush burning across her cheeks. The lingering heat of what had just happened pulsed through her, mingled with a wave of guilt and shame. She had called him, pushed him, and now… now she had to face herself.


WS’s voice cut through the tension, clipped, controlled, a hint of disgust threading through the words. “Good night.”


Bella’s stomach twisted. That single, curt phrase left her exposed, trembling, and yet strangely elated. She hugged her knees to her chest, whispering to herself, “Even if he treats me like this… even if he’s disgusted… I still…”


Her voice faltered, unsure if she was admitting desire, thrill, or simply the addictive pull of chaos. “I still want him.”


The room was quiet except for her shallow breaths. WS’s presence, even at a distance over the phone, lingered like a shadow — cold, sharp, impossible to tame. And Bella, tangled between guilt, shame, and desire, realized she had willingly stepped into that storm. And part of her, the part that had called him in the first place, couldn’t bring herself to regret it.


The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, washing the room in a soft, golden glow. Bella sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the sheets absently, mind still tangled in the events of the night before. Her body was calm now, but her thoughts churned.


Vidal. She thought of him and the steady comfort he provided, his sickeningly sweet attentiveness, the way he genuinely cared for her without games or manipulation. She had started to enjoy it, to feel safe, even cherished. But that lingering pull… the chaos of WS… it clawed at the edges of her calm.


She sipped her coffee, staring out the window. Could she ever fully let go of the thrill WS brought? Could she break the addictive draw of his attention, the excitement of danger wrapped in desire? And yet, as she thought of Vidal, she felt a soft warmth in her chest — a sense of stability, trust, and love she had almost forgotten was possible.


Bella sighed, leaning back in the chair. “He’s good for me,” she murmured to herself. “Vidal… he’s good. And I can’t let myself forget that.”


Her thoughts flickered back to WS, to his clipped “Good night,” to the way he had exhaled, to the thrill, to the danger, to the sense that he knew her in ways Vidal never could. She shivered, realizing that even if she tried, the pull would never fully disappear. But she had made her choice. She was with Vidal now. She would try to be good, to be safe, to be happy.


For now.

 

[Warscared]

Nadjia stood in front of the mirror, the steam from her shower still clinging to her skin, hair damp and clinging to her shoulders. She tilted her head, examining her reflection, adjusting the angle to see herself in the way the phone filter made her look best — flawless, glowing, untouchable.


A sudden, impulsive thought hit her. She snapped a nude selfie, fingers hovering over WS’s number. Her mind raced — a thousand possible outcomes, a thousand paths, some thrilling, some terrifying. Heart hammering, she hesitated… then stopped herself. No. Not like this.


Instead, she typed a careful message: “One of Nami’s friends reporting: everything is okay with your sister. If you need information on her, you can call me… Sir!”


Her chest felt like it would burst. Sir? Did I just call him sir? Will he understand what I mean by it? She shivered at her own audacity, almost unable to breathe as she set the phone down.


In a blur, she abandoned the towel and dove into her bed, hair flying, legs kicking beneath the sheets, heart pounding. She lay there, cheeks flushed, breath unsteady, waiting… waiting for a reply.


Morning came. Sunlight streaked across the room. Nadjia stirred, still half-asleep, when her mother entered.


“Why did you sleep naked on top of the bed?” her mother asked, eyebrows raised.


Nadjia blinked, cheeks flushing brighter than ever. “I… I was too hot,” she mumbled, eyes darting to her phone.


A single message blinked on the screen: “Thanks, babe!”


Nadjia felt her heart nearly explode. She leapt up, hugged her mother tightly in a brief, panic-fueled burst of excitement, then scrambled to get dressed. She had school to get to, but her mind was already spinning with the thrill of that simple, dangerous little message.



Nadjia sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, cheeks still warm from the adrenaline of WS’s reply. “Thanks, babe!” Her heart was racing, mind spinning through a thousand possible interpretations, her fingers hovering over the screen again before she set it down.


at college, the ZPR clique was already in motion. Ayuah lounged on Jeff’s lap, teasing him playfully, making him squirm under her jokingly demanding attention. “You’re too slow today,” she laughed, tracing patterns on his shoulder as he tried to keep up. Nami shook her head from across the room. “Ayuah, don’t treat him like that. If he cheats, that’s on you!”


Ayuah smirked, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Jeff’s no Vidal, but he can still be loyal,” she teased, leaning back slightly and enjoying his flustered expression.


Meanwhile, Nadjia barely registered any of it. Her mind was consumed with WS. She finally turned to Robin and asked casually, “Hey… he’s turning 17 tomorrow, right?”


Robin nodded, flipping her notebook closed. “Yep. Eleven months since he became a ghost. You’ve never even met him, and now he’s almost seventeen.”


Nami looked thoughtful. “It’s been a year since the Angels gauntlet. Can you believe it?”


Bella laughed softly. “I still don’t. And besides… it could have been anyone!”


Robin shook her head, more seriously this time. “The guy who handled seventy-three women in a single night — making sure none left unsatisfied — will never be fully revealed. Only that he was an Angel prospect.”


Sasha’s jaw tightened, anger flashing. “Seventy-three women… paid by sadist bikers… to put a sixteen-year-old boy through that? That’s wrong. Pure and simple.”


Nami smirked faintly. “For me, it was a challenge. And you know my little brother — he never backs down.”


Bella tilted her head, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “That’s actually how I first got interested in WS — seeing him leave after announcing what he was about to do… confident, fearless.”


Robin shook her head, shame mixing with disbelief. “I told my uncle about WS’s words that triggered it all… still can’t believe it.”


Ayuah laughed, leaning back in Jeff’s lap, playful and mischievous. “You’re too big for me to just get it done with,” she teased, making him squirm. Nami wagged a finger. “Seriously, don’t abuse him like that.” Ayuah grinned, brushing her lips across his beard. “He can handle it. Besides… he’s not Vidal.”


And Nadjia? She was oblivious to everything but her phone, staring at the reply again, heart hammering. He called me… babe.


Then Robin added casually, “By the way, Jeff? Turns twenty-one tomorrow. That’s a big one.”


Nadjia froze again. Two milestones tomorrow. WS turning seventeen, Jeff turning twenty-one… and here she was, caught between her fantasy, her obsession, and the chaotic reality of the ZPR clique around her.


Nadjia glanced at Nami, who was quietly sorting her notebook, and smiled. She wanted WS to know that Nami was fine, that everything was under control, but also to give herself a reason to catch his attention.


“Okay, stay still for a sec,” she whispered to Nami. With a quick, playful grin, she snapped a selfie of the two of them — Nadjia giving her own mischievous smile, Nami rolling her eyes but giving a small thumbs-up. The photo captured both of them, clearly showing Nadjia as Nami’s friend and ally.


She typed a message to WS:


“Keeping her safe as instructed, my… lord! All quiet on the home front for now. Reporting in.”


Her fingers hovered over the send button. The phrasing was awkward, the punctuation playful — her way of showing both respect and her own personality. She hit “send” and immediately felt a flutter of anticipation.


Sliding the phone back into her bag, Nadjia tried to focus on her class, but her mind kept wandering to WS and whether he would notice her effort. Even if the photo was just proof of Nami’s safety, it was also a subtle way to see if he would respond — a small, safe test of attention.


Her penthouse, late evening.
She’s barefoot, wine in hand, leaning on the marble counter. WS is sprawled in one of her sleek leather chairs, jacket half-open, hair catching the city lights through the window.


Her (soft, almost maternal):
“You don’t eat enough. You’re too thin, Ey—… you’re too thin.”


WS (without looking at her, amused):
“You want me healthy, or you want me around to fuck you again?”


She flinches, cheeks coloring, then laughs lightly — covering her unease.


Her:
“Both. Maybe… both. Is that so strange?”


WS (finally turning his eyes on her, that magnetic stare):
“It’s strange you don’t know which one you mean.”


She sets the glass down, unsettled, but when he stands and steps behind her, pulling her hair back, she melts instantly. She doesn’t push for clarity, doesn’t dare — it’s easier to let him define what they are.


WS (in her ear, voice edged with steel):
“You’re not my mother. Don’t ever act like one.”


Her breath catches, but she nods, almost relieved he drew the line for her. When he bends her over the counter a heartbeat later, she doesn’t think about families or futures — just that he’s still here.



WS’s phone buzzed, and he glanced down to see a selfie: Nadjia grinning beside Nami, the two of them clearly having fun. He couldn’t stop himself — a wide smile spread across his face at the sight of Nami.


Emily, leaning against the counter with a glass of wine, caught sight of the phone and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that… your girlfriend?” she asked, a note of jealousy slipping into her voice.


WS raised an eyebrow, amused. “My sister.”


Emily blinked, confused. “Your sister?”


He tapped the screen, pointing. “The red one.”


Emily exhaled, a laugh escaping her. “Ah… I guess I just assumed the blonde would be your sister.” She shook her head, smiling now, chastened. “My mistake. Beauty and youth, all in one — it’s hard to tell sometimes.”


WS chuckled under his breath, shaking his head at her. “Careful, Emily. That’s Nami. Don’t get any ideas.”


WS glanced down at Nadjia’s message again, still smiling at the sight of Nami in the selfie. Emily, standing nearby with a faintly furrowed brow, couldn’t hide her curiosity.


“First she calls you ‘Sir’… and now ‘my lord’?” she asked, lips twitching. “Someone’s clearly hinting she wants a strong hand.”


WS didn’t flinch. “Were you… checking my phone?”


Emily’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I did. I leave early in the morning, get back late at night… and someone might be playing and pissing outside the puppy’s bowl too much. Had to make sure.”


WS’s jaw tightened. In a swift motion, he grabbed her chin gently but firmly, turning her to face him. “I’m not a fuckboy, Emily. Either you respect that… or I’ll make you respect it.” He smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Or maybe I should just leave. You’re getting boring anyway.”


Emily froze, almost desperate. “Please… don’t!”


As he released her, a strange heat lingered where his fingers had been. Her mind raced: God, he’s infuriating. But… damn, he’s magnetic. I can’t just walk away from him, can I? She felt that tug of fear and attraction twisting inside her, a mix of thrill and intimidation that she hadn’t expected.


WS let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, letting her feel it, letting her wonder just how much control he had — and she knew, deep down, she didn’t want him to leave.


Past midnight on the East Coast, WS slipped into the bathroom, the marble tiles cold beneath his bare feet. He sat on the high-class toilet, a small smile tugging at his lips as he dialed his mother.


“Hi, Mom,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “It’s me… your son.”


Nojiko’s voice came through the line, soft but alert. “Eyckardt? Is that you? Happy birthday, my boy.”


“Thanks, Mom,” he replied, leaning back and letting himself relax for a moment. “I love you. I love Vidal, Nami… everything’s okay here.”


There was a pause, and then Nojiko laughed softly. “You sound… more grown-up than last year.”


WS chuckled. “I’m learning how to live it rough, Mom. But I’m eating properly. This year, no long debates at the table about law or medical practices. It’s my journey. I’ll figure things out.”


“Just promise me you’re careful,” Nojiko said, her voice tinged with worry but pride.


“I will, Mom. I love you. Stay safe.”


He hung up, exhaling deeply, feeling the rare quiet of a birthday lived on his own terms. Rough, independent, and… alive.


WS slid into the driver’s seat of Emily’s silver Mercedes, hands adjusting the wheel like it belonged to him. The engine purred, a muted growl that somehow matched his mood. He scrolled through the music on the car’s sound system and landed on It Could Have Been Me by The Struts. The opening chords filled the cabin, upbeat but defiant, a perfect reflection of him in this strange, high-class world.


Emily buckled in beside him, a mix of excitement and tension written across her face. “I can’t believe you’re driving my car,” she said, fingering the leather seats like they were some precious artifact.


“I can handle it,” WS replied smoothly, though he knew she had been nervous about letting him. A grin tugged at his lips. “Besides, you need a chauffeur who appreciates good music.”


She rolled her eyes, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Fine… but you promised to let me cut your hair. Short. Like… a K-pop boy band.”


WS laughed softly, the sound low and almost teasing. “Nope. Not happening.” He reached over, adjusting the rearview mirror. “I like it this way. You’re spending enough on clothes as it is—don’t push your luck.”


Emily’s lips pursed. “Speaking of spending…” she reached into her bag, brandishing a designer outfit. “I thought we could—”


“Clothes, fine,” WS interrupted, already grinning. “$15,000? Sure, I’ll take it. But the watch?” He shook his head. “Too much. Too flashy. That’s your control, not mine.”


She hesitated, caught between indignation and admiration. “I just… I want you to have the best.”


“I am the best,” WS said, smirking. “And I know what I need. That’s why the clothes are fine, the watch isn’t. Capiche?”


Emily exhaled, realizing the battle was lost but somehow enjoying the tug-of-war. As they merged onto the road toward the shopping mall, It Could Have Been Me pulsed through the speakers, loud enough to make the rest of the world melt away. In that moment, WS felt untouchable, riding the line between a pampered life and his own fiercely controlled freedom.


WS drives the Mercedes into Oakland, heading straight for a bike repair shop. As he steps out, Emily freezes. This is a side of the Bay Area she’s never seen—the rough edges, the smell of oil, the grime of streets that wealth can’t clean. WS himself looks like a stranger here: towering, pale as snow with a deep tan, and those startling, magnetic blue eyes. Jezebel glints in the sunlight beside him, immaculate and impatient.


A black mechanic steps up, voice sharp. “Keep your hands off that bike if you know what’s good for you,” he says, eyes narrowing. “That’s Angel territory. These crazy assholes love their bikes more than their wives.”


Emily flinches at the raw aggression in the air, but WS just smiles faintly. “I know,” he says calmly, almost casually. Then, kneeling beside Jezebel, he runs his hands along the frame. “Hello there, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low but full of reverence. “Anyone touches you, I’ll punch their teeth in and rip out their hearts. Got it?”


The mechanics exchange glances, sizing him up. Emily watches, stunned, as WS moves with the ease and authority of someone born to command respect—even among men twice his age.


From inside the shop, Greg and Robertson appear, their faces tightening as they catch sight of WS crouched beside Jezebel. “Hey! Get away from that bike!” Robertson shouts, rushing forward.


WS stands and turns to them, that massive, confident smile lighting up his face. Both men freeze for a second—then start whistling appreciatively.


“You clean up nicely, white boy,” Robertson says, a grin breaking across his face.


Greg laughs, shaking his head. “If I hadn’t seen you now, I wouldn’t believe it.”


WS chuckles and they move in for a quick hug. As he does, a sleeve of his suit jacket brushes against a puddle of oil on the floor, smearing it slightly. WS barely flinches. “It’s okay,” he says with a shrug, still grinning. “Jezebel’s worth it.”


Greg and Robertson exchange amused looks. The contrast is striking—the pristine, tailored WS from the city clashing perfectly with the grimy, gritty workshop—and yet, somehow, it works.


WS swings his leg over Jezebel, feeling the familiar weight and hum of the bike beneath him. He glances around, voice carrying easily over the shop’s clatter. “Where are my boys?”


Emily frowns, worry flickering across her face. WS leans down, presses a quick kiss to her cheek, and grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. You head back home. I’ve got a night with my friends ahead.”


Greg and Robertson grin, pushing their own bikes out of the shop. “Good man,” Greg says. “You’ll see why they call this the Oakland chapter soon enough.”


As they ride out, WS notices the signs along the streets—three smaller chapter names under the Oakland banner. It seems the Angels had merged several clubhouses into one massive chapter. Inside, he knew there were at least fifty-four patched members, all black leather and etched patches, waiting to see the new arrival.


The city hums beneath him, Jezebel roaring as they weave through the streets. For a moment, San Francisco’s sophistication and his pampered days with Emily feel worlds away—here, among his real crew, he’s home.


WS steps through the doorway of the Oakland chapter clubhouse, Jezebel parked just outside, the hum of the engine fading. His sharp suit contrasts violently with the black leather and grease-streaked walls. Heads turn. Some eyes narrow. A few men mutter under their breath, sizing up the kid in front of them.


Then his boys—Greg, Robertson, and the other six elite vets—catch sight of him. They leap forward, almost colliding in excitement.


“Fuck, boss! You’ve been missing for four days! The Jarheads were screaming our heads off!” one of them shouts, voice bouncing off the walls.


Around them, the other bikers exchange whispers. A few remember him from Idaho, the kid who had run rings around the Riders, outmaneuvered every ambush, and even played the bagpipe for fallen bikers—completely ignoring club colors, acting with his own code.


“Is this… the crazy little asshole our six top guys responded to?” one of the patched members mutters to another. “Tall, yeah… but just a kid. And look at him, in a slick suit. Could pass for a banker or some important guy walking into a meeting.”


WS’s eyes sweep the room, taking in the mix of curiosity and suspicion. He doesn’t flinch. His smile is calm, almost amused. For the bikers, this isn’t just a kid in a suit—it’s the boy who’s already carved a reputation they’re struggling to fully comprehend.


The Jarhead who runs the Oakland chapter steps forward, arms crossed. “Where the fuck have you been, kid? People were worried. Thought you’d be selling yourself in the street for twenty bucks—someone that pretty could ask for it and get it too.”


WS doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Almost… I’m fucking a forty-seven-year-old who lives in a house over the Bay.”


A ripple of laughter goes through the room. One biker mutters, “Expensive whore, huh?”


“If I must be a whore,” WS replies smoothly, “at least I earn decently. Unlike half of you guys, who couldn’t scrape ten bucks together if you tried.”


Half the guys laugh. The other half frown, exchanging wary looks. In San Francisco, jokes about men are taken seriously—crossing the line isn’t funny. WS shrugs. “I try not to be homophobic… but I still prefer tits. Past their prime or not—it’s just a personal taste.”


The way he delivers it—calm, confident, mocking even—drags a reluctant laugh from some of the more reticent bikers.


He walks over to Greg and Robertson. “Do I still have anything left from my stash?”


“About two hundred grand,” they reply.


WS smiles. “Perfect. Today’s my birthday. So… how much in drugs, women, and booze can two hundred thousand get in San Francisco?”


The bikers glance at each other. One shakes his head, eyes wide. “In drugs, women, and booze? That’s… the greatest party this city’s ever seen.”


WS smirks. “Then throw the party. Celebrate my seventeenth.”


The room goes silent for a beat, processing. Seventeen. The kid they thought was almost a joke is barely out of his teens. The Jarhead running the chapter scowls. “This fucking kid…”


But it’s too late. WS’s words already have the guys pumped. Word spreads fast. Within hours, every Angel chapter in the Bay Area—Chinese, Hispanic, White, Black—starts converging on Oakland. The other gangs notice the sudden concentration of Angels and hesitate. The city teeters. And the six elite bikers who have been following WS? They grin, ready for chaos.


The Oakland chapter house was enormous, a combination of four merged chapters. Even with the extra space, over two hundred patched Angels were packed inside, drinking, laughing, and letting loose. WS stayed mostly to the side, paying for everything without stepping into the rowdiest corners.


Some of the girls were juggling three guys at a time, balancing trays of drinks and cigarettes, while the bikers drank whiskey. WS, however, sipped gin from a crystal glass, his posture calm, eyes scanning the crowd. One of the two guys assigned to stay sober—a man chosen for his experience and loyalty—sneered at the gin, took a sip, and nearly spat it out.


“How the hell can anyone drink this poison?” he muttered.


WS only smiled, taking a long, deliberate swig. The harsh burn seemed to invigorate him rather than bother him. He set the glass down and noticed the Jarhead he recognized as the leader of this place, speaking with five other chiefs in a corner. WS walked over, nodding once in acknowledgment before speaking.


“What’s the situation in San Francisco?” he asked, voice calm but sharp, the kind that demanded truth.


The chiefs leaned in, speaking in clipped, careful tones, outlining the intricacies of the Bay Area underworld—the minor skirmishes, shifting alliances, and the fragile balance between groups. WS listened, noting every point, every hesitation, and every unspoken tension.


In the end, it confirmed what he had already observed on the bus and during his drives around the city in the past few days. The conclusions were clear:

• MS needed to be exterminated. Their presence was destabilizing the delicate balance the Angels relied on.
• Calle 80 had to be brought to heel. They were testing the patience and loyalty of the local Angel network.
• Alliances were fragile. La Familia, the angels, and local Blood groups formed an uneasy coalition—but cracks were appearing, and those cracks could be exploited.

WS nodded subtly, eyes scanning the crowd again. The party continued around him, the noise and chaos a perfect cover. But in his mind, the city’s chessboard was clear: moves needed to be made, and only precision, power, and timing would keep the Angels dominant.


He took another sip of gin, feeling the familiar burn, and let the weight of the situation settle in. Oakland was just the beginning. San Francisco was a powder keg, and WS intended to light the fuse on his own terms.


The next morning, WS climbed atop a central table in the Oakland chapter clubhouse. "Who’s in proper condition for a ride?" he barked.


Sixty bikers immediately answered, their voices a unified roar. WS stood in full riding leathers, the nomad cut of his patch visible on his back. Two of his personal bodyguards were passed out somewhere in the club, but the rest were alert and ready.


The group roared down to the San Francisco harbor, stopping at the warehouse the Chinese triads used for smuggling. It was a weak point, one that had caused trouble before. As WS and the 60 bikers cut a swath through the area, chaos ensued — engines revving, tires spinning, a controlled mayhem that even made the police hesitate.


From inside the warehouse, the Chinese leadership appeared, flanked by their underlings. "What do you want?" one of them demanded.


WS didn’t flinch. "You stopped paying some years ago. I’m here to collect what’s owed."


They sputtered excuses about having paid the Asian chapter, claiming they were unaware of any missed collections. WS’s eyes narrowed. "Your people ambushed four Angel members and sent them to jail. That stops now."


He stepped forward, his boot connecting with the oldest gangster’s face. The four Angel bikers surrounding him leveled their guns at the others. WS’s voice was calm, but every word carried lethal weight. "Until you pay twice what you owe, with interest, and until the guys who screwed over my brothers turn themselves in — your families stay in the forest. That includes Mr. Lin’s kids."


He gestured to the man, showing a photograph of his children. "How are they?" he asked, piercing eyes fixed on the man. The response was stammering and shaky.


The combination of sixty bikers outside, the guns, and WS’s icy demeanor made it clear: the Angels were no longer a force to be trifled with. The triads had underestimated them, and WS had just reminded everyone


Meanwhile, another Angels chapter had woken early and struck at a Riders’ watering hole, taking out two men and sending the rest fleeing in panic. Nationwide, Ray had ordered increased vigilance over all Rider activities—not to start a war, but to maintain control. Despite his intentions, a few hotheads saw the opportunity to press their advantage, and skirmishes erupted in several cities.


The Riders may have been larger in numbers per chapter, but their lack of coordination made them vulnerable. The Angels, composed largely of former military personnel, executed strikes with precision and efficiency, systematically dismantling weaker chapters. Recent pressure from MS-13 had already tested the Riders, but the Angels’ disciplined tactics allowed them to exploit openings without taking unnecessary risks.


Across the region, a few Rider chapters had already been patched over, surrendering their colors and becoming part of subservient groups like the Crazy Ducks, while die-hard members fled north or sought refuge in other territories still under Rider influence. In every city, the Angels leveraged their organization, combat experience, and ruthless efficiency to consolidate control, leaving the Riders scrambling to respond to a strategy they had little chance of anticipating.


At the warehouse, a few million dollars were deposited, along with the promise that, in five days, his Angel brothers would be released. WS replied calmly, “Very well. In seven days, Mr. Lin can see his children again.”


Without delay, he moved out, issuing precise orders to a vanload of Angels. Their task: deliver the spoils from the operation and divide them equally among every patched member across the Bay Area region, including all nomads who had assisted. An additional ten percent was earmarked exclusively for prospects and particularly useful hangers-on who had contributed during the operation.


WS’ efficiency and strict fairness left no room for dispute, reinforcing his reputation not just as a skilled fighter, but as a meticulous strategist who rewarded loyalty and competence.


Pissing off the Triads had been dangerous, but if they tried anything, the Angels could burn them down to pieces. Next on the list were the Bloods and the local Black crews. The Sureno war on all Black factions had left them weakened. From the harbor, three Angels had gathered enough ammunition to arm a battalion and several guns. WS’ message was clear: it was their streets—they had to fight for them. “I’ll give you the fishing poles,” he said, “but you better learn how to fish.”


The meeting was tense. Racial slurs flew, tempers flared, and violence almost broke out multiple times. Yet WS’ cold stare unnerved even the hardest OGs, forcing them to accept the terms. The bullets weren’t live, and the guns were provided at half cost—but it was a start. Slowly, the OGs began to see a path forward. “Perhaps it could be doable,” they admitted, eventually thanking WS. One of them added, half joking, “Maybe your bleached biker friends aren’t so bad, even if they are rude motherfuckers.”


WS didn’t flinch. “If the truth hurts, perhaps it’s not my place to inform you. But your lives will be a string of disappointments if you don’t step up.” Without another word, he turned and left.


The Surenos would soon meet resistance in the streets. The Bloods had leveraged their alliance to stay protected from the Nortenos, using the bikers as a buffer. WS was against alliances in principle, but given how squeezed the Angels had been, it was a practical necessity.


As Fall Out Boy – The Last of the Real Ones played softly in the background, WS realized night had already fallen. Fucking hell… where did the time go?


Robertson, still catching his breath, muttered, “Black time… it’s different from white man’s time. I never expected to come out alive.”


WS turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”


Robertson swallowed hard. “The Blood crews… they’ve been on edge lately. MS-13 scared them. When you barged in, I assumed they’d fight. We were outnumbered, two to one in there!”


WS smiled faintly. “No… we outnumbered them five to one… in killers.”


Robertson’s eyes widened. “But there were only twenty of them in there.”


WS’ gaze sharpened. “From those twenty guys in there, only two had ever killed in cold blood.”


Robertson froze. “How… how do you know that?”


WS locked eyes with him. “It’s how they stare.”


A shiver ran down Robertson’s spine. If that could really be measured… then how many has he killed so far? The thought echoed in his mind like a thousand screaming souls warning him to run.


That night, WS, clad in black, led his six bodyguards through another San Francisco zone. Greg and Robertson followed at a distance. This was the first cleanup operation he would personally handle in SF.


As they approached the warehouse, Greg asked, “WTF are you doing?”


One of WS’s bodyguards stepped in. “Just cover the exits. Try not to create too much noise… now you’ll see why we call him the boss.”


WS slipped inside silently. Three hours later, he whistled — not a sound had escaped. When Greg entered, he was stunned: every MS-13 member inside was dead, efficiently cut down with knives. A few showed burn marks from a taser, but the operation had been executed with absolute stealth.


Williamson asked, “Why did it take so long this time?”


WS replied, “Didn’t want to be reckless. I also used poisoned steaks this time — no fucking pitbull hiding anywhere. It’s a call-back to that LA operation that went sideways.”


Robertson noted, “There are no dogs.”


WS shrugged. “Yeah, but get bitten by a silent dog and you’ll fear all dogs. Not taking chances anymore. Remember, a cat burned in hot water will fear the cold water too.”


They began the cleanup. This warehouse was a major gateway for MS drugs. The haul was massive, and the guns were decent. The money, however, barely reached $10,000 per member.


Greg spoke up, “Can you track the safe? There has to be one.”


Robertson quickly traced the clues, locating the safe. Greg went to work with a drill and a blowtorch. Four hours later, they cracked it open: $768,000.


“That’s $100,000 per member,” WS calculated aloud, “plus the drugs and guns.”


Walt interjected, “Sadly… no whores.”


WS exasperated, “Are you never satisfied, Walt? Let’s clean this up and set a trap. Someone will come looking for what happened, and I want it to explode.”


But then he paused. MS members were known heavy drug users. He opened a packet and spiked it with a potent powder — one that would cause vomiting if ingested, but deadly if snorted.


Five days later, a headline ran: “Six MS-13 Members Found Dead After Snorting Drugs at a Secondary SF Harbour Warehouse.”



WS rode Jezebel into the high-class neighborhood and opened the garage. The Mercedes gleamed under the morning sun. He parked carefully and headed upstairs.


Emily was finishing her shower when he entered. “Where have you been the past two days?” she asked, sounding both annoyed and curious.


“Celebrating my birthday,” WS replied casually, a small smirk on his lips. “Partied a bit too hard… sorry for being late.”


She wrapped herself in a towel and shook her head. “We need a serious talk when I get back,” she said, glancing at the clock. She was already running late for work.


WS studied her, noticing the subtle luxury of her home—the polished marble, the faint scent of imported soap, the way everything seemed designed for comfort and control. He’d never lived like this. At home with Nojiko, money had been tight; her debts from medical school, three kids, and running the clinic kept them constantly aware of every expense. This life… it was a different world, and he could see how careful and deliberate it was, yet also fragile, dependent on rules and schedules he didn’t need to follow back home.


Emily leaned down and kissed his cheek. “It’s good I never had children,” she murmured, half to herself. “If this is what it’s like waiting on a boyfriend… imagine waiting on a son—or a daughter—after a night with… dirty bikers. The youth of this country…”


She left quickly, and WS stood in the quiet house, noticing how different this world felt. He was used to the lessons of vigilance, improvisation, and controlled chaos. Here, even the smallest details were curated and protected, a stark contrast to everything he had learned to navigate. And yet… he realized he could observe, analyze, and learn, even if he didn’t fully belong.


WS steps out into the cool night, Williamson and Dalton standing guard as the city hums quietly.


He holds up the secondary phone. “Here. This one’s for Nadjia. She’s curious, already sending bits of herself. I need you to handle the rest—get what she’s willing to give, and make sure it’s useful. This isn’t about her dad’s wellbeing; it’s about putting pressure on him. But remember—nothing forced. She gives it voluntarily, she thinks she’s talking to me.”


Williamson narrows his eyes. “You want me to impersonate you?”


WS smirks, eyes cold. “Exactly. You play me, she trusts me. You collect cleanly what she offers. Lawyers will see it—they’ll handle the leverage. Keep it discreet. Preserve her body, preserve the trust, preserve the leverage.”


Dalton frowns. “Boss… that’s… risky.”


“Yeah,” WS says, sliding the phone into Williamson’s hand. “But she’s already burning to send it. No fight, no coercion. Just make it believable, tight, clean. I can’t risk being in this game myself—not with her.”


Williamson nods, taking the phone. “Understood. She’ll think it’s you. I’ll handle it carefully, safely.”


WS exhales, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s why I’m delegating it. My job is the bigger picture—keeping control without touching the girl. Yours is to make the leverage work. Clean. Safe. And remember: only lawyers see it.”


He turns back toward the house, leaving Williamson and Dalton on the street, the weight of the task already pressing on them.


In WS’s mind, Bella was a family matter. She was Vidal’s girl, and without his quiet interference, she might have abandoned him long ago. His role wasn’t about desire—it was about keeping the unit intact, making sure the threads of loyalty and control didn’t unravel. Every text, every subtle provocation, every carefully timed message existed to preserve that fragile balance. Physical or emotional, it was all territory he claimed for the family, not for himself.


Nadjia, on the other hand, was entirely different. She wasn’t family. She was a tool, a conduit for information and leverage. He didn’t need her loyalty in the emotional sense; he needed her cooperation, her trust, her willingness to respond to the man she thought he was. Any manipulation here was strategic, deliberate, and outsourced. He didn’t need to involve himself directly—he could delegate to Williamson, knowing the task required precision and detachment.


That was why Williamson now held the phone. WS could not risk mixing his personal touch with operational necessity. Bella demanded his careful attention; Nadjia demanded a calculated distance. Let Williamson handle the delivery, the replies, the testing of boundaries. WS had already decided what mattered: keep Bella loyal, keep Nadjia useful, and never let his presence blur the line between desire and strategy.


WS leans back, absently picking at the sticky rice in his Thai food container, while Emily drones on about quarterly projections and corporate restructures. She’s clearly proud of the deal she’s offering him—a cushy internship, a guaranteed salary of $90,000 plus benefits, three years to pay off her flat, and vacations twice a year.


He nods along politely, but his mind keeps running the numbers from the past few nights. Two nights ago: $200,000 blown on a birthday party for his club brothers. Last night: $100,000 earned from his clean-up operations in SF, plus the stash of drugs—probably another $300,000, maybe more. Split nine ways between himself, his six bodyguards, and Robertson and Greg, it still adds up to a small fortune per person.


WS thinks: “Sweet deal, right? Or… just another cage?” He smiles faintly, sipping his gin, knowing that no amount of corporate comfort will give him the freedom, the adrenaline, or the respect he commands when he’s out there on the streets—or in the warehouse, or at the harbor.


Emily notices his silence and raises an eyebrow. “Earth to WS. You okay? You’re quiet.”


He glances at her, flashes a half-smile, and says, “Yeah… just doing the math.”


The morning after WS’s birthday blowout, the Bay Area Angels were still buzzing. Word traveled fast. Over the phone, one of the older chiefs—no Jarhead himself, but someone who had known Samael—called Ray. His voice was low, almost reverent.


"Ray… that kid you’re looking for? He’s in San Francisco."


Ray froze. "I thought he was in Asia… Michael? The one everyone fears as Azrael?"


The chief chuckled darkly. "Yeah, that one. But watch how he moves. That’s pure Samael. Millions distributed to his members from the Triads in under a day, and he throws a party with every damn stop—the old diplomat master style. Money, booze, women, drugs… all handled like a pro. And he gives them what they deserve. He seduces the crowd, manipulates them with charm, and spares nothing. That kid… he’s dangerous, Ray."


Ray’s jaw tightened. "You’re telling me he’s been in the United States all along while we were searching Asia?"


"Exactly," the chief said. "And now some fools decided to pick a fight with the Riders. We’ve got turf issues to clean up, and you better keep eyes on him. That kid’s living the high life—Mercedes Benz, fancy flat… but he’s no amateur. He’s dangerous."


Ray exhaled, the weight of the revelation settling over him. WS wasn’t just surviving—he was commanding, manipulating, and quietly cementing power, all under the radar. And the Angels’ network had no idea how deep this kid’s influence could reach.


By mid-morning, the Oakland chapter clubhouse was buzzing like a live wire. Word of WS’s birthday blowout had spread through every patch in the Bay Area. Angels from every chapter—Oakland, the Asian Harbour group, South San Francisco, even nomads who usually kept their distance—were talking in hushed, awed tones.


"Did you see the kid?" one patched member whispered to another, cleaning oil off his gloves. "He’s just seventeen… and he threw a party that’d make the old timers jealous. Spent hundreds of thousands like it was nothing."


"I heard he distributed money from the Triads," another added, shaking his head. "And not just any amount… enough to make even the old chief look impressed."


WS didn’t mingle with the rowdiest crowd. He stayed in a corner, suited and immaculate, watching his brothers celebrate. His six bodyguards flanked him like statues, and beside them, Greg and Robertson kept quiet, eyes scanning, always alert. Even the nomads who had barely met him nodded respectfully as they passed.


A group of older Angels, veterans of countless turf wars, approached him hesitantly. One of them, known for his temper, leaned in and muttered, "Kid… you’re insane. How do you move through all this without a scratch?"


WS’s smile was easy, almost casual. "I’ve been watching, learning. You lot handle the chaos—you just need a direction."


He glanced over the crowd, noting which members were veterans, which were prospects, and who had been most active in the last raids. Every interaction was a calculation, a way to reinforce loyalty without speaking much. The money distributed the night before had already cemented his credibility—those who had been skeptical were now openly impressed.


"He’s… different," whispered Robertson to Greg, his voice low. "You can see it in how they look at him. Even the old heads are treating him like… like he belongs here."


Greg nodded slowly. "He doesn’t just belong… he leads. And they know it."


Outside, the sun climbed over the Bay, casting the clubhouse in gold. WS finally stepped onto the balcony, looking over the fleet of motorcycles lined up below. The Angels, the nomads, the patched members—they were no longer just a network; under him, they were a force. And the city didn’t even know it yet.


Ray’s face was red, veins bulging. “No way! That kid couldn’t move a muscle without our say-so! And you’re telling me he’s been running wild in San Francisco?”


The Jarheads exchanged glances. One leaned forward, voice tight. “He’s in the city, yeah. Jonathan Zane in Texas stepped out, gave us the update. We were getting squeezed here, needed to shake things up. He showed, cleaned the Zetas’ expansion. Kept them and the Huesca Nueva group out.”


Ray slammed the table. “Six guys could handle one threat! How the hell does a seventeen-year-old and six bodyguards wipe LA alone and make the deals?”


Another Jarhead shrugged. “Kid moves differently. He doesn’t just roll through; he makes sure it’s done. Arizona, LA… all cleaned. And Petrov? That ten percent tech cut? That was all his move. Without him, we’d be lucky to see two million. Now? Twenty million over ten years. Our brothers in the army? Better survival odds because of him.”


Ray ran a hand through his hair. “This… kid is insane. Too dangerous.”


Ray screamed, voice cracking with fury. “If the Riders discover who he is, they’ll do whatever it takes to seduce him and make him their new leader! Do you really think a 17-year-old can resist Samael’s wealth and influence? That’s why he’s been hidden—because the Riders have no proper successor. This kid could be the answer!”


An Asian Jarhead, squinting, interjected. “The Riders won’t take a mutt. Mixed blood? They won’t accept it into their lines, let alone leadership.”


Ray slammed his fist on the table. “He doesn’t even have to look perfect. His mother’s identity can be hidden, just like we concealed Azrael’s father. And tell me this—if push comes to shove, will the Riders drop Detroit, Chicago, Seattle, Portland, and Vancouver over something as trivial as who gave birth to him? No. It’s not him who needs them—it’s them who need a proper leader to stay united. Their greed will overcome even their racism if they see the right person to follow. They buy guns from the Chinese, drugs from Southeast Asia—they need stability to stay rich.”


His voice dropped, deadly serious. “WS must be kept hidden. If he isn’t, we risk a Rider resurgence. Remember the last biker civil war—it almost destroyed us. Are you willing to risk another?”


Jonathan Zane leaned forward, voice sharp. “So what—are we going to waste his potential just because you’re afraid of ghosts? If Samael’s still alive, he must be… what, a hundred years old?”


Ray’s jaw tightened. “Lucifer attended Collins’ funeral. That’s all we know. But the Bible we stole from the Riders—it was Collins’. And we know it, because the kid delivered it to them himself. Along with Collins’ personal journal… things in that journal we didn’t even know.”


Zane’s eyes widened. “Our kid got his hands on a Riders Bible? Fucking hell… this kid is a legend.”


Ray’s voice dropped, raw with anger. “Yeah… a legend like we haven’t seen in fifty years.”


Another Jarhead shook his head. “Not true… a legend was born twenty years ago. Gabriel, which is what Ray represents, did show up… all that’s been missing is a new Michael.”


Ray exhaled, tension in every word. “I just hope the kid can become a new Michael and set up the club once more. He made our tutorial on how to fight against the law and keep brothers out of jail.”


The Jarheads exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces.


“So…” Zane asked, leaning in, “which one will he become? Azrael, Michael, or Samael?”


Ray’s expression softened slightly, though his voice remained serious. “As long as he’s not Lucifer… whatever he wishes.”

 

[Warscared]

Warscared told his crew to clear off. Just for once, he wanted to enjoy something normal — a date, a glass of wine, Emily’s soft laughter across the table. But halfway through the glass, a heavy drowsiness seeped into his veins, like the world was melting.


He blinked, and the next thing he knew, flashing lights were strobing across his eyelids. The sharp stench of plastic and sweat. The sound of a police radio crackling.


He was in the back of a cruiser.


Still half-drugged, his body wasn’t responding right. The uniforms hauled him out, processed him like cattle. Cold hands searched him. Orange overalls slapped onto his skin. He tried to talk, to resist, but his limbs lagged like they weren’t his. Before his senses could catch up, the steel door slammed and he was thrown into a concrete cell.


Dark. Stinking. Breathing heavy. He wasn’t alone.


When he woke again, a pressure was inside his mouth. A finger. Pushing past his lips. His mind snapped into clarity at the violation. Instinct took over — he bit down hard, crunch, and the cellmate’s scream split the silence.


Blood poured into his mouth, warm and metallic. He spat a chunk of flesh onto the floor and stood up, eyes blazing, lips red like war paint. The haze was gone. His instincts were back.


Somewhere deep in his skull, a song started playing. Not real, but real enough.


“Dead Man Walking” — WARHALL.*


He licked the blood off his teeth and whispered to no one:

“The fuck just happened?”

And the real nightmare was only beginning.


Warscared jolted upright, grabbed the bastard by the throat and snarled, voice hoarse but deadly:

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The guy tried to puff his chest, tried to front. But one look into Warscared’s eyes — those freezing, diamond-hard pits of blue — and the act collapsed. The dude’s body betrayed him, trembling like a leaf.


Warscared slammed a boot into his face. Cartilage cracked. Blood sprayed.

“Talk, before I bite off another piece of you.”

The inmate panicked, stammering, shaking his head. WS slapped him across the mouth, grabbed his face and pressed his forehead to his. His voice dropped to a whisper, colder than the steel bars around them.

“Either you start talking… or I will keep my word.”

The man pissed himself. The stink filled the cell. WS’s lip curled in disgust — then he sank his teeth into the bastard’s chest, ripping away a bloody shred of flesh.

“I said talk,” Warscared growled, chewing, his voice muffled with meat and blood. “Or it’s only getting worse. What the fuck were you doing with your finger in my mouth?”

The guy’s jaw quivered, but no words came. Just wide, terrified eyes.


Warscared leaned in closer, noses almost touching.

“You’re locked in with me. There’s nowhere to run. Freezing up won’t save you. Start. Talking.”

But the inmate only stood paralyzed in terror.


So WS smiled. A cold, savage smile. And then he went for the nose. With a violent snap, he ripped it off in his teeth.


The man shrieked, blood pouring down his face. WS spat the nose onto the floor, red spit dripping down his chin. He looked around the cell, knowing eyes and ears were always watching — guards, other prisoners, someone.


He wanted the message clear: mess with him, and you won’t just bleed. You’ll lose pieces of yourself.


Warscared wasn’t done. He grabbed the bastard’s jaw, forced his mouth open, and bit down on his lower lip until it tore free. The inmate collapsed in his own piss and blood, sobbing like a broken animal.


WS stood over him, breathing steady.

“Probably a pervert,” he muttered, spitting the lip onto the concrete. “But at least now… I’ve got some respect.”

And with that, Warscared had carved his introduction into the prison — not with words, but with teeth.

Scene: The Morning After

The metallic clack of boots echoed as two guards carried the half-conscious, blood-soaked inmate out of the cell. His face was mangled beyond recognition, nose missing, lips torn, finger bandaged in a stump. His body sagged between them like a broken puppet, leaving a trail of blood and piss that smeared across the concrete floor.


Two riot guards with shields stood planted outside WS’s cell door, trembling, visors down. Even behind the reinforced glass, they couldn’t hide the fear in their eyes. Their knuckles were white on the grips of their batons, but not one dared step in.


Inside, WS stood shirtless by the steel sink, washing blood off his face with slow, deliberate movements. The stench of iron, bile, and shit hung thick in the air — nauseating. He barely flinched. His hands moved steady, calm, almost ritualistic, as if cleaning up after a hunt.


Outside, the corridor was chaos. Prisoners craned their necks through bars to see. Some shouted. Others gagged. A few retched violently at the sight and smell. The silence that followed was worse — heavy, charged.


Corridor Dialogues (Prison Reactions)

From one cell, a voice whispered hoarse, almost reverent:

• “Holy fuck… the fish just bit back…”

Another inmate, shaking his head, muttered:

• “That ain’t no fish. That’s a shark. A fuckin’ shark in a tank of minnows.”

Someone down the block gagged, then shouted:

• “Jesus Christ, what kinda animal bites off another man’s nose!?”

Another voice, dry with fear:

• “He didn’t just bite him… he ate him. That’s different. That’s a message.”

One old-timer in the shadows said it slow, almost like he was naming a ghost:

• “Dead Man Walking…”

The name stuck. By the time the guards dragged the cellmate around the corner, every tier was buzzing with it.



WS just finished rinsing his face. He looked at the puddle of blood, piss, and shit on the ground and remembered Ray’s words:
“You’re too pretty. In jail, they’ll make you their queen.”


He smirked coldly at the reflection in the cracked steel mirror.
“Not queen. Monster.”


WS stood in the orange jumpsuit, half-dazed, the puddles of blood and waste from the night before still fresh in his mind. The sergeant outside the cell hesitated, shifting his weight.


“You’re… uh… supposed to walk out into the yard,” the sergeant said, voice tight, sweat gathering at his temple.


WS tilted his head, eyes glinting like ice. “I have the right to talk to my lawyer. And trust me, I have pretty damn good lawyers. Everyone involved in this… will burn. Some literally.”


The sergeant gulped. “The director… he ordered you thrown in here. It means your sentence was… commuted.”


“Unless today isn’t the X of November and time wasn’t skipped,” WS said slowly, his gaze cold. “I do not recall my day in court.”


The sergeant fidgeted. “That’s… impossible. If you were still being judged, you wouldn’t be here. There are other jails for people in your… condition.”


WS clenched his fists. “Where is my rap sheet, then? I have the right to ask for it, right?”


“The director… says it was lost. Soon enough, it will be provided,” the sergeant stammered.


WS let out a low laugh, dry and cutting. “Everything’s in computers. It takes five minutes. Five minutes!”


The sergeant’s shoulders slumped, voice barely audible. “I… I only follow orders.”


“And my right to call my lawyer?” WS’s voice was a knife edge, each word punctuated by the tension in the room.


The director stepped into the cellblock, eyes scanning WS like he was a puzzle he didn’t quite want to solve.


“Go ahead, biker boy. You just need some coins,” he said, voice casual but edged with warning.


WS’s gaze sharpened. “My phone.”


“Not gonna happen, kid,” the director replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.


The sergeant beside them looked genuinely troubled, shifting uneasily.


“You created a shitstorm,” the director continued, voice low. “Not even two hours inside. You could have played ball…”


WS tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Played ball? What do you mean?”


The director went quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “In two days, my cousin Emily will visit you. Get your answer to her ready. It’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean up your mess as it stands. And… fuck, I should probably send you to solitary. An ass like yours, long golden hair walking around… beast or not, they will want to tap you. Stay inside; I’ll keep two guys by your cell. Had I known you were this pretty, I would’ve told Emily no.”


WS glanced at the sergeant, whose confusion was practically radiating off him.


He sank back onto the cot, recalling dinner with Emily: her laughter, the way she’d spoken of her millions and stock options that had grown for decades, asking him to stand by her. She had called him Eyckardt, and he had stone-faced her. She’d apologized, gifted him a glass of wine… and then everything went murky.


Did I get roofied by a fucking deranged woman? he wondered, the memory of the night twisting in his mind.


Once the director left, WS turned to the sergeant. “Do you believe me now? That I shouldn’t be inside here?”


The sergeant looked troubled, shifting uncomfortably. WS lowered his overalls and revealed the tattoo over his heart—angel wings, unmistakable. A mark no Rider jail would ever house without raising flags.


“If this is a Riders’ jail,” WS said coldly, “there’s no way I should’ve been sent here if everything was done clean.”


The sergeant swallowed hard. “Sorry… I’ve got three kids at home to take care of. The director… he allows me all the extra time I need for them…”


WS’s frustration simmered, but he let it go. He reached up, tying his hair in the usual samurai style—but he had no string. Thinking fast, he separated two strands of his hair and used them as a tie. It looked decent, though he knew he’d need to bathe every two or three days; otherwise the knot would get greasy or oily, and the hair would refuse to hold.


With that done, he stepped out of his cell. Time to check the grounds.


He measured everything with practiced precision: the number of cells, the automatic systems, the lack of cameras, the control room at the end of the corridor. One of the older facilities.


If I need to escape… I might be able to. But it’ll take time, resources…


His mind flicked to his missing tools: no phone, no black card. The black card was inside his cut at Emily’s. At least his money wasn’t at risk, and his phone was password-protected. His stock portfolio was secure. If something happened to him, the cloned phone Nami knew about could be used—his family wouldn’t go hungry for years.


WS exhaled, letting his calm focus settle over him like armor. The game was still on, and he was already thinking five moves ahead.


As WS stepped into the yard, everything froze for a second. A few minutes later, catcalls started—but at first he was confused; no women in sight. Then it hit him: the attention was for him.


A big biker with Nazi tattoos approached, no Rider marks on him. “Sit with us, boy, or those animals over there will eat you alive… unless you’re a biker, of course.” WS could see nine Rider bikers covering each other’s backs, eyes sharp, muscles tense. Invisible lines crisscrossed the yard, separating races, ethnicities, and gangs.


The black inmates were divided into three groups, all staring at him with lustful eyes. WS thought bitterly, a bunch of fucking fags.


The Nazi laughed. “Yeah, well… not many girls around, and you’re pretty attractive… for a boy.” He put an arm around WS.


WS met his gaze. The biker’s confident posture faltered under the icy pressure of WS’s eyes. He tried to play it off, tugging at WS, but WS didn’t budge—taller, heavier, colder. The Nazi quickly removed his arm, uneasy now, and fell back to follow his white Brotherhood.


This was the elite muscle inside the jail, the enforcers behind the Mexican Mafia. The Hispanic inmates were separated into two main groups: the Nortenos and the Surenos. On the inside, there were no Mexicans, Salvadorans, or other nationalities—just locals: northerners or southerners. Surenos were friendly to all Hispanics and, like the Nortenos, were integrated into the Mexican Mafia.


WS’s eyes scanned the yard, mentally cataloging every group, every line, every potential threat. He knew this was a chessboard, and he was already planning his first moves.


One of the guys leaned in and told WS he needed to “pay” for their company.


“Green,” WS said, meaning money, not favors. Once he got out or called his friends, money would never be an issue.


Then he remembered: if anyone discovered he was an Angel, the Riders would pull every favor they could muster just to take him out. He had to stay careful.


The leader of the white Brotherhood smirked. “Of course… but don’t make them wait too long. You’re hot property here.”


Several Black inmates had already started eyeing him, clearly wanting a piece of WS. WS shrugged internally—they were invited into his cell. The one with the shit stains and blood at the entrance. His blockmates immediately connected the dots. So that’s the guy who took out the prison whore, they thought, a small smirk playing across their faces.


It was a catfight.

WS tried to remain calm, but a memory flashed—Nojiko had taught him an old martial arts trick, one capable of removing an eye during a fight. Two fingers pressed at just the right spot, and… the eye would pop out. Not that he’d use it recklessly, but knowing it was there gave him an edge.


WS took the cigarette from the southern guy’s hand, his fingers brushing against the man’s rough skin. He lifted it to his lips, inhaling deeply, the smoke curling up into the cool yard air.


“Merci,” WS muttered in rough Acadian French, his voice low, almost a growl.


The guy blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then nodded. “Ain’t often I hear French ’round these parts,” he replied, his own accent thick and heavy.


WS exhaled slowly. “Pas de problème. On se comprend.”


The others nearby—watching—shifted uneasily. When WS turned to them, speaking in English with that unmistakable French lilt, his words carried a yankee’s drawl that made them tense.


WS took the cigarette from the southern guy’s hand, his fingers brushing against the man’s rough skin. He lifted it to his lips, inhaling deeply, the smoke curling into the yard air.


“Merci,” WS muttered in rough Acadian French, his voice low, almost a growl.


The guy blinked, caught off guard, then nodded. “Ain’t often I hear French ’round these parts,” he said, a trace of curiosity in his tone.


WS exhaled slowly. “Pas de problème. On se comprend.”


He kept his eyes on the yard, noticing the other groups’ glances flick toward them. When WS spoke in English with that rough French lilt, the accent marked him as a Yankee, and it drew the attention of the nearby riders.


The southern guy grinned. “You speak English just fine, but I like that accent of yours. Fancy, but rough.”


WS smirked faintly. “I get by.”


He stayed close to the white brotherhood, leaning into their presence. Every casual word, every gesture, was a way to signal he belonged here—at least for now. The others might lust or gape, but for the moment, WS had allies who would keep him safe. He let the smoke curl between them, building a quiet rapport, the kind that might save him from getting overwhelmed in this yard.


A massive black figure approached the edge of the yard, muscles coiled, eyes sharp. WS didn’t need a second glance—he knew immediately: the guy was going to make an offer. He leaned toward the white brotherhood. “I’ll handle this,” he said. They understood; WS wanted to show loyalty while keeping their borders clean.


The giant stopped a few feet away, grinning. “Hey, pretty thing… I’m Bob.”


WS’s eyes narrowed. “Wrong side of the yard. Piss off.” He recognized the red band—Blood. If the angels intervened, he might be protected, maybe. Probably not.


Bob’s grin didn’t falter. “Inside, you’re the minority. Behave, and let me talk to your master. Got a pretty good proposal for him.”


WS smirked, stepping forward just a touch. “I imagine. But you take another step, and the faceless dude carried out of my cell today? He’ll be seeing a new M8 by his hospital warden’s bed before the day ends.”


Shock crossed Bob’s face; he’d heard the story.


“I like feisty ones,” Bob said, licking his lips, trying to regain control. “I love breaking them.”


WS moved like a striking snake, grabbed Bob’s tongue, and punched the top of his face—clipping the tongue. Silence fell. The speed was almost supernatural.


WS leaned in, whispering into Bob’s ear. “The guns i offered the Bloods not even three days ago? They run dry if something happens to me. And I just might have to wipe out every last one of you on the streets when I leave here.”


Bob, drooling blood, grabbed his tongue and bolted for the infirmary. The nearby Bloods scowled, anger flashing. WS shifted, delivering a few precise kung fu kicks to demonstrate he could fight—and then retreated behind the white brotherhood.


The Nortenos closed ranks beside the brotherhood; if a brawl erupted, they wouldn’t be outnumbered. WS had shown not just beauty but utility, mastery of martial arts, and ruthlessness.


But he kept his tattoo hidden over his chest. If the Riders saw it, their racist tendencies might drive them to side with the Bloods. Inside, tensions were tight: the Nortenos and Surenos were already at odds from the recent MS-13 war, and the white brotherhood didn’t trust Angels, who tolerated racial chapters. WS knew he had to navigate this maze carefully—useful, lethal, but invisible when necessary.


WS decided the tension was climbing too high. The yard was too crowded, too many eyes, too many hidden agendas. He retreated toward his cell block, moving with the fluid grace of someone used to danger. He could see the invisible lines etched into the ground—the subtle divides separating the gangs. Normally, no one from outside his block should follow him.


But five Surenos—two of them MS-13—trailed him anyway. WS didn’t panic. He slipped into a corner by a cell, letting them pass, silent as a shadow. Then, with predatory timing, he struck from behind, knocking two of them off their feet before they realized what had happened.


Shanks were drawn; the remaining pursuers lunged. WS moved like a calculating predator. A sharp kick to the side shattered one man’s leg, sending him screaming to the floor. Another slashed at him; WS stepped back, letting the blade pass harmlessly. The last tried to flank him. In a blur, WS grabbed the man, shoved him toward the oncoming knife, and twisted his wrist with a torsion movement.


He locked the arm at a 90-degree angle against the shoulder—but wrong. Dislocation. Bone cracking. Pain and terror etched across the man’s face. WS fell to his knees, applying the final pressure until the arm broke completely. The screams echoed across the block, carrying a warning louder than words.


Before leaving, he turned back, picking up the two men he had initially knocked out. With precise, cruel efficiency, he snapped two fingers from each of their right hands.


No one wanting a piece of him would leave this yard in one piece.


WS closed the heavy door behind him, the clang echoing through the empty block. Silence settled around him, broken only by the faint shuffle of guards outside and distant murmurs from the yard. Alone, he could finally breathe.


He stripped off the bloodied clothes, washing carefully in the small, cold sink. The water ran red for a moment before turning clear. His knuckles throbbed, but the sting reminded him of the message he’d sent: anyone daring to touch him—or anyone under his protection—would pay.


Sitting on the cot, he tied his hair in the makeshift samurai knot, inspecting every strand. The tattoo over his heart remained hidden, his identity as an angel biker still a secret. Out there, in the yard, the white brotherhood now recognized his utility; the black gangs had been forced to reassess their approach after the incident with Bob.


He let himself a small smirk. Alone, he could plan. Alone, he could rest. The chaos of the yard, the lust, the tension—it was all out there, but inside his cell, it was his domain.


For the first time in hours, WS allowed himself to close his eyes, listening to the faint strains of music in his mind, the pulse of a world he was already mastering. Tomorrow, the yard would wake, and the game would continue—but for now, he was alone, intact, and in control.


The three black gangs clustered together in the yard, their truce holding only just. News of what had happened with Bob—the white kid ripping off his tongue—spread quickly. Faces darkened with a mix of anger and disbelief.


“That motherfucker,” hissed one of the OGs. “You let a white boy do that to one of us? Not on my watch.”


“He’s white,” another said, tone clipped. “We don’t mix with them. But he just crossed a line. Blood or not, that’s disrespect.”


“Exactly,” growled the massive leader of the block. “We ain’t letting this slide. But we move smart. He’s fast, he knows how to fight, and he ain’t just any kid.”


The younger Bloods shifted nervously. “So… what’s the plan?”


“We corner him,” the leader said, jaw tight. “Show him he can’t just step over black folk in his pretty face. But we act in our numbers, together. No lone charges, no heroics. He gets one move wrong, he’s gonna get it, but on our terms.”


A few glanced toward the white brotherhood. “And them?”

Another spat on the ground. “So, we gather what we can. Drugs, favors, leverage… maybe cash. But bleeding for him? Hell no. That’s not their fight. He wants to survive? He better play smart.”


“For now,” the leader said, voice low and firm. “He’s shiny, he’s fast, he’s pretty. But the Brotherhood can be bought. And any moves we make? Calculated. We don’t throw ourselves away for him. Not yet.”


Heads nodded. Color lines were clear. He was outnumbered, surrounded, and completely exposed once he left the white brotherhood’s protection.


WS stayed in his cell after the chaos in the yard, trying to make sense of the prison’s rhythms. Visiting the library earlier had allowed him to collect a few books—small comforts in this concrete cage.


Chow time came, and he joined the white brotherhood in the mess hall, noting the subtle change in their demeanor. Could he trust these Nazi guys? Probably not. Instinct kept him wary.


Back in his cell, he read until he heard the faint click signaling lights out. 18:00. The prison was clearly cutting costs—lights on only where necessary. If he had his phone, he could track and map everything. Instead, he relied on observation.


This was a for-profit prison, the worst of the worst. Human beings treated like animals. Any normal prisoner sent here had no hope of rehabilitation. Work would grind them down—slavery disguised as law. WS smirked to himself: “Paint a man the wrong colour and send him here for 20 years… at least it’s not racist.”


But the thought spiraled deeper. Was it racism that killed slavery? Under English common law, slavery was morally wrong, but perception had its power. WS considered it: if everyone could be a slave regardless of skin color, would slavery still exist? Racism had, in effect, ended it, not morality alone.


He gave a small, almost amused nod to history. Thanks, Knut. At least the law tried to do the right thing.


And with that, he fell asleep, eyes heavy, mind already working on contingencies for tomorrow.


The next day, WS stayed in his cell, moving deliberately slow as if counting the hours. He visited the chow hall early, eating as fast as possible the disgusting prison grub, leaving before too many men could gather. Being outnumbered by this many? Fuck this shit.


Back in his cell, he worked out quietly, muscles flexing against the dull gray walls. A guard came by, stating he needed a bath. The man’s sadistic smile told WS something was off. He stalled, buying time, keeping away from the crowd.


Finally, he stepped into the showers—and froze. Seven black guys were waiting. One of them dropped a bar of soap and smirked. “Oops… that’s you, Soap Snow White. Pick it up.”


WS paused at the doorway, eyes sweeping both sides. Seven. Naked. Smirk forming, he muttered, “I don’t think I will.”


With a swift, fluid motion, he ran across the wet tiles—slippery, but he moved like a shadow, remembering Nojiko’s ninja training. Feinting to one side, he buried his knee into one man’s face, hands locking down the head to reinforce the strike. Knocked out cold.


“Guess no guards will trouble us for the next twenty minutes?” WS said coldly, staring down the remaining six.


One of them laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, man… we paid extra. Two hours, all for us. White Brotherhood and guards aren’t touching this. Your time is ours.”


WS’s eyes flickered. Fine. Two hours. Let’s see how long they last


WS turned on the showers, the water cascading over the tiles. The six black guys surged at him all at once, but the slippery floor betrayed three of them—they stumbled and fell.


Seizing the moment, WS vaulted against the wall, using the momentum to clear them. As he leapt, he grabbed one guy’s ears, twisting them violently. With the torsion of his jump, the ears ripped off. WS landed gracefully, lowering himself and sending a sharp strike to another man’s leg, knocking him off balance. He hit his head against a shower knob, bleeding instantly.


WS didn’t pause. He pushed him hard; the side of his temporal bone cracked. This one won’t be waking up.


The man who had just lost his ears struggled to keep his balance, wailing in pain. The last standing thug glared at WS in rage, while the other three scrambled to rise. One tried to aid the first guy WS had knocked down.


WS leaned in with a predatory smile, sending a psychotic, frozen stare that froze them in place. Cold water splashed against their backs as he used it to his advantage. He skidded behind the remaining man, lowering himself, and bit into the side of his neck. His canines, honed from a lifetime of eating meat, pierced deep enough to draw blood.


If the man wanted to survive, he could no longer use at least one hand; he had to stem the bleeding. But WS didn’t relent. He shoved him against the wall, slamming his forehead into it. Pain and panic combined into a perfect storm—WS had taught them all a lesson: no one could challenge him without paying in blood


The biggest guy grabbed WS from behind, the delay from throwing the previous man against the wall costing him dearly. Two more attackers immediately started raining punches. WS felt the force—these guys were tough—but when one wild swing came at him, he intercepted it with his forehead. He heard the sickening crack of knuckles meeting bone.


Momentarily dazed, WS snapped into action. He bit down on the arm of one of the men holding him and used his neck and shoulders to twist into a wild, animalistic frenzy. Skin tore under his teeth, bones cracked, and within moments, the man’s finger was ripped off entirely. His screams echoed through the shower room, but no one intervened.


WS spat the severed finger onto the floor, letting it roll at the feet of the two remaining men. One of the black attackers gasped, whispering in disbelief, “He… he must be a fucking vampire.”


WS’s grin was cold and demonic. “Yes… and you’re my meal tonight.”


Then, shockingly, the man bolted. WS blinked. Does he really believe in vampires? What is he—a 13-year-old girl? The thrill of the chase surged through him. WS lunged, tripping the fleeing man from behind. As the guy stumbled into the air, WS jumped and drove his full weight down onto his neck. A sharp crack reverberated even before the head met the floor. Pain, fear, and shock all exploded in the room—WS had just made it unmistakably clear that he was not to be toyed with.


WS glances at the two remaining men. They’re trembling, voices shaking, eyes wide.


“Please… let us go… we won’t ever mess with you again… please!” one stammers, desperation dripping from every word.


WS tilts his head, a cold, sadistic smile spreading across his face. He locks eyes with them, silent but deadly.


“No.”


The taller of the two collapses to his knees, hands clasped, muttering prayers under his breath. The other panics and bolts.


WS moves with lightning precision, skidding across the wet tiles. Before the runner can react, WS slams his full body onto the man’s chest. He feels ribs crack under the weight, a sickening crunch that echoes through the room. The man’s scream is cut short, replaced by a wheezing whistle of air—lungs struggling, possibly punctured, his body going limp beneath WS’s unrelenting pressure.


The shower is silent but for the sound of water dripping onto the tile, the aftermath of carnage glaringly obvious. WS rises, calm, cold, and untouchable, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake.


WS turns to the kneeling figure, seizing the back of his head. He drives it forward with a series of rapid headbutts, each impact sending shockwaves of pain through the man’s skull until he slumps unconscious, the fight drained from him.

Behind him, the man who had lost a finger huddled in a corner, trembling. WS approached silently. One swift, twisting motion brought the man to the ground, the sound of crushing and tearing leaving no doubt that he would never move the same way again. Blood spilled onto the tiles, staining the already chaotic room.

WS stands among the wet tiles, chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly ebbs. The shower heads above creak under the weight of the lifeless bodies, towels looped tightly around their necks, keeping them suspended just long enough that no one will move or interfere for the next hour. Each man who had dared touch him is gone — dead by his hands, and now hung to ensure no mistake goes unnoticed. WS wipes the blood from his skin, rinses the last of the grime away, and surveys the room one final time. His purple eye pulses briefly before fading into black, a quiet, predatory warning etched into the memory of anyone who might later glimpse the aftermath. He slings his bag over his shoulder, steps over the puddles, and walks out, leaving the shower room silent except for the water dripping onto the tiles and the suspended reminders of what happens to those who cross him.


WS steps back into the hallway, calm, controlled, but with that strange, almost unsettling aura. The guard who sent him to the showers smirks nervously.


“Already done, huh? Guess you’re that good,” the guard says.


WS tilts his head, eyes glinting unnaturally, and forces a coquetish smile. He winks—just a fraction too slow—and blows the guard a slow, deliberate kiss. Every micro-expression is rehearsed, uncanny, just slightly off. The guard freezes, heart hammering, confused by the dissonance. Is the kid… gay? Did he enjoy that?


WS returned to his cell, moving with a controlled grace, tying his hair into a rough samurai knot. The guard stationed outside, expecting a traumatized kid, stiffened as WS casually approached. With a sly, coquetish smile, WS winked and blew him a kiss, his violet eye glinting mischievously. The guard froze, uncertain, his mind spinning—did the kid enjoy it? Was he… gay?


WS didn’t pause to answer his questions. He moved past the guard, feigning nonchalance, as though nothing had happened, while the guard watched, mesmerized and uneasy.


Finally, the guard forced himself toward the showers, expecting chaos, maybe a shaken inmate. But the moment he stepped inside, his blood ran cold. Seven bodies hung from wet towels twisted around the shower heads, swaying slightly. Blood pooled below them, their faces frozen in the last moments of terror. The sheer, meticulous violence was incomprehensible.


The guard staggered back, fumbling for his radio, stammering into it. “Director… uh… Director… you need to… we’ve got a… seven… uh… seven dead men hanging… in the showers… yes, the showers! If I go down for this, you go down too!”


He spun around, eyes wide, unable to tear his gaze from the horror WS had orchestrated. Meanwhile, WS leaned against the wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the deceased men’s clothes—fifteen packets in total. He lit one slowly, inhaling, utterly unbothered, the contrast between his calm composure and the guard’s panic razor-sharp.


The guard’s mind raced. What kind of monster did this? How could someone so young, so… precise, turn a simple shower room into a scene of absolute carnage? WS’s violet eye had turned black in the shadows, his expression serene, almost mocking.


And yet, he had deliberately performed for the guard—his wink, his kiss—twisting the man’s assumptions on top of the actual horror. The guard staggered backward, hands shaking, already imagining the fallout if the director found out.


WS exhaled a thin plume of smoke, watching the chaos he’d left in his wake, a predator perfectly at ease amidst panic and fear.


WS steps into the meeting room. Immediately, the chaos hits him: the director pacing like a caged animal, his face red, hands shaking, and Emily screaming like a hurricane.


“WHAT YOU PAYED ME IS NOT ENOUGH!” the director yells, his voice cracking. “THE KID IS A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!”


Emily storms forward, eyes wild. “IF HE’S HURT, I WILL BURY YOU ALIVE!” She spins to WS the instant she sees him, eyes landing on his black eye and the faint scratches on his face. Without hesitation, she throws herself at him, hugging him tightly, panic radiating off her like heat from a furnace.


WS tilts his head, letting her worry wash over him, noticing the tension in the director beside her. The man’s entire plan—expecting a controlled, minor scare—had exploded in his face. Seven dead Crips hanging in the shower, brawls in the corridors, the angel prospect in a Rider jail without trial… it was a perfect storm.


The director’s only thought: how do I make him disappear? He can’t call it off; that would draw attention, questions, inquiries. Someone would notice the dead Crips, the power vacuum, and the fact that WS shouldn’t even have been in that jail. The state resources were misused. He can already hear the whispers of investigation.


His best way out: make WS disappear. Let the Surenos take the fall—or in this case, the glory—for wiping out an entire Crip crew. Frame it as gang wars spiraling out of control. No one in the system asks questions if it looks like a turf war settled violently.


Emily’s gaze flicks between WS and the director, her panic still raw. “You better not let anything happen to him,” she hisses. “I promised him… I promised he’d be safe.”


WS smirks faintly, his black eye catching the light. He’s calm, unshaken, observing the humans around him—director sweating, Emily panicked. All of it is theater to him.


The director swallows hard, realizing his only path forward is deception and deflection. “Yes… of course,” he stammers. “We’ll… make sure it looks like a gang escalation… a… territorial incident. Nobody will know he was involved. No one will ask.”


WS lets the moment linger, letting the fear and panic seep into the room. He smokes silently, the calm eye of the storm in a room full of chaos. Outside, the whispers will begin. Inside, the director knows he’s trapped in a lie he can’t undo.


Emily, still clinging, mutters, “If anything happens to you…” Her voice trails off, the threat implicit, deadly. WS tilts his head, thinking, maybe this world is dangerous, but some people are too… predictable.


And for now, that’s enough.


The director’s order cuts through the room like a blade: “Back to your cell, now!”


WS freezes for a fraction of a second, sensing the undertow beneath the command. Something is off. He steps forward, pulling Emily into a quick, tense hug. Her eyes widen, panic-stricken, her hands clutching at his overalls like a lifeline.


“Get my men,” WS whispers in her ear, his voice low but urgent. “Every angel in the region… or I won’t survive the night.”


Emily swallows, her chest heaving. Her perfect control cracking, she watches him, fear and disbelief in her gaze. Before she can speak, WS tilts his face toward hers and presses a fleeting kiss to her lips.


“Come on, babe,” he murmurs. “You got me into this shit… but the hole’s too deep. I can’t crawl out alone. I need my brothers. Or tonight… it’s the end of me.”


Her hands tremble on his shoulders. She nods slowly, crestfallen, understanding the weight of what she’s about to do.


WS steps back, letting her go, his eyes scanning the room with that unnerving calm that promises he’s already calculated his next move. Emily lingers for a heartbeat, the realization hitting hard: if WS survives this night, her involvement—the bribe, the plan—will be laid bare. Her perfect image could be shredded. Her cousin, the director, will burn at the stake for following her orders.


Yet, in that same breath, she knows he might be her last chance at something real.


With a final, almost reluctant glance at her, WS turns toward the corridor leading back to his cell. The tension in the air is palpable, a silent countdown to the storm that will erupt before dawn.


During the entire afternoon, WS dismounted his bunk bed with meticulous care. Every movement was calculated—every joint, every angle—using his knowledge of geometry to ensure the cell door could not be forced open. He took one of the bunk bed’s legs and spent time sharpening it, transforming it into a crude but deadly weapon.


As the sun dipped and shadows lengthened across the corridor, WS studied the door, imagining the night ahead. When lights out came, they would send someone to “clean house.” He wondered quietly to himself: would it be inmates, emboldened by opportunity… or corrupt guards taking their turn at brutality?


He allowed himself a small, cold smirk. Whoever it was, he would be ready.


Two hours into the night, a muffled scrape against the door made WS freeze. Someone was testing it. His ears picked up the familiar, unpleasant rhythm of the dirty guard who had sent him to the showers, now joined by the metallic clang of a ram being slammed against his barricade.


WS didn’t step back. He positioned himself directly next to the door, not behind it. The makeshift obstacles he had constructed might splinter at any moment, and he knew the slightest misstep could turn them into a liability.


From the corridor came shouting, calls for reinforcements. Four more figures arrived, their footsteps heavy and measured, the faint metallic jingle of keys and cuffs announcing their intent. WS’s eyes flicked along the edges of the door, tracing every potential weakness. He was ready to turn their assault into an immediate, calculated trap.


The door shuddered under the next hammer blow. WS exhaled slowly, his muscles coiled like a spring. Whoever stepped through first would meet the full weight of his preparation.

 

[Warscared]

The rods creaked under each impact, bowing but holding. WS had wedged them at tight angles, speared deep into the cracks of the bedframe and wall. Not a single piece of his barricade was random—every brace redirected force, every joint was chosen to bleed off energy. Each slam of the ram was answered with a metallic groan, but still the structure stood.


WS studied the vibrations through the floor, the flex of the steel, the way the attackers cursed louder each time their strength failed to break his work.


He didn’t smile this time. He just breathed, measured and calm. The barricade wasn’t there to save him—it was there to buy him the moment he needed.


WS crouched low in the dim light, working with the quiet patience of a craftsman. The sheets lay in coils at his feet, shredded into long, fraying strips. He twisted them together, braiding each cord tighter and tighter until his hands burned. Weakness meant death.


The first rope he measured against his chest, then knotted into a noose. He dragged it to the bedframe—steel, bolted deep into the concrete—and cinched it down hard. The line stretched taut across the doorway at throat height. He gave it a sharp tug. The frame didn’t budge. Good.


The second noose he anchored lower, looping it around the toilet pipe and pulling the knot until the porcelain creaked. This one sat at waist height, a crude snare meant to hook ribs or arms.


The third, thinner braid, he fixed even lower—just above the floor, tied fast to the sink’s base. A trip line. One stumble in that choke-pointed corridor, and the crowd behind would crush their own man.


He sat back, studying the three lines stretched across the door. Invisible in the dark, angled so the first man through would hit them before he realized.


Next, the rod. Hollow aluminum, bent at one end until it kinked into a vicious angle. He ground it against the concrete floor, scraping and scraping until the edge grew sharp enough to bite. When he lifted it, the jagged tip gleamed faintly in the light. Not a spear. A puncture tool. A hunting pick.


He stood, testing the weapon with short, precise jabs into the wall. Each thrust landed with a dull thud, the bent edge digging into the plaster and pulling free with ease.


Finally, he checked the nooses once more, pulling them taut, testing each knot until his arms ached. Nothing gave. Nothing slipped.


WS wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and sat down in the shadows, spear across his lap, eyes fixed on the door. He’d built a killzone out of scraps.


Now all he had to do was wait for them to walk in.


The pounding outside slowed. Their rhythm faltered, voices rising with frustration. WS could hear them breathing hard in the corridor. That was the moment he’d been waiting for.


He shifted his weight and pressed his boot against one of the rods bracing the barricade. One hard kick—the rod snapped loose with a metallic crack. The whole structure sagged. The next ram would break the door wide.


He crouched low, spear angled, eyes burning.


The ram hit. The door screamed inward. Two men stumbled through the collapse, momentum carrying them straight into the invisible snares. The first was jerked by the throat, the second snared at the chest. Their shouts cut off in shock.


WS moved. The spear drove like lightning—jagged tip punching through the first man’s neck with a wet crack, withdrawing in a spray. He pivoted before the body hit the floor, thrusting again, burying the bent edge under the second man’s arm, sliding it deep into the gap beneath the vest. The man gasped, choking, his weapon clattering uselessly.


Only two figures remained in the corridor—the sergeant with the stun gun, and behind him, the director.


Normally, WS might have spared the sergeant. He’d heard once the man had three children. But the chance to end this now was too sweet to waste.


He lunged through the doorway, a blur of speed. The spear rammed into the sergeant’s gut, folding him against the wall. His weapon fell into WS’s waiting hand as the life drained from his eyes.


Then WS turned.


The director staggered back, his face pale, hands raised in trembling surrender. “Please—please forgive me!” he stammered.


WS tilted his head, smiling, the malevolent expression sharp enough to cut. “If I was ever going to forgive anyone…” His voice was low, almost amused. “It would’ve been that sergeant—the father of three you doomed with your schemes.”


The director’s lips quivered. He had no answer.


WS’s eyes flicked sideways. One of the men bleeding on the floor was the same dirty guard who’d once tried to have him cornered in the showers. Pity. He almost chuckled. I wanted to have some fun with you.


He straightened, stun gun now heavy in his grip, and advanced on the director.


The director’s hands went limp as WS pried the keys from his grasp. Cold calculation took over. The shank—the crude little blade he had once planned to affix to the aluminum rod—found its purpose at last. The rod had become a far superior spear, but this little toothpick-forged blade was perfect for close work.


He slashed across the director’s neck. The movement was quick, practiced, merciless. The life in the man’s eyes vanished before he even hit the floor.


WS wiped the blade on the man’s shirt, then pocketed the watch—an odd, humanizing relic amid the carnage. A glance at it confirmed: barely 9 pm. The next shift wouldn’t arrive until 6 am.


He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the room settle over him. Twelve-hour shifts. No wonder the first team had struggled so badly. Even the guards, supposed enforcers of law, were nothing more than cogs in the for-profit machine. Exhausted, overworked, used and discarded—slaves of a system that called itself justice.


WS walked among the bodies, surveying the scene with a detached precision. The barricades, the nooses, the spear, the shank—all of it had worked. Survival, efficiency, power. And yet, beneath it all, he couldn’t ignore the bitter truth: everyone here, even his enemies, were caught in the same cruel grind.


He let out a long, low whistle, a sound half amusement, half contempt. Profit. Slavery. Violence. All of it intertwined. WS had played his part, but he could see the machinery behind it all—and he had no intention of letting anyone else pull him under.


The office was quiet, eerily so. WS pushed the door open, stepping over the director’s lifeless body. The man had left the safe open—an amateur’s mistake. WS didn’t hesitate.


Inside: a gun, some cash, personal files. He rifled quickly, eyes scanning for anything useful. His own phone lay on the desk, dead. He swore under his breath.


Then his gaze landed on the director’s phone. Battery dead. He smirked. The man had been sloppy enough to leave it behind—but not sloppy enough to remove the battery. WS yanked it out, clicked it in, and watched as the screen flickered to life. Perfect.


He punched in a number and spoke fast, low, sharp: “Williamson. Listen carefully. 5 a.m., XXX Penitentiary. Bring the rest of the boys. I’ll handle the rest here.”


He ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket. Time was precious. The next shift wouldn’t arrive for hours—but WS had plans, and every second counted.


The office smelled of cheap polish and sweat. Papers scattered from the safe, but he barely glanced. His focus was elsewhere: survival, preparation, and ensuring that when Williamson and the boys arrived, the night’s work would already be done.


WS slipped into the control panel room. Monitors flickered weakly; two guards circled, one perched lazily watching. The three who’d been with the director—his trusted men—were out of the way, stationed to prevent interference. Eight hours of relative freedom. That was enough.


He studied the panel. Doors, knobs, lights, cameras. Cross-checking each cell number against its knob position, WS opened the first door. Lights cut. Shadows swallowed him. Two Surenos didn’t even react before he struck.


Through the tiny peep-holes, he scanned cell by cell. Almost everyone was asleep, exhausted from long shifts and cramped quarters. Records told the rest: some were raiders, some sleepers. For six hours, WS moved like a ghost, slipping from cell to cell, opening doors, taking out threats silently, efficiently, one after another.


Eventually, he reached five cells housing the Bloods. One held Bob. WS slid the door open, waking him gently enough to startle—but not alarm. Bob could barely speak. His cellmate tensed.


“Quiet,” WS hissed. “We’re allies. Follow my lead.”



WS moved like a phantom through the block. He separated the Bloods with ruthless precision.


Those with sentences under five years stayed behind, obedient and tense. Move too early and alarms would trigger. The ones over five years followed him, tightly grouped. WS handed them his phone. “Call your friends. Vans are waiting. Move fast—but follow my lead exactly.”


Once the calls were made, he powered the phone down. No mistakes. No ringtones. No trace.


The mask was absolute—featureless, unyielding. Only his Angel tattoo was visible, a mark of identification for allies. Nothing else. Not a single hint of his face, not even to the Bloods themselves. They never saw him. They only trusted the symbol, the instructions, the shadow leading them.


No records, no existence in the system, no witness to his presence. In the eyes of the world, WS didn’t exist. Invisible. Untouchable. Untethered.


The setup was complete. Every prisoner sorted. Every ally accounted for. Every potential witness neutralized. WS paused for a moment, letting the full weight of control settle over him. Then he moved onward to the next block, a ghost in the dark, orchestrating the storm with no one anywhere able to identify him.


By 5 a.m., the last of the active threats were dealt with. The two guards making the rounds had been eliminated silently, efficiently, leaving no trace of struggle.


The lone watcher remained—a nervous, tired man stationed in the shadows. WS didn’t strike immediately. He waited, patient as a predator. When the guard finally rose to go to the bathroom, WS moved. A trap, set perfectly in the dark, claimed him before he even realized the danger.


Silence returned to the block. No alarms. No reinforcements. No survivors—except the Bloods serving under five years, who remained obediently in place. Every move, every moment, had been controlled. Every living person knew their role, and every threat had been neutralized.


WS paused in the shadows, observing the quiet aftermath. The setup was flawless. The prisoners who remained were contained, and all others either freed or removed. The operation had been surgical.


WS killed the power grid with a flick of a switch. The lights died, plunging the block into darkness. Silently, he slipped through the main door, emerging into the chill pre-dawn air.


Williamson, Dalton, and Walt were waiting. He moved among them quickly, embracing each in turn—a brief acknowledgment, a sign of trust, of loyalty forged in chaos.


Then he noticed Greg and Robertson, arriving with three vans to coordinate the escape of the freed prisoners. Robertson froze for a heartbeat when he saw Bob among them. Cousins.


“Keep my identity secret,” WS said, voice low, as he stepped closer to Robertson.


Robertson, without hesitation, hugged Bob. The young man’s tongue was still healing, words broken and lisped, but his relief was clear. WS’s gaze stayed fixed on Robertson. He leaned close, barely audible, repeating the warning: “Keep my identity secret. No one can ever know who I am.”


Robertson nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of the command. WS didn’t linger. His work wasn’t done yet, and leaving a trace, even a friendly one, could be catastrophic.


He stepped back into the shadows, invisible once more, letting the Angels, the Nomads, and his allies move freely while he remained untouchable, a ghost in a world that didn’t know he existed.


Emily was leaving for work, the early sunlight glinting off the pavement, when a shadow detached itself from the alley. Black clothes, silent, predatory. WS moved faster than thought. In a heartbeat, he was inside her house, pushing her against the wall.


Her eyes widened as they met his—recognition, panic, and frozen disbelief.


“It’s time for you to pay,” WS said, voice low, controlled.


She stammered, offering money, hands shaking. “Please… please don’t kill me…”


For a moment, WS felt something stir. She had housed him once, but it had been a setup—a leech’s trap. She opened the safe with trembling fingers and handed over 2.5 million. The money she had hidden, meant to manipulate him, meant to save herself… and all of it born of a twisted form of love.


WS drew a knife, pressing the cold steel against her neck. “This city is Angel turf. If my name surfaces, you burn. You understand?”


Emily nodded frantically. “Yes… yes…”


WS released her, stepping back. “Leave the news. It might surprise you. But you… you don’t know shit.”


She trembled, her fear palpable, the scent of her panic hanging in the air. WS presumed she had been scared straight. A cruel, efficient lesson.


He left, and the house fell silent.


Later, Emily retrieved a jar from her freezer—frozen semen—and made a call to the fertility clinic. She would be running late, but she needed her eggs ready. Somehow, raising a child as a single mother seemed achievable. If Eyckardt’s mother had done it, why couldn’t she?


BREAKING NEWS: Prison Massacre Claims Over 235 Lives


In a shocking and unprecedented event, authorities have confirmed that over 235 individuals—including inmates, six guards, and the facility’s director—were killed in a single, coordinated incident at XXX Penitentiary, a for-profit correctional facility.


Officials report that all inmates perished except for twelve members of a gang known as the Bloods, all serving sentences under five years. Investigators say these survivors have so far remained silent, refusing to cooperate with authorities. Meanwhile, seventeen other Blood members are currently being hunted nationwide, adding to the tense security situation.


The scale and efficiency of the attack have raised immediate questions about security protocols and oversight. For-profit prisons, already under scrutiny for alleged mistreatment of inmates, are facing an unprecedented backlash. Early reports indicate systemic failures: insufficient staffing, overworked guards, and inadequate surveillance systems may have contributed to the catastrophe.


Political leaders are under intense pressure to address the issue. Critics argue that the profit-driven model of incarceration prioritizes financial gain over human life, resulting in unsafe conditions for both inmates and staff. Civil rights organizations and advocacy groups are demanding immediate reforms, investigations, and accountability.


“This is a national tragedy,” said one senator during a press briefing. “The inhumane realities of for-profit prisons can no longer be ignored. We must ensure that human lives are never reduced to financial statistics.”


News outlets nationwide are highlighting the brutal realities within private correctional facilities: overcrowding, prolonged solitary confinement, insufficient medical care, and chronic understaffing. Public response has been swift and severe, with calls for investigations into the policies and funding structures that allow for-profit prisons to operate with minimal oversight.


As the investigation continues, authorities are urging calm but preparing for significant operational and political consequences. The survivors’ silence, combined with the scope of the massacre, leaves many questions unanswered and highlights the systemic vulnerabilities inherent in the current prison model.


While WS slept off the chaos in the Oakland clubhouse, the outside world erupted in speculation and outrage. News outlets ran their reports, numbers screaming over the screen: “Over 235 Dead in XXX Penitentiary Massacre.” Analysts dissected the story, focusing on the twelve surviving Bloods and the seventeen still at large.


But no one had any footage. Every camera, every digital trace, had been wiped. WS had systematically erased the security system, leaving no evidence of his presence—no faces, no movements, no traces. In the system’s eyes, he didn’t exist. He could have walked through the facility unnoticed, ghostlike, and there was nothing to prove otherwise.


Emily, meanwhile, acted quickly once confronted. The money had been handed over, but the threat had left her shaken. Using her skills and resources, she conducted her own cleanup—scrubbing records, securing her digital footprint, and ensuring that even her involvement in the 2.5 million exchange and contact with WS left no trace.


The national outrage continued, focused on the for-profit system itself: understaffing, inhumane treatment, and systemic failures. Yet the true architect of the massacre—the invisible, untouchable force behind it—remained beyond identification. WS’s identity, his methods, and his presence were completely erased, leaving the world to grapple with the aftermath while he rested, unseen, in the shadows.


The ZPR clique gathered in their usual hangouts, phones buzzing, news feeds blowing up with alerts and breaking headlines: “XXX Penitentiary Massacre: Over 235 Dead.”


Ayuah shook her head in disbelief. “Two hundred… two hundred and thirty-five? And six guards? One director? How—how does that even happen?”


Bella scrolled through the coverage, her brow furrowing. “This is… insane. In a first-world country, of all places. They said these prisons are supposed to be secure, right?”


Sasha sat back, eyes narrowing. “Supposed to be. But look at this—prisoners dead, guards dead, director dead… only twelve survivors. And they’re not talking. Something went very wrong.”


Robin’s hands tapped nervously against the table. “And seventeen members of the Bloods are being hunted now. That’s… huge. Whoever escaped must have done this.”


Nami, quiet until now, finally spoke, voice low. “It’s… terrifying. To think this could happen under our noses. In a place that’s supposed to be safe. I mean, prisons are still prisons, but… this level of… massacre?”


Bella shook her head, muttering, “So the media is assuming it was the 17 Blood members who got out… and now they’re on the run. That’s insane.”


Sasha leaned forward, voice sharp. “Untouchable or not, the fallout will be huge. Politicians, media, for-profit prison chains—everybody’s going to be on fire over this. And if those escaped Bloods get caught—or even worse, act again—it’s going to be chaos.”


The rest of the clique fell silent for a moment, imagining the scale, the chaos, the impossibility of controlling it. In a country that prided itself on safety and law, something like this shattered any sense of security.


And none of them had the faintest idea that the real orchestrator wasn’t among the escapees—they had no clue it was WS.


WS leaned back in the Oakland clubhouse, exhaustion pressing against him, but his mind was on fire. He opened the computer and created a burner email. Hundreds of messages would go out tonight, each word chosen for maximum impact.


For-profit prisons are being fed by a corrupt system. Courts that routinely hand down sentences 10% or more above the average are not serving justice—they’re following the money. Taxpayer dollars are funneled into corporations whose profits depend on keeping people incarcerated longer than necessary. Many inmates who should have walked away with a warning or fine instead rot behind bars. I’ve seen enough to know the truth—and I’ve paid the price myself.


The line about personal experience wasn’t entirely true—but framing it as such made the message visceral, impossible to ignore.


He hit send. The emails spread to journalists, watchdogs, and social media. Already, chatter was building, outrage mounting.


WS allowed himself a small smirk. They thought they could arrest him, control him, and break him. Now it was payback time. The system that had locked him up, that had fed off the misery of others, was about to be exposed—and it would burn in the light of public scrutiny.


And WS? He remained invisible, untouchable, a ghost orchestrating a reckoning no one saw coming


The fallout from WS’s emails hit faster than anyone expected. Ordinary citizens, enraged by the revelations, began targeting the justice system. Judges were attacked, offices vandalized, and social media lit up with outrage. Judge Stein, known for handing bikers harsher sentences, became a lightning rod—his stubborn honesty and biases made him look like a potential target for public ire, even if bribes could never sway him.


Two or three days later, several judges resigned, while a few appeared on national TV to lambast the for-profit prison system. The system trembled, the media frenzy growing by the hour.


Back at the Oakland clubhouse, WS leaned back and asked Williamson, “How’s the girl I asked you to handle?”


Williamson hesitated. “Lawyers say Judge Stein isn’t budging. It’s not like they can show him… pictures of his daughter… uh… using a dog leech, nude, with cat ears… or a butt-plug tail.”


WS blinked, then burst into laughter. “Fucking hell, Williamson… does your fiancée know you’re this perverted?”


Williamson opened his mouth to protest, but the other guys erupted into laughter, chanting, “Show the pictures! Show the pictures!”


WS waved them down. “Delete the pictures. Leverage, yes—but if that leaks, it blows back on us. Morally wrong, and—fuck… she’s Nami’s friend. She assumes she’s talking to him. That’s… feelings. Would I let anyone do that to Nami? No. That just… ignites a rage.”


He grabbed a bottle of gin and swigged deeply, letting the burn settle in. His fingers danced across the keyboard, diving back into the internet. He stumbled into an argument with a Saudi, insults flying like daily online garbage—but today, WS wanted blood.


Using hacks Emily had taught him, he infiltrated the dude’s systems, then drafted a message via Google Translate to the morality police in Saudi Arabia. Let’s see how they feel about finding porn on your computer, asshole.


Gin in hand, WS leaned back, a manic grin spreading across his face. Then he started singing, loud and unrestrained:


“USA! USA! USA! USA!”


One by one, the men in the clubhouse joined in, a raucous chorus. The club erupted into chaos and laughter, all united in the moment—USA, number one, WS-style.


That night, as the laughter and chaos of the clubhouse faded, WS felt a twinge in his chest—a gnawing conscience.


“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “It was just an internet argument… and I might have fucked that guy’s life over… over bullshit.”


The thought pressed on him, heavy, uncomfortable. He needed distance, a way to refocus his mind. Reaching for a book, he pulled out another volume by Schopenhauer. Pages turned, thoughts deepened. He could feel his mind sharpening, expanding—ideas forming like sparks in a dark room.


Of course, WS didn’t leave the book openly. Anyone casually glancing at him would see only the cover of a porn magazine. He cycled through pictures of tits, whistling softly under his breath, the perfect illusion of leisure.


In reality, he was cultivating his mind, internalizing philosophy while the world assumed he was indulging in base distractions. Schopenhauer’s pessimism, his insights into human suffering and desire, felt like a mirror to WS’s own worldview.


For anyone watching, he was just another man lost in a magazine. For WS, he was building a fortress of thought, one page, one idea, one hidden spark of genius at a time.

 

[Warscared]

WS lit a cigarette, phone pressed against his ear.


WS: “Yeah, I’m Williamson’s handler. No, I don’t want to meet. Officially? I don’t even exist. So save me the invitations and get to work. I need my men with clean records.”


Lawyer: “…That’s not simple. Especially not with the current climate—judges are nervous, public pressure—”


WS: “Don’t give me excuses. I don’t give a fuck about the climate. I was the one who got Judge Stein’s daughter. He’s not budging even with that? Jesus Christ, what does the man want, sainthood?”


Lawyer: “…He’s stubborn. He’s not corruptible, at least not in the traditional way. Stein doesn’t take money, doesn’t fold under pressure, and—”


WS: “Then hire a fucking PR firm. Spin him dirty. He hands out harsher sentences to bikers, right? That’s bias. In this climate, with the for-profit jail system bleeding in the news, that bias makes him look like a man on the take. Frame it. Push it. If he won’t bend for his daughter, maybe he’ll break under the weight of public disgust.”


Lawyer: “…We can smear him, sure. But it risks blowback. If the lie doesn’t stick, it puts all of us in deeper danger.”


WS: “Danger’s the business, counselor. You don’t like it, go back to chasing ambulance money. But listen—what about his wife? Mrs. Stein. Renowned journalist, right? She’s got reputation, connections, credibility. We go through her. We tell her straight: her husband will never sniff the Supreme Court if he stays the course. Worse—her daughter’s life goes public. Pictures, the leash, the ears, the tail. Every dirty little detail. We’ll ruin the girl and nuke her future. All Mrs. Stein has to do is… persuade her husband to recuse himself from any trials involving Angels. Just admit to his personal biases, step aside. That’s not corruption—it’s honesty. Maybe he can swallow that.”


Lawyer: “…And if she refuses? Or if Stein calls our bluff?”


WS: [sighs, drags on cigarette] “Then I’m out of cards, counselor. I’m at my fucking wits’ end with this shit. But if he won’t do it for his daughter, maybe he’ll do it for his wife. And if not… then we bury him another way.”


WS hung up without waiting for a reply.


The meeting wasn’t in her office, nor in a public café where journalists usually sniffed around. It was a private dining room in a hotel, one she’d chosen. Mrs. Stein was already seated, sharp blazer, wine in hand, eyes calculating.


Mrs. Stein: “You’ve got five minutes. Start talking.”


Angel’s Lawyer (nervously): “Mrs. Stein, I’ll be direct. We have leverage. Photos of your daughter, compromising ones. And we intend to use them against your husband unless—”


She raised a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.


Mrs. Stein: “Save me the morality play. I know what my daughter gets up to, and I don’t give a damn about pearl-clutching neighbors. The question is—what do you want?”


The lawyer hesitated, caught off guard.


Lawyer: “We… want Judge Stein to recuse himself from any case involving the Angels. To admit bias. Quietly. Publicly if possible.”


Mrs. Stein leaned back, swirling the wine in her glass, her expression unreadable.


Mrs. Stein: “So you want my husband out of your way. Fine. But don’t insult me with schoolyard blackmail. You don’t threaten me with my daughter. You use me.”


The lawyer blinked. “Use you?”


Mrs. Stein: “Yes. I built my career tearing apart institutions that pretend to be clean. For-profit prisons? The judge’s stubbornness puts me on the wrong side of a story I could be winning. I don’t care about his pride, I care about results. If I’m going to move him, you’ll give me more than threats—you’ll give me material. Numbers. Leaks. Evidence. Something I can put in print and say: ‘Look, America, your sainted Judge Stein was biased, but here’s the bigger monster behind it all.’ That way, my husband saves face, my name makes headlines, and your little biker friends keep breathing.”


The lawyer started to protest. “…That wasn’t the deal—”


Her eyes narrowed, cold and sharp.


Mrs. Stein: “Listen, sweetheart. I’ve survived smear campaigns, newsroom wars, and men twice as nasty as you. I don’t play defense. You want this done? You arm me with weapons, not gossip. Otherwise, walk out that door and pray those pictures never see daylight. Because if they do? I’ll spin them into a feminist manifesto, turn my daughter into a martyr, and you into predators. Choose wisely.”


WS drops the burner phone on the table, rubbing his eyes, half-amused and half-disgusted.


“No wonder poor Nadjia wants to be chained up and broken… With a mother like that, what else could she crave but control through pain? A feminist queen who plays chess with her own family’s dignity. Jesus. At least Nojiko and Nami raised me—strict, but honest. If I’d grown up under a woman like Stein’s wife, I’d probably be worse than I already am.”


He pours another gin, staring into the glass. His mind drifts.


“Worse than I already am.”


Faces flicker in his head. Prison guards. Blood members. Stray enemies. Two hundred thirty-something corpses


His mind drifts, tallying corpses not as names, not even as faces, but as stacks of numbers. Seven here. Twelve there. A raid in Fresno — twenty-eight down. Oakland — nineteen. Vegas safehouse — thirty-three.


Dozens of jobs. Hundreds dead.


He exhales slowly, gripping the glass so tight it creaks.


He laughs, bitter and quiet.


“A less capable monster would’ve been dead years ago. I? I’m still here. Stacking bodies. Building fortunes out of corpses. All because they gave me the tools to survive.”


The thought gnaws at him. It isn’t guilt — guilt is for people who don’t win. It’s something deeper. Recognition.


“They raised me right… and I turned it wrong. And that’s the scariest part.”


Call Connects


Mrs. Stein (cold, firm): Who is this?


WS (smooth, controlled): Doesn’t matter. What matters is your daughter. Cute girl… looked even cuter in ears and a tail. Imagine those pictures going public.


(Pause — silence on the other end. Then a sharp inhale.)


Mrs. Stein (icily calm): You’re bluffing.


WS (smirks, voice low): I don’t bluff, Mrs. Stein. Your husband’s ambition is a house of glass, and I’m holding a rock.


Mrs. Stein: So you want him compromised. Removed from the bench?


WS: Not removed. Redirected. He steps back from Angel cases. Acknowledges his bias. You keep your husband’s reputation, your daughter keeps her dignity. Everyone goes home happy.


Mrs. Stein (measured, probing): And if we refuse?


WS (chuckles): Then the world learns your sweet little girl likes to play pet. That dream of a Supreme Court robe? Turns into a circus of shame.


(Another silence. He can almost feel her weighing the cost. He wishes he could see her face, read the flicker of her eyes, press where it hurts. Instead, he leans on his voice — slow, steady, confident. Intimate.)


WS (softer now): Look, Mrs. Stein. You don’t care about integrity. You care about results. You care about control. This is just leverage. Use it. Bend him. Protect what’s yours. That’s what strong women do, isn’t it?


(There’s the faintest exhale on the line — not surrender, but hesitation. A crack.)


Mrs. Stein (sharp again, but thinner now): I’ll… consider it. But if you ever contact me again—


WS (cutting in, amused): You’ll what? Call the cops? Go public? Please. You know how fragile your empire is. You play this smart, Mrs. Stein, and you win. Just like always.


Call, Midway Through Negotiation


Mrs. Stein (cool, calculating): Half a million. That’s my price.


WS (without hesitation): Done.


(He taps into Emily’s clean accounts, wires $500,000 instantly. He wants to keep her moving, keep her invested. Seconds later, he hears her sharp laugh through the phone.)


Mrs. Stein (mocking): You really are reckless. Half a million? That’s too much. I’ll redirect it to my charity. At least I can put your money to use.


WS (grinning to himself, voice dry): Call it a tip for your time.


Mrs. Stein (voice darkens, testing him): You think you hold the power. But I could turn the tables, you know. Your redhead sister—very attractive girl. Imagine if someone did to her what you’ve done to my daughter. Imagine the headlines.


(Silence. Then WS’s voice drops — cold, sharp, deadly. No games now.)


WS: If my sister is hurt, I will burn the world and everyone inside it. I haven’t leaked the photos because I don’t want to ruin lives. I need your holier-than-holy husband to drop the gun charges. He refuses, fine. Then he steps aside from Angel cases. That’s all. I don’t want him dead, I don’t want his career destroyed. But you — you threaten my blood again… nothing will protect you from my wrath.


(A pause. Mrs. Stein breathes in, then exhales, steady, controlled — but not fearless. She’s heard the edge in his tone, the truth in it. She knows he’s not bluffing.)


Mrs. Stein (clipped, careful now): We’ll see what can be arranged.


(The line goes dead. WS doesn’t move at first. Just sits, jaw tight, bottle untouched at his side. The fury lingers — the thought of Nami’s name in that woman’s mouth, the idea of her dragged into this. For a moment he sees red. Then, slowly, he exhales, muttering to himself.)


WS (low, almost a whisper): Eyes on the prize… but fuck. I let it slip. Forgot what matters. If she drags Nami into this…


(He tips the gin, but it doesn’t cool the heat. It only burns. He leans back, head in his hand. For once, he doesn’t think about winning. He thinks about Nami. And he hopes — he hopes — she doesn’t suffer for his sins.)


Police Station, Oakland


Williamson sits in a holding cell, looking ragged. His phone has been confiscated. Cloud presence erased. He knows he’s screwed. Meanwhile, Nadjia — at her dorm — is staring at her messages in disbelief. The man she thought she’d been talking to — Nami’s younger brother, WS — wasn’t him at all. It had been Williamson all along. The betrayal stings deep.


She still believes WS is innocent, and, being still a virgin, she clings to the hope of one day gifting him her virginity.


Scene Cut → Front Desk, Police Station


A tall man in a sharp dark suit, black hair, trimmed beard, sunglasses, walks in with two real lawyers. WS — completely disguised — moves like he owns the room. He flashes credentials smoothly, without hesitation.


WS (cool, professional): I’m counsel for my client, Mr. Williamson. Let’s get to it.


Detective (fidgeting): Uh… this is… complicated. It’s tied to a federal—


WS (cuts him off, leaning forward): Then you’ll want to call Judge Stein and his harpy of a wife right now. Because if this circus goes public, everyone will know why a decorated war veteran is being dragged through the mud.


The real lawyers shift uncomfortably, unsure what their “colleague” is about to do. But WS is already rolling.


WS (smooth, firm): Williamson was wrong — impersonating someone, I’ll give you that. He dug at a poor, innocent adult woman for his… sick, twisted pleasures. Disgusting, yes. But nothing illegal came of it. No harm done. And yet, here we are.


He slaps a folder on the table — empty, but looks heavy. The detectives glance at it like it might explode.


WS (voice dropping, razor sharp): I have evidence. Evidence of why Williamson is really being pursued. You don’t want this in the press. You don’t want a Streisand effect on your hands. Either the charges are dropped within two hours… or I’ll make sure those photos — the ones you’re so afraid of — are released everywhere.


Silence. The detectives exchange nervous looks. Phones are pulled out. Calls are made. Within 90 minutes, papers are pushed across the desk. Charges: withdrawn. Case: vanished.


Cut → Holding Cell


Williamson is released. WS — still disguised — walks him out. For a second, Williamson looks at him like he’s staring at a devil wearing a savior’s face.


WS (flat, cold): You’re going back to your chapter. You’re too hot here now. Surveillance is all over you.


Williamson (hesitant, guilty): I… I only admitted to cloning the phone. I thought… she’s so pretty… and when the chance came…


WS freezes. Stares at him like he wants to break his jaw. Instead, he just shakes his head, eyes filled with disappointment and contempt.


WS (low, biting): You’re alive because I fixed it. Don’t ever mistake that for forgiveness.


Meanwhile, Nadjia remains unaware of the full truth. Everyone believes the cover story: Williamson found a phone, cloned it, and misused it. Everyone buys it — except Nadjia’s mother, who knows WS slipped up and directly threatened her daughter. WS had lost his cool about Nami, but Nadjia still trusts him.


At her dorm, Nadjia’s mother confronts her, voice sharp, trying to persuade her to stay away.


Mrs. Stein: Nadjia, you have to understand — it was WS. You need to stay away from him.


Nadjia (screaming, panicked): WS is just sixteen! He’s been missing for a year! How could he possibly—


Her words spill out in frustration, trying to put things into perspective. She has no idea of his real age or the full scope of what he’s capable of. Her mother, meanwhile, has never known WS’s age either.


Nadjia’s mind races, caught between fear, disbelief, and concern for the boy she believes she knows. Despite the panic and confusion, a part of her clings to the hope that WS is still the same person she thought he was, even as the confrontation shakes her sense of reality.


Mrs. Stein sits back, her mind racing, trying to make sense of it all. Why is a sixteen-year-old running protection for the Angels?


She glances at her husband. “Give me the files you must recuse yourself from,” she mutters, thinking fast. Walt and Dalton… two Angel enforcers, fugitives. And how the hell does a kid have half a million dollars — and just hand it over — for two lowlifes like that?


She had tried to track the money, but Chinese black cards, untraceable. It had to be a front. Ray. Of course — he must be a front for Ray.


Her thoughts drift back. Her husband had been Raymond’s father’s best friend, had tried to steer him away from the biker lifestyle. She knew he still considered it his biggest failure in life. That’s why he hated the Angels so fiercely, why the anger never truly left him.


Everything clicked in her mind: WS was no ordinary kid. Dangerous, calculated… and connected to a network she barely understood.


Nadjia gathers the clique in a quiet corner, her voice tight as she begins to speak.


“I… I need to explain why I’ve been away these past few days,” she admits, swallowing hard. “I was duped. I assumed I was talking to someone I trusted… and I was catfished by an older, perverted asshole. I… I was careless.”


The girls immediately gather around her, offering hugs and murmurs of comfort. Nadjia leans into their support, feeling a weight lift slightly off her shoulders.


Bella, arms crossed, eyes sharp, narrows her gaze. She immediately suspects the truth she’s been quietly pondering: Nadjia had been going for WS. Three weeks had passed since Bella last spoke to him, and her resolve was barely holding.


Sex with Vidal had grown boring once more. She had tried to give up on WS… tried to move on.


But life felt too bland without him — without the chaos, the danger, the unpredictable salt and pepper that WS always brought into it.


Nadjia slumped onto the couch, her phone clutched in her hands like a lifeline she didn’t trust anymore. The others had gathered around her almost instinctively, forming a circle that felt protective without anyone saying a word.


“I… I don’t even know where to start,” she murmured, voice shaking. “I thought I was talking to someone safe. I thought I knew him. And… I sent pictures.” Her cheeks burned. “My mom… she found out. She confronted me. I… I feel like everything’s collapsing.”


Ayuah Zane leaned forward first, her hand resting gently on Nadjia’s shoulder. “Hey, breathe. You didn’t do anything that can’t be fixed,” she said softly, calm and steady, the way she always seemed to anchor the group.


Robin Revera’s arms were crossed, but her eyes were warm, sharp in that protective way that made Nadjia feel seen. “You weren’t careless in a stupid way,” she said. “You were trusting someone. That’s human. And your mom… she’ll get over it. But you need us right now.”


Sasha Petrov, sitting slightly apart, tilted her head and studied Nadjia with that quiet precision she always carried. “This doesn’t define you,” she said. “Not even close. You’re smart, capable… and none of this changes that. You’ve got us.”


Ayuah added, a little firmer this time, “And we’ll make sure you handle whatever fallout there is safely. We’ll help you figure it out, step by step. No one else needs to know.”


Robin’s voice softened. “You don’t have to explain to anyone here, Nadjia. We just… we want to be here with you. That’s all that matters.”


Nadjia let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her eyes. “I feel so stupid,” she admitted. “I can’t believe I let it get this far.”


Sasha leaned forward slightly. “You weren’t stupid. You were human. And honestly? Anyone could’ve been fooled. We just… we just want you to be okay.”


The girls fell into a quiet rhythm, murmuring small reassurances, shifting closer, surrounding her with warmth. Nadjia’s shoulders eased a little, and she finally let herself breathe.


For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine a world where mistakes didn’t ruin everything, where she could lean on people without fear. And in the circle of her friends, that world felt… possible.

 

[Warscared]

Warscared sat on the cold concrete, his back against the park fence, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The night air was heavy, the kind of silence that carried weight.


Bootsteps approached. Williamson. He looked worn from the holding cell, but still carried himself like the war dog he was.


Warscared didn’t get up. He reached to the side, pulled forward a wrapped bag, and set it on the ground between them.
“Thanks for your help, man,” he said, smoke curling from his lips. “Now you can return to your chapter. Pity you gotta leave. Some guys from SF are rolling south to LA. Safer for you if you ride with them.”


Williamson nodded once, picked up the bag without a word. He knew better than to linger. Their paths had crossed for a reason, but they weren’t meant to run together.


When he was gone, Warscared crushed the cigarette beneath his boot, pushed himself up, and headed toward the park restroom. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered as he scrubbed the dye from his hair, washed the paint from his skin. The lawyer’s disguise went into the trash.


A hoodie went over his head. He pulled it low, shoved his hands in his pockets, and slipped back into the night.


He didn’t go home. He never did. Instead, he cut across blocks until he reached a nondescript building on the edge of town. Not a clubhouse — too obvious. This was a safehouse, and it belonged to the Angels.


Inside, five of his men were already waiting, loyal to the bone. Greg and Robertson were there too, fresh faces assigned to his detail. They looked up as he entered, but nobody asked questions.


Warscared dropped into a chair, the weight of the night still on his shoulders. The game had shifted again.


The safehouse smelled of smoke, stale beer, and fried food. Warscared slouched into a chair, hood still up, as the TV blared in the background. News anchors scrambled to frame the story: “56 suspected Bloods members arrested nationwide…”


Greg tossed him a bottle. “You see this shit, WS? They’re cracking down hard. Bloods are bleeding red on every screen tonight.”


Robertson barked a laugh. “Yeah, but guess what—everybody out there thinks the Bloods are fucking gods now. Jail riots, firefights, standoffs—people can’t stop talking about ’em.”


One of the older bikers leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Doesn’t matter if half their soldiers are locked up. Nobody wants to be the next poor bastard in a cell when the Bloods decide to clean house again.”


The men chuckled, clinking bottles, but there was an edge to it—like they knew they’d just set the streets on fire and were waiting to see how far it spread.


Warscared didn’t join the laughter. He just watched, listening. Letting the cigarette dangle from his lips.


“Official word from the Angels is we’re neutral,” Greg added, his grin crooked. “Surenos run errands for the cartels now, courtesy of La Eme. Doesn’t touch us. On paper.”


Robertson whistled low. “Yeah, tell that to the cartels. They’re pissed. Lost Aryan muscle inside, lost their own foot soldiers. And they’re saying it was the Bloods that did it.”


A pause. The room tightened. Everyone glanced at Warscared.


He finally exhaled a ribbon of smoke and smirked, the faintest curl of amusement.
“Good,” he said simply. “Let ’em think that.”


The laughter came back, louder this time. They were riding high on chaos, knowing every side was angry, but none of them dared touch the monster in the middle of the board.


That night, the streets of Calle 80 lit up in sirens and muzzle flashes. The Angels’ safehouse was quiet, but Warscared and his men were moving in shadows, not celebration. The hit wasn’t about profit—it was about message.


The MS-13 had just pulled themselves out of drought, finally getting their pipeline wet again. The Mexicans were smiling too wide, shaking too many Salvadoran hands. Too friendly. Too unnatural. WS knew that kind of peace never lasted—it was just a mask before someone buried a blade.


Inside the den, the haul wasn’t much. Twenty grand in bills, a stack of bricks, and enough iron to arm a corner. It didn’t matter. The shipment had been sliced one last time for Williamson’s cut. That bridge was burned anyway—WS had leaned on him, used him, and now left him glowing under the Fed’s spotlight, tied to the daughter of a federal judge. No way back for him.


“Not bad for crumbs,” Robertson muttered, flipping through the cash.


WS ignored him, crouching near the five bodies lined up on the floor. Salvadorans, all of them. Not part of the delivery crew—no, this clique had been hunted down and staged here, stiff and cooling.


It was theater.


“MS13 pays Calle 80 with interest,” Greg said with a crooked grin. “Five bodies of their own, dropped neat in their den. Everybody’s dirty, everybody’s guilty.”


WS lit another cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. To anyone on the outside, it would look like business turned bad—Salvadorans against Colombians, nothing to do with Angels. But in truth, it was just his hand pressing two knives deeper into each other.


Word would spread fast. Colombians would whisper betrayal. Salvadorans would want blood. The cartels would hear about the mess, and start questioning just how much of their pipeline they could trust in Salvadoran hands.


And through it all, the Angels stood clean. Neutral. Smiling.


WS exhaled, eyes glinting under the hood. “Let the streets choke on it.”


Chaos wasn’t the cost. Chaos was the currency.


The South Cali Angels rolled into the warehouse without a hitch. Vans unloaded, signatures made, a few words exchanged, and then they were gone, back on the road south before anyone even noticed. Business as usual.


Not long after, the Riders showed up to collect. Two vans, a handful of patched bikes. The cartel clerks handed them the sealed pallets, no questions asked. By the book. Riders were confident—too confident.


They didn’t expect the rumble of fifty engines lighting up behind them once they hit the interstate. Angels. A wall of chrome and fury swallowing the night.


The Riders knew the drill: never let the Angels box you in. So they did what they always did when California heat got too close—they darted for the backroads of Oregon. Their roads. Their safety net. Tight switchbacks, endless treelines, dirt shoulders they could ride blindfolded.


But that’s exactly where WS wanted them.


He’d been waiting in those woods all night with his men, dug in like hunters around a kill zone. When the first Rider van shot past the mile marker, spotlights cut on. Rifles barked from the trees. Tires burst. The convoy folded in on itself, panic rolling through the pack.


Bikes crashed into vans. Men scattered into the pines only to be cut down by shadows moving faster than headlights could catch. By the time the echoes died, twelve Riders lay twisted in the gravel, their patches torn, their shipment gone.


WS walked the wreck like a ghost, smoke curling from his cigarette as he flipped through the manifest. Same trick—light shipment. At least twenty percent missing.


“Cartel games,” he muttered. “Always the same.”


But he didn’t care. Tonight wasn’t about the weight. Tonight was about sending a message. In the Riders’ own backyard, he had turned their safety into a grave.


And every cartel bookkeeper who saw the reports would know: the Riders weren’t the wolves anymore.


The roar of pipes faded into the distance, swallowed by the Oregon night. The support chapters were gone, saddlebags heavy with every last ounce of dope. Not a single shred left behind for the men who’d done the bleeding.


Robertson spat in the dirt. “Not even a dime bag to show for it.”


Greg didn’t speak, but his jaw was tight. They all knew the score — this haul had been drugs only, no cash, no split. And the southbound Angels hadn’t even slowed down to thank them.


WS leaned against his bike, cigarette glowing between his fingers. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is they made it back clean. That was the job.”


“The job,” Robertson muttered. “And us?”


WS blew out smoke, watching it twist into the trees. He understood the bitterness. Hell, he shared it. But if he let it grow, the crew would rot from the inside. So he gave them something else to hold onto.


“They get it south, Sacramento sees it right. This was trust. Without us keeping the Riders pinned here, they’d have lost the whole shipment. We bought ‘em safe passage. That’s our cut — respect.”


It wasn’t money, but it was truth. His men nodded, some slower than others, but the edge dulled a little. They knew he’d stayed behind, not vanished with the others. He’d made sure the supporting chapters rode free while he and his own took the risk.


Later, when the Riders came sniffing, WS sprung the second trap. Seven dead, six limping away. Then he pulled his crew back — alive. That was his real payment to them: survival.


Back at the safehouse, the air was thick, but quieter. No payday, no product. Just the fact that they were still standing. And WS had made damn sure of that.


Greg shook his head, voice low. “What the hell was that about?”


WS exhaled slowly, ash dropping to the pavement. “Rider chapters are big. Numbers, territory… but they fucked up. Their next run? They’ll call in the SF chapter. When their best are gone… we skin the remaining ones who stayed behind. If they don’t disband, we find another way… maybe even kill them. But not too many — too many white boys dying draws heat on the Angels. Always better when they run, when we kill outside outsiders’ eyes, or when they get patched in and subdued. Public war? Draws too many eyes.


“We survive on business, not fame. If an Angel kills a Rider and gets arrested, it’s worse than useless. Five brothers lost to the law just for one body? Stupid.


“Sacramento and SF keep eyes on the Riders. When the next shipment moves north, they’ll escort it with every gun they can bring. But…” His eyes narrowed. “Next day, the Riders hit a chapter. Five dead Angels — four Hispanic, one white. The cops are watching now. If we act, the Feds have eyes on us too. Hitting their safehouse? Too dangerous.


“And that’s when I remembered. Their chapter house… old fire station. Sewers run underneath. If we can infiltrate that way…”


He let the thought hang. Greg and Robertson exchanged a glance. They knew WS wasn’t talking about theory — he was already calculating angles, distances, escape routes. The quiet before the storm.


The next day, WS’s crew rented a basement directly over the city’s main water drainage slew. Masks pulled tight, bodies swathed in black, bulletproof vests snug. Every detail counted.


Two days later, the SF Riders rolled north — over 200 strong, a massive show of force. Even the cops watching shook their heads at the sheer numbers.


When night fell, WS moved. He entered the Angels’ chapter house, unfamiliar layout but manageable. Shadows were scarce, but only seven Riders were left behind; the rest were either out on the ride or home asleep.


Business was silent, precise. Bodies dropped into the water cistern below, each movement deliberate. They stripped everything they could carry. The cops outside remained oblivious.


The best prize? Ten bikes set ablaze — three belonged to the Riders on the road. WS calculated ahead: gas traps ready, timed for when the return ride would come through.


Inside, they found the war stash. Weapons stacked to the ceiling: over 200 assault rifles. Mother of god. The motherload. The crew worked all night, sometimes into the morning, hauling, cataloging, and setting traps.


Robertson groaned at the cramped conditions. “Should’ve rented the next door basement. 500 feet through the cistern — if it rains, we’re wading in water or worse, shit, knee-deep.”


WS ignored him, eyes fixed on the prize. Precision, patience, and planning. That’s how you hit hard and leave nothing behind.


They’d just hauled the last of the weapons and were ready to return for the ammo when the growl of bikes echoed through the streets above. Instantly, WS signaled. Blacked-out figures slipped into the sewers, disappearing into the drainage tunnels.


Upstairs, one Rider had returned, confused. No keys. No way to wake the others. Panic festered. He called the Sergeant-at-Arms who had stayed behind.


The door opened. Two Riders and two prospects — maybe hanger-ons — stepped inside. The silence gnawed at them, fraying nerves. The youngest Rider, a notorious playboy who seduced girls in the clubs, froze. Misjudging the layout, he ran to the wrong door.


Explosion.


He was gone. The other three were thrown into walls, badly injured. Outside, the ten bikes burned, drenched in gasoline WS’s crew had poured over them earlier. The Sergeant-at-Arms bellowed, furious. “The Angels will pay for this!”


Within minutes, sirens wailed. Ambulances screeched into the block. The cops had been watching all night and hadn’t noticed a thing.


Meanwhile, WS coordinated. Local chapters — Southside, Harbour, Northside — moved swiftly to stash the guns in secure locations. Money? Not even $10,000. Split among his crew, over $1,300 each for a night’s work. Decent, but far from the $450,000 per member they’d hauled from the Mara Salva safehouse in SF.


WS’s crew gritted their teeth. They’d grown used to astronomical scores, but tonight wasn’t about money. It was precision, power, and sending a message: nobody underestimated him, not the Riders, not the cops, and certainly not the Angels.


The next day, a chiefs meeting for all the Angels was convened in a discreet hotel. WS and his entire crew were present—not just to participate, but to make a statement.


He addressed the room with calm authority, acknowledging the losses suffered by the Hispanic chapter three days earlier. As a token of respect and to maintain trust, he gifted them fifty of the guns his crew had retrieved from the basement operation. The remaining weapons, still numbering one hundred seventy, would be compensated to his crew at ten thousand apiece. The chiefs recognized that these weapons could easily fetch twice as much—twenty thousand or more on the black market—but WS was deliberately generous, valuing loyalty and stability over maximum profit.


His crew remained silent, muffled by discipline and the understanding that the meeting was about optics as much as recompense. Though they had each already received over twenty-five thousand, some of the older chiefs noticed their muted dissatisfaction. WS had brought them all, despite protocol typically allowing only his presence, and this display of unity underscored his growing influence.


The room hummed with quiet tension. WS’s men had become accustomed to larger payouts, and the standard twenty-five thousand for the remaining guns, while more than many Angels would see in half a year, seemed modest by their standards. Yet the generosity toward the Hispanic chapter had not gone unnoticed; it quietly demonstrated WS’s capacity to reward allies while maintaining strategic patience with rivals.


As the meeting continued, WS observed the subtle reactions of each chief. Iraq War veterans, seasoned leaders, and one surviving elder from the biker civil war all evaluated him—not just for his words, but for the discipline and discretion of his men. Generosity, authority, and restraint were measured simultaneously, and WS knew that every decision here would ripple across the chapters, shaping trust and fear alike.


He had always noticed how the oldest chiefs regarded him with suspicion. He tried to befriend them; he tried to buy their favor, but they only scoffed. He knew why. Malachi had once told him the story of Samael. But what could he do? It was in his nature. He could not act differently.


He would not betray Gabriel, take his woman, and murder him to ignite another biker civil war. Yet his face carried the weight of memories burned into those who had lived through it. He was not Samael. He hoped he wasn’t.


Still, Samael had been a diplomat, making deals and giving gold to secure loyalty. WS had gifted more than anyone had ever seen, and perhaps that was the problem: for the older men, he was too dangerous; for those who followed him, he was too generous to those who didn’t deserve it.


WS steps back into the safehouse, scanning his crew. Tension lingers in the air. He cuts through it with a sharp gaze.


“We are brothers first, outlaws last,” he says. “If you can’t handle that, you’re free to leave.”


The guys mutter apologies, quick but sincere. WS’s attention shifts to his portfolio. The two million from Emily is invested—electronic, secure. If anything happens to him, Nami will inherit it and protect the family.


The news comes in: Judge Stein has recused himself from all Angel-related court cases. Walt and Dalton’s criminal records are finally on a path to being cleared. WS clenches his jaw, frustrated by the bureaucracy, but pragmatic—he sends the money to the lawyers immediately. His men have no idea what just happened.


With the night behind them, the crew finally sleeps. WS sits back in his chair for a moment, eyes tracing the shadows of the safehouse. The calm is fleeting, but necessary—everyone needs rest for what comes next.


Morning arrives. The safehouse fills with the quiet hum of activity as WS’s crew stirs. Maps are laid out, rifles checked, positions reviewed. WS moves among them, observing, correcting small mistakes, ensuring each man knows the plan down to the second.


“This won’t be like before,” he says, voice low but firm. “We take what we can, we leave what we can’t. Time is our enemy.”


The men nod, focused. WS studies the MS-13 safehouse layout again. There won’t be the luxury of cleaning up afterward. Streets are too open, surveillance too tight. They must strike, hit hard, and vanish before anyone can react.


Every detail matters—the angles, the exits, the timing. WS knows this operation could be the last major one he leads here. The stakes aren’t just the haul or the drugs—they’re control, reputation, and the fragile balance he’s spent months crafting in California.


Robertson leans across the table, voice low. “I might have a solution… nerve gas. Before, we couldn’t use it—but with your skill, WS… you could slip in, blend into the shadows, release it, and get them all sleeping. We’d have all the time we need.”


WS studies him for a moment. The man’s audacity is matched only by his precision. He nods slightly. “Alright. But you get me the gear. One day, and only what’s necessary. And no Angels. Cops are watching everywhere.”


The room goes quiet. Everyone absorbs the plan, weighing it in their minds. Outside, the world hums unknowingly, streets alive with ordinary chaos while inside the safehouse, an extraordinary one is being prepared.


Rest is taken seriously. Everyone knows the stakes. If they pull this off, the MS-13 safehouse—massive, fortified, perhaps 100–200 gangbangers, many elite soldiers among them—will fall. And the haul… drugs, weapons, cash… could reach a million dollars.


Night approaches. WS moves through the safehouse like a shadow himself, checking his men, reviewing the map again. Each point of entry, every vent and corridor, every choke point—it’s memorized, calculated, ready.


The plan is simple in concept but deadly in execution: infiltrate, deploy the gas, take control, and vanish before anyone knows what hit them.


WS slouched back in his chair, cigarette dangling from his lips, a half-empty bottle of gin at his side. His head spun from exhaustion, adrenaline, and the lingering high from the night’s chaos. He rubbed his eyes and waved a hand at the pile of guns on the floor.


“Yeah… yeah, that’s… that’s done,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Everyone got… twenty-five… twenty-five grand each. That’s fair. More than most see in six months.”


He didn’t notice Robertson glancing at Walt and Dalton, eyebrows raised. Nor did he see the subtle tightening of lips from the others. No one dared mention it. WS just tipped back his bottle, eyes half-closed, and let the thought float away.


Somewhere in his foggy mind, the math should have clicked. 170 guns… ten grand a piece… eight of them… but it didn’t. He didn’t care. He was too tired, too high, too drunk, too wrapped up in the success of the night to realize that each of them had left nearly $187,500 on the table. Too busy feeling the rush of a job executed perfectly, of chaos tamed, of power asserted.


He leaned back, muttering, “Fuck it. They’ll thank me later… eventually…”


And with that, he drifted into a haze, unaware of just how generous—or careless—he had been.


The plan unfolds perfectly. WS and his five bodyguards move like shadows through the MS-13 safehouse, cutting down anyone considered muscle. Throats meet knives; screams echo briefly before being swallowed by the night.


Robertson monitors the perimeter, his eyes glued to the feeds and trackers, while Greg works methodically on a second safe. WS notices the intensity, moving over. “What’s going on?”


Robertson smiles behind his mask. “These motherfuckers have four safes. The first is sealed and done. The second… we’re getting to it.”


WS motions to Dalton and Walt. “Grab the contents of the first safe. Take it to the money-laundering spot, then come back for the second once it’s opened.”


Meanwhile, WS, his last bodyguard, and Robertson start moving the unconscious who pose no threat into the basement. That’s when they discover it: the MS arsenal. At least thirty assault rifles, gleaming under dim light. WS instantly recognizes them—guns sold to the cartels, now circulating back to the Mara Salva.


He glances at Robertson. “Underworld economy. We sell them the guns they try to kill us with, then use that money to buy the poison that’ll ruin us.”


Robertson laughs, shaking his head. “Fucking crazy guy.”


They load another van. WS calls the Jarhead of the Oakland club. “Got a new haul of guns. Need a safe drop spot.”


The chief doesn’t hesitate. “Right here. Quick and clean.”


WS’s last bodyguard takes one van and leaves—seven hours away, the only spot guaranteed clear of cops.


Robertson leans back, grinning. “I know a better spot. We lose ten percent of the guns, but I’ll be back in two hours tops.”


WS raises an eyebrow. “Who?”


“Bloods. They’ve got stash houses even the cops don’t know about. My cousin Bob and sixteen other inmates—perfect spot.”


WS pauses, considering the reach and limitations of street gangs versus biker crews. “Alright. Do it. Need backup?”


“Nope. I got it,” Robertson says, and he drives off, disappearing into the city night.


His bodyguard returns after dropping the van and WS calls him back to do a perimeter sweep. He notices the dogs—Mara Salva normally doesn’t use them, but these do. Reluctantly, he takes them out. He hates killing animals, but a job’s a job.


By the time the two guys who ran the money return, the third safe is being opened. Greg, curious, asks why WS is sending the cash to a laundering spot instead of their own safehouse.


“This is our last job,” WS says. “Better to have the money clean. Then everyone can go their own way.”


He spends a few moments talking with Greg and learns that he and Robertson used to hate each other. Born on the same street, on opposite sides, they had never expected to cross paths in the army. Greg had always been a biker, a hanger-on with Oakland, while Robertson had been a young Blood. Imagine their surprise when they met again in uniform.


Greg explains that Robertson runs three street Blood gangs and he is the one connecting the Angels and Bloods, while Greg has a pawnshop… half of one at least, plus a bike repair shop… well, part of it, and also a car repair shop.


WS stops him. “Let me guess… half of one?”


Greg says, “Yeah… how did you guess?”


Robertson returned just as Walt and Dalton came back, while WS’s bodyguard kept watch outside. The last safe was open. Normally, they would torch the building, but too many innocents were passed out in the basement. WS made a decision. The dead—the ones who had been actively fighting, the muscle—were gathered and carefully placed in the locked boiler room.


When the innocents eventually woke, they would see the blood, panic, and run. But the bodies themselves would remain hidden. No one would stumble upon them unless they broke into the boiler room or let time work against them. If discovered too late, the smell would give away the horror—but by then, the damage would already be done: the MS13 would look weak, exposed, and anyone cleaning up would only confirm their vulnerability. WS had learned his lesson after the South massacre bodies left in the open brought attention, heat, and mistakes. This way, the massacre left its mark without leaving a trace that could be traced back to him or his men.


Robertson returned at the same time as Walt and Dalton, while WS’s bodyguard kept watch. The last safe was open. Normally, they would have burned the place down, but too many innocents were passed out in the basement.


They gathered the corpses and moved them into the locked boiler room. If the MS13 returned and found this, they would clean it up quietly, without making a fuss. If another faction discovered it, the MS13 would earn a reputation as punks, and everyone would be tempted to take a bite out of their turf.

When the innocents eventually woke, they would see the blood, panic, and run. But the bodies themselves would remain hidden. No one would stumble upon them unless they broke into the boiler room or let time work against them. If discovered too late, the smell would give away the horror—but by then, the damage would already be done: the MS13 would look weak, exposed, and anyone cleaning up would only confirm their vulnerability. WS had learned his lesson: bodies left in the open brought attention, heat, and mistakes. This way, the massacre left its mark without leaving a trace that could be traced back to him or his men.


WS and the team slip out, moving like ghosts through the quiet streets. Their bikes roar to life, vans rolling behind, engines blending into the night. The city hums around them, unaware of the chaos left behind.


Through the speakers, CHASE WRIGHT – It Was Always You plays, the music wrapping around the moment—part adrenaline, part calm—marking the end of another impossible night. WS glances at his crew, shadows and helmets reflecting the faint city lights. No words are needed; the score says it all.


They disappear into the darkness, leaving only silence and the faint echo of that song behind.


The money hit the account. WS didn’t wait. Laptop open, phone in hand, he set up eight instant transfers—$551,000 each. Outlaw culture meant that for a haul like this, peanuts were enough; these weren’t green recruits—they were men who’d seen bigger scores, men who were already comfortably rich. Fast, discreet, and done before anyone could second-guess it.


Once confirmed, they rolled out. Bikes roaring, vans loaded, heading to a late-night diner. Drinks, greasy food, a chance to breathe.


WS called Douglas heading to Sacramento. “All good,” Douglas said, already wired on meth. Travis down south confirmed the same. Both murmured, “Thanks, boss.” WS exhaled.


“Alright,” he said to the crew. “I mispriced the guns. Chiefs agreed—we’ll get $150,000 extra each. Still short $30k, but screw it. Time to celebrate.”


Walt’s grin spread. “Strip club?”


By 6 a.m., they were inside. The club wasn’t theirs—it belonged to another Angel. Legit business owner, partnership, muscle, talent, all mixed. Flushed with cash, they were more than welcome. Greg leaned back, smirking.


“You mean half the club?” WS asked.


“Something like that,” Greg laughed. Private joke, private world. Drinks, music, laughter—it wasn’t just celebration. It was the quiet rhythm of their outlaw life, the cash moving through Angel hands, everything running smooth.


The club was theirs for the night. WS leaned back, sipping his drink, letting the music and lights wash over him. The girls had been awakened barely an hour ago, and Walt had made sure the place was ready for them well in advance. If WS had been a different man, maybe he’d have suspected a double cross—but he trusted his own instincts, trusted his men, and knew that their loyalty was bought in more ways than one: confidence, opportunity, and the promise of wealth.


He watched as Greg and Robertson shared a girl, a scene that immediately reminded him of the other orgies he’d paid for in the past. Alone, they rarely showed sparks with anyone—but together? The competitiveness was obvious. WS laughed softly, understanding what it meant. These men loved each other—not just as brothers-in-arms, but in ways the world wouldn’t openly acknowledge.


In this line of work, WS knew exactly where the line between the front and the back lay. A double penetration wasn’t just about sex; it was a demonstration of trust, of dominance, of connection. It was almost ritualistic, a reminder that their bonds—romantic, sexual, or fraternal—were what kept the crew functioning, and that the smallest intimacies often carried the heaviest weight.


WS drained his glass, smiling to himself. Outlaw life was messy, unpredictable, and occasionally shocking—but with men like these, he knew exactly where he stood.


When the others finally left, WS lingered at the edge, nursing his drink, watching Greg and Robertson with a mix of disbelief and amusement. They were arguing while sharing a new girl, the tension between them as thick as ever.


Robertson scowled, leaning in: “You’re so unmanly, Greg.”


Greg shot back without missing a beat: “And you’re too white, man.”


Robertson smirked, shaking his head. “I’ve made you cum at least five times.”


Greg leaned back, grinning like a devil. “Yeah, but a blowjob is worth ten wankies, so technically I swindled you!”


Robertson blinked. “Wait… what?”


Greg shrugged. “It’s simple outlaw math. One blowjob equals ten wankies. You did five wankies’ worth of work. I still come out ahead.”

WS hid a snicker behind his hand and thought, literally a head.

Robertson groaned, realizing he’d been duped by the same ridiculous logic they’d used as kids. WS hid a laugh behind his hand, the absurdity of it all making him shake his head. These two had always loved each other, always hated each other, and yet here they were, negotiating sexual currency like it was a trade deal.


Without another word, they resumed, the girl caught in the middle, executing the infamous “Stonehenge.” WS sipped his drink, trying not to laugh outright. Their bizarre combination of competitiveness, affection, and outlaw stupidity was impossible to ignore. And the best part? Only they could pull it off without any social shame—the rest of the world would never understand.


While Greg and Robertson executed the Eiffel Tower with the girl, their arguments and absurd math filling the room with tension and laughter, WS quietly slipped away, unnoticed. He moved through the shadows with the ease of someone who had spent his life unseen, letting the music and chaos cover his departure.


His eyes fell on a short, haughty waitress weaving between tables, cute in the sort of way this club demanded—self-assured, sharp, and used to commanding attention without raising her voice.


He approached her casually.


“Drinks?” he asked, calm, letting the subtle gravity of his presence do the work.


She froze, glanced up, and her confidence wavered just enough. “I… I just serve drinks,” she said, voice polite but tight.


WS let the silence stretch a beat longer, holding her gaze. Her composure crumbled, almost imperceptibly. Without another word, he guided her toward one of the club’s back rooms. The door shut behind them, and the sounds of the main floor—music, laughter, and chaos—continued as if nothing had happened.


WS cracked one eye open and squinted at the clock. Five PM. His guys were waiting, sprawled around the room, eyes following his every twitch.


“Cute girl,” Dalton said, stretching with a grin.


“Yeah,” Walt added. “After I finished with my two, I saw the boss heading to the back room. I stood there three hours listening to her scream. Fuck, boss… you gotta teach me how to do that.”


WS groaned, rubbing his head. “You’d have to last longer than five minutes… two girls can squeeze out of a man,” he mumbled, voice still thick with grogginess.


He reached for the gin, took a swig, and immediately spat it out. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, shaking the bottle. “She used it as an ashtray… dropped her cigarette butts in. Even the gin’s yellowish now. I hate ruining a good gin.”


Greg leaned against the wall. “In places like this? Don’t worry. They pour expensive bottles for show. The gin? Cheap stuff. At least judging by the bourbon.”


WS glared for a second, then shook his head and smirked, still half-asleep. The guys laughed quietly around him.


WS groaned, reached for his phone, and dialed.


“Love you, Mom. Yeah, I’m good… had a rough night with my new friends,” he said, voice still thick with sleep. “Yeah, well… the girl I woke up to said my voice was husky and sexy, so… sorry, Mom. Of course I respect you. Yeah, I know I’m not old enough… can’t be spanked.” He chuckled softly. “Tell Nami I love her… and your asshole son. I mean Vidal, not me. Love you, Mom. Everything’s fine.”


Greg and Robertson exchanged incredulous looks, trying not to laugh. The rest of the guys around him froze, caught off guard. WS noticed their expressions. “What?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, I still have a mom. I tell her I love her every day. One day, I might not be here… or she might not be here. It matters to me.”


Nobody said a word, but quietly, almost unconsciously, each of them pulled out their phones and sent messages to the people they cared about. Even Greg and Robertson’s phones buzzed—each had a quick text for the other, a small acknowledgment of connection.


WS leaned back, a faint smile on his face, remembering the previous night. He shrugged lightly. “Well… it’s their life,” he muttered. And with that, the room settled into a quiet, reflective hum, the tension of the past hours finally softening.


Douglas and Tristan reported in… they had just woken up and were returning. WS didn’t waste a second. “Douglas, hold still. We’re moving to Sacramento, so just hang tight. Tristan, get your ass to Sacramento as fast as possible… I’ve got a meeting with the Jarheads.”


They jumped on their bikes, engines roaring to life, and made their way toward the safehouse. Everything seemed calm—until the outskirts. Out of nowhere, a wall of motorcycles appeared. Riders, fifty strong, had been lying in wait.


The sergeant at arms called out, voice carrying over the engines. “We heard a funny story about nerve gas… so we decided it should be fun to take out some angelic assholes.”


Bullets screamed through the air, one tearing through the space where WS’s bodyguard had been moments ago. Chaos erupted, but the Angels were ready. WS and his remaining four men skidded off at full speed, weaving through the streets as bullets whizzed past.


Greg pulled out his phone mid-chase, calling the Oakland chapter. “We’ve got riders on our tail! I repeat—riders on our tail!”


Meanwhile, Robertson rallied his Bloods. They tore off in every direction, engines shrieking, ready to provide cover. The chase was on—but the Riders had been waiting almost a full day. Tired, hungry, and frustrated, their timing might be their undoing.


WS glanced back, calculating. Lightened of their vans, they had only the bikes—and their wits. This wasn’t just a run; it was survival.


WS’s mind raced as they tore through the streets. “Greg, Robertson,” he yelled over the roar of engines, “split! Head into the center of the city—harder to follow!”


The two of them veered off, weaving through alleys and side streets. The Riders, caught off-guard, split to pursue, leaving gaps and opportunities. WS hoped they’d make it out alive.


For a fleeting moment, his thoughts drifted to Pablo’s lessons on handguns. He should have practiced more, drilled every movement, every breath. He pulled the gun he’d taken from the prison director, aiming as bullets zipped past.


All that training, all that preparation… and he failed miserably.


Rifle in hand, WS had no problem—training had honed him for this. But the revolver? He sucked with it. Still, he kept low, hugging his bike as they tore through the streets. His two locals were gone, lost in the chaos—but that was for the best. They had the better chance of escaping.


“Dalton, Walt,” he barked, “head for the Arbour! The Asian chapter has to be on high alert—take cover there if you can get support. Too many of them otherwise.”


On a sharp curve, his two men peeled off, sprinting into the side streets. WS knew they could have out-raced Jezebel, his bike, but instead they had kept pace with him, sticking to the plan. He swerved hard, looking for obstacles to slow their pursuers, anything to tip the odds.


Hitting the highway, he gunned it, weaving between cars. Riders took time to reload, to aim at him, giving him precious moments. The zig-zags made him a difficult target—but slowed him down.


What to do, what to do?


WS went north, toward two large chapters of mostly Hispanic Angels. The Riders had hit them months ago—perhaps it was time to give them a chance at revenge.


A sharp pain stabbed his leg, but he ignored it and pushed Jezebel harder. As he entered a northern barrio, his leg gave out. He skidded across a basketball court, tearing 200 feet before slamming into a wall. Gasping, he tried to rise—and saw the blood soaking through his pants. He peeled off his helmet and noticed a dent. If I’d had no helmet… I’d be dead now.


His bike had torn through a wiring wall. The Riders hesitated, crawling through the gap. WS slithered into position and took a headshot—stationary, he could shoot. But then bullets pinged off the wire wall, some kicking up dust and debris around him. Amateurs. Most Angels wouldn’t miss.


He rolled, low and fast, into shadows. Leaning against a wall, a bullet tore through his arm. Scrape, not serious—but he couldn’t afford more. Burn marks from the skid seared his skin; his head spun from the impact or blood loss. One leg wound, one arm wound, and still he moved.


He ducked into a side alley. Shouts from both ends of the street made it clear—they were closing in. A locked door barred his path. He shot the lock and slipped inside. Darkness swallowed him, but his eyes adjusted quickly. He jammed metal bars against the door, just as it shook under a push.


Bullets tore through the wood. Are these Riders stupid? If anyone got wind of this, the cops would swarm the neighborhood. He searched for more rods, more planks—anything to hold them off.


WS crouched in the shadows, body pressed to the far wall. Every sound was amplified: the Riders’ boots scraping concrete, tires skidding, low shouts, bullets punching into wood. His breathing was ragged, his leg throbbing with every heartbeat, but adrenaline sharpened his senses.


He moved silently along the alley, testing the barricade. It trembled under another push. Good enough—for now. Using the shadows, he edged closer to a small window near the top of the wall, just big enough to peek through. Two Riders were trying to crawl through the wiring gap his bike had made. WS aimed carefully, letting the shadows hide him, and took one down with a single headshot. The second froze, panic flickering across his face, then scuttled back.


He didn’t waste time. WS used a metal rod to quietly prop the door further, creating a makeshift brace that would hold at least a few minutes. He glanced down the alley: a ladder leading to the rooftops nearby. It would be risky—exposed for a second—but it was better than waiting to be swarmed.


He waited until the Riders shifted focus to the broken wiring wall, then darted toward the ladder. Bullets splintered concrete around him, ricochets screaming off metal. A shallow crouch, a leap, and he grabbed the first rung, climbing as fast as his injured leg allowed. Pain shot up, but he gritted his teeth and pulled himself onto the roof.


From above, the Riders below looked like ants, confused and disoriented. WS mapped the streets in his head—he knew shortcuts, narrow alleys, fire escapes. If he could make it to the next barrio, he could vanish into the network of Hispanic Angels’ neighborhoods.


One Rider tried to track him up the ladder. he pulled the knife once he got over the hump he stabs him under the chin and pulls him inside... no rifle but another gun!


WS feels he won’t make it. He pulls out his earplugs and puts on Jordan Davis – Singles You Up. His eyes are hazy, breath shallow. He dials Sasha.


“WS?” she answers, surprised.


“You… recognized my number, Sasha?” he asks.


“I… Nami shared it. Why are you calling?”


“I don’t think I’ll make it out of this alive,” he says, voice trembling. “So… remember, Nami, about the talk we had in Japan. I’ve gathered a few millions—it should be enough for her, Nojiko, even Vidal. Please… don’t hang up. I know you’re probably her best friend… please stand by her.”


Tears well up in his eyes.


Sasha is shocked. “What’s wrong with you, WS? You only call at ungodly hours, and it’s never like this.”


“WS…” she says, voice trembling. “…everyone says you are a genius… tough as nails… and yet with me, you only call me when you are desperate. I know you sexed up Bella over the phone and Nadjia was up for it as well… but with me?”


“I don’t know why,” he admits, whispering. “When darkness surrounds me, the only light remaining in my memory… is your smile.”


WS takes a shaky breath. “When I met you… I felt nervous. Almost chickened out, if not for Amber, my therapist… she told me I had to take chances, meet interesting people. And… well, you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met. Talking to you… it makes the voices in my head quiet. So… please… can we share a moment, listening to music?”


Sasha’s voice trembles. “Yes…”


WS presses play again—Jordan Davis – Singles You Up—letting the song fill the silence between them.


When the music fades, he whispers, “I wish I had more time… more time to tell you all the wonderful things you make me dream of. I… I’m not sure what this is. It’s not just attraction—I mean, I am definitely attracted to you—but it’s more than that. It’s not just desire… not just wanting to teach you love. There’s something painful in it, but… something worthy. I can’t explain it… I don’t fully understand it myself. So… I’m sorry for imposing. I just… want you to be happy. You deserve it. This world needs your smile. You… make everything better, Sasha Petrov.”


The Rider sergeant’s boot smashes into WS’s hand, sending the phone clattering to the ground.


Sasha’s voice screams through the speaker, panicked. “WS?!”


WS glances at the phone with a strange, serene smile, as if he’s accepted his fate. The chaos around him—the bullets, the shouting, the pain in his leg—fades for a moment. It’s just him and that frantic voice, echoing in his ears.


“Fuck… you…” he mutters softly, almost to himself. “Almost made me cry, kid.”


The phone keeps wailing Sasha’s name, and WS lets it ring. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. Somehow, in that moment, he’s both terrified and calm, a man balanced on the edge of survival and surrender.


i finally got my prize now i can pull back with trophy you must have a great name inside the angels when they put elite mercenaries protecting you... yeah you are probably a rich zane heir... ws says his name is ws and he is no zane... as for your trophy... he laughs as he lifts up the lapel covering his rank... prospect! good luck milking any glory out of killing a 17 year old prospect....


“I finally got my prize. Now I can pull back with the trophy. You must have a great name inside the Angels, with elite mercenaries protecting you… yeah, you’re probably some rich Zane heir.”


WS chuckles, tilting his head. “My name is WS. No Zane here.”


The other guy grins, raising an eyebrow. “And as for your trophy…”


WS laughs, pulling back the lapel of his jacket to reveal the cut underneath. “Prospect. Good luck milking any glory out of killing a seventeen-year-old prospect.”


The Sergeant’s puzzled face turned toward the gunfire erupting nearby. “The… Nortenos are retaliating! Mis hermanos están llegando… has sido bromado y no escaparás de mi armadilla!”


WS felt the words cut through the haze of pain. He fell to the side, snatched his phone, and ignored Sasha’s incoming call. No need for my little princess to hear such disgusting things… a man murdering a child.


He slid on the music. Chase McDaniel – Project.


The Sergeant at Arms tilted his head. “Is… that the Northeast Ice Princess?”


WS’s ears perked. “You’ve heard of my little princess?”


The Sergeant chuckled. “I’m from the Northeast, of course I know who she is. I was hired to be part of the team to take her out… and get her father to relinquish his position. Fucking crazy Russians. I was there when Mark gave her that scar.”


WS straightened, his gaze cold and hard. “Who is Mark?” His voice dropped into a tone that brooked no denial.


The Sergeant tried to stay tough, but he could feel the shift in the air. “Hey kid, you know what? As a favor before you die, I’ll return there and pluck that precious flower. So before you die, just think—”


Bang.


WS pulled the hidden gun from his pocket. “You won’t touch her… ever again. For as long as I—”

WS’s hand trembled as he dropped the gun. The surge of adrenaline, fear, and pure focus that had carried him through the chaos slammed into him all at once. His stomach rebelled—he heaved violently, retching as his knees buckled. Warmth spread down his legs. Every nerve, every muscle, every thought that had been razor-sharp just seconds ago collapsed in exhaustion. He slumped to the ground, gasping, eyes hazy, heart hammering in his chest. The mission was done. The target neutralized. He had survived—but the cost of that survival was written on his body in bile, blood, and the ragged heaving of a boy pushed to his absolute limits.

He vomited, passed out, bleeding, and freezing in the agony of it all.

 

[Warscared]

Sasha stared at her phone, its screen dark. The call had been refused. Her pulse was still racing. She had only just hung up after hearing WS’s voice, husky and strained, the music playing faintly behind it. It had sounded like panic. Like fear. Like someone who thought they might not make it.


She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know what was happening around him. All she knew was that the voice she recognized—his—was suddenly commanding and vulnerable at the same time.


Bella’s bragging, Nami’s party, those were the last concrete images she had of him. The boy she remembered—the hanger-on, the kid at the edges of her world—suddenly didn’t fit with the man whose voice had been on the line. She could only imagine what he was doing to be in that state, and it scared her more than anything she could picture.


She sat back, fingers hovering over her phone. She wanted to call again, to demand answers, but the line had been shut. All she could do was wait—and try to make sense of a version of WS she barely recognized.


Sasha’s hands shook as she stared at the dark screen. That call… something was wrong. His voice had been strained, desperate even. She had tracked him to Japan before, but what if that had been a trick? What if he was somewhere else entirely?


She grabbed her phone and dialed Petrov Information Central. “Triangulate WS’s number,” she barked, her voice sharp. “Now. Before the battery dies or someone shuts it off again!”


Seconds felt like hours as she waited. She could hear the operators moving quickly in the background, confirming positions, cross-referencing locations.


Then she called Robin. Her voice trembled. “Robin… I don’t have all the details… but I think… I think WS is in danger. I just spoke to him. He sounded… he sounded like he might not make it. You need to know everything I know, right now.”


She rattled off the bare facts: the call, his voice, the music in the background, the fear in him. She didn’t speculate. She didn’t add anything she couldn’t know. But she made one thing perfectly clear: something was very, very wrong.


Robin’s voice came over the line, clipped and tense. “That doesn’t sound like WS. I’m getting dressed. I’ll head over to your place—fast.”


Sasha’s pulse jumped. She barely had time to respond before another alert pinged through her secure line: the number he’d called from was currently showing a signal in northern San Francisco, California.


She frowned at the gray sky on the monitor. “Too cloudy… the tracker won’t get a precise lock. And even if it could, the Russian optics tech isn’t great,” she muttered, frustrated.


She flipped through the television channels, northern California news networks first. The headlines made her stomach twist:


Gang wars escalate across the city… Oakland, the Arbour, and northern barrios report heavy combat… reports of bikers shooting each other… at least seven innocents injured, dozens dead… retaliation for the XXX Penitentiary incident nearly a month ago, where over twenty Rider bikers were killed… police on high alert… Angels armed with assault rifles pursuing Rider bikers… Mara Salvatrucha safe house discovered today, dozens dead in a boiler room, unclear who the victims were…


Her eyes widened as she scanned the ticker: “Governor cuts short honeymoon to handle unprecedented violence—Northern California is burning and it’s not even summer yet!”


Sasha’s hands tightened around her phone. Her mind raced. This wasn’t just another conflict—this was chaos. And somewhere in the middle of it, WS was out there, possibly bleeding, possibly cornered, and definitely in more danger than she could have imagined.


She turned back to Robin, voice urgent. “We need to figure out exactly where he is. Northern San Francisco. Now. I don’t care how. We can’t wait.”


Sasha didn’t waste a second. She dialed Enessa. “I need the jet. Now.”


“Your father—” Enessa began, but Sasha cut her off. “Forget him. This is more important right now. I don’t care about the consequences.”


Robin arrived minutes later, already tense, scanning the city maps on her tablet. Without a word, she fell in step with Sasha. Together, they moved fast: Sasha climbed aboard Enessa’s jet with a full security detail, adrenaline pounding in her veins.


Her aunt, from the pharmaceutical department, called as the engines roared to life. “Sasha, what’s going on? Your father called me to arrange another plane—did you just take his?”


“I need to reach San Francisco. It’s urgent,” Sasha said, her voice taut with urgency.


Her aunt paused, sensing the desperation beneath the calm. “Enessa has all the Petrov contacts there. If you need help…”


“I know,” Sasha cut in. Her mind was already on the city, on the chaos, and on the one person who might be in the middle of it: WS.


Robin’s fingers flew over her comms, connecting to Ray. She felt a chill. “Sasha’s contacts… in San Francisco… they’re Angels themselves,” she said, almost in disbelief. “And about this call she told me… the one from WS?”


Ray chuckled softly, almost wryly. “I knew he was back in the States two months ago. Barely spent five days in Japan, everyone thought he’d been there for months.”


Robin’s brow furrowed. “What was he doing there?”


Ray’s voice was clipped. “Club business. But, well… he was TCB. The Angels were looking for him anyway. The Petrov donation was… most welcome.”


Meanwhile, Sasha was glued to the news, the reports scrolling endlessly across her tablet: hundreds of bodies discovered in a place known as Dickshoot. The timing coincided with the mysterious disappearance of the LA Raiders chapter three to four months prior. Several Raider cuts had been found among the bodies, meaning this wasn’t a standard biker reprisal—they would have taken them as trophies otherwise.


Ray’s voice cut through her panic, calm and almost amused. “The reason they didn’t take those cuts? WS played the bagpipe that day.”


Sasha and Robin exchanged a stunned glance.


“You mean… he was there? In that… bloodbath?” Robin asked, voice low.


Ray paused, letting the weight of the answer hang. “Not in the middle of it… the girls’ sight. He… led the Angels to victory. From a trap, into a crushing victory.”


Sasha’s hand tightened on the tablet. Her heart raced. WS… had been there. And somehow, despite everything, he had survived—and orchestrated it.


Sasha’s voice cracked. “I’ve asked several times for this, Ray… who is WS?”


Ray’s tone was heavy, measured. “Someone I… adore, but I wouldn’t wish that man on any woman I cared about. He lives more dangerously than anyone I’ve ever met. He already has quite a reputation, and his nicknames alone make hardened men shiver.”


Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “Which nicknames?”


Ray shook his head, a faint wry smile. “Club business. Right now, he’s diverting all resources they can to Northern California.”


Sasha turned back to the news. Hundreds of Angels, from Texas to the Midwest, were concentrating and moving north. The governor had called in the National Guard, but within half an hour, reports came back: most of the California National Guard had “called in sick.” A smaller contingent was riding north, wearing Angel cuts. Crazy Ducks and several other biker groups had joined the Angels—a true army on two wheels moving into the region.


Meanwhile, Rider chapters across the Northwest were on high alert. Several Raiders had been spotted leaving San Francisco at full speed, racing north toward Oregon. The entire region was on the brink of chaos.


Sasha touched down in San Francisco. The city was locked down—hundreds of bikers patrolled the streets, keeping a fragile peace, while the police protected most government buildings, stretched thin by officers calling in sick and refusing to take over the streets.


She moved swiftly with her security detail and a detachment of Angels, announcing her protection as she went. Even cartel hit squads were reported, prowling the city, hunting for someone. Sasha tracked the phone relentlessly.


Finally, she reached the top of a school roof overlooking a basketball yard. Her eyes fell on the phone, lying near bloodstains—no bodies. Her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the ground, crying.


Nearby, Robin crouched beside her. “Look at me, Sasha… if he was dead, they would have left the body and taken the cut.”


Through her tears, Sasha reached for the bloodied patch. She noticed the rank—Prospect. Her breath caught. “Is this… WS’s cut?”


Robin immediately called her uncle Ray. Ray confirmed it. “Take it back to the clubhouse.”


At the clubhouse, Obadiah froze, visibly shaken. Jeremiah cried openly, muttering, “Those bastards…”


Malachi poured himself another whiskey, calm on the surface, though the faint tension in his jaw betrayed him. “No body? The bastard’s alive. Stop acting like a bunch of pussies. Azrael is hard to kill.”


Sasha’s mind replayed it like a stubborn loop as the jet tore through the clouds on the way back. WS’s words — husky, urgent, almost desperate — cut through the chaos of her thoughts:


“I don’t think I’ll make it out alive… remember Nami about our talk in Japan… I gathered a few millions, it should be enough for her, Nojiko, even Vidal… please don’t hang up… I know you’re her best friend, and please stand by her…”


She could still feel the weight behind them, the way he’d hesitated, the almost childlike urgency mixed with that deadly calm he carried in everything else. The unspoken part of it — the fragility and the absolute trust he placed in her — was what shook her the most.


Every time she thought of it, her chest tightened. That was WS: fearless, almost untouchable to the world… yet in that moment, he was human, vulnerable, leaning on her, asking her to hold a piece of his life — a part he might never get back.


Sasha clenched the cut tighter. His voice, that one desperate call, echoed louder than the roar of the jet: “…please stand by her…”


And in that echo, she knew what he meant. Not just for Nami. Not just for his family. But for her, too — the fragile thread of trust and connection he’d thrown across the continent, across the chaos, to her.


She exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon. She would keep it. She would honor it. And she would get him back — or at least make sure the world knew he was alive.


Robin’s voice cut through the tension in the jet. “Either you’re deluding yourself, or something is very wrong here… You’ve met him twice in person, talked twice over the phone. That’s it. And yet, every time he’s drowning, he reaches for your hand.”


Sasha’s mind raced. Robin pressed on. “From what you know, he has plenty of brothers and women. He doesn’t lack options. And yet… this is the second time now he’s panicked, thinking he might not survive, and he calls out for you, Sasha.”


Sasha’s eyes widened. Robin’s voice softened, almost conspiratorial. “Most guys chase money, attention, women. But he? He’s immune to that. It’s you he reaches for. That’s why he called you. That’s why he trusts you in the dark, in danger.”


Enessa’s eyes flared, her voice low and dangerous. “Our family honor is tarnished? Who is this bastard? I will murder him!”


Robin opened her mouth, almost to speak, but Sasha snapped sharply, “Shut up. Don’t you dare say his name.”


Enessa’s glare hardened. “If he’s dead, I will find a way to revive him… just to kill him for good. He can’t get away with this.”


Robin leaned back, realizing the weight of the moment. “You’re not wrong to feel like this. He’s reckless, dangerous… but right now, you’re the only one who can keep him alive.”


Sasha arrived at the house, exhausted, but she still moved straight to Nami. Robin went ahead to the clubhouse, entering into the early-morning gloom. The atmosphere was harsh; only Ezekiel and Amos were standing guard. Sasha approached her uncle, delivering the cut. They hung it solemnly among the fallen heroes’ cuts. Below it, a knife carving had already been etched: Fallen TCB with riders.


On the other side of town, Sasha sat with Nami, recounting what had happened. She told her about WS reaching out, his desperate call, and how she hoped he was still alive. Nami broke down, tears flowing freely. Nojiko, troubled but composed, listened quietly. Sasha apologized for bringing up painful memories. Nojiko only said, “Girl, I almost died giving birth to him… if he were gone, I would’ve felt my heart unravelling. He’s still out there, and he will return to me.”


Sasha told Nami WS’s words about her, referencing their last conversation in Japan. Nami struggled to remember, the tension between them still palpable—the last time they spoke face-to-face ended in anger and disgust, after WS had gifted her a Japanese passport. Then Sasha mentioned that WS had millions stored for her. Nami’s memory clicked—his cloned phone.


Sasha moved into WS’s room and froze. The space was filled with thousands of books, stacked in every corner, from sociology to physics, philosophy, psychology, and more. The bed was small, almost hidden among the stacks. A single computer sat in a corner. Sasha asked aloud, “Did he sleep here in the family library?”


Nami gave a sad smirk. “This was his room. He only kept what he called the basics.”


Sasha glanced around, astonished. “Basic essentials?” Half of these books, she could barely imagine reading past the first page.


Nami knelt down and pulled a box from under the bed—his treasure chest. She opened it carefully. Inside were small mementos and trophies: photos of him with Nami, Nojiko, Vidal—always with others, never alone. In each picture, he was smiling: Nojiko with a broken stethoscope, Nami’s tenth-grade perfect score tests, Vidal’s first medicine books, and even a court process. Beneath one, Sasha saw her own home address, surrounded by two small hearts.


Curious, Sasha connected the battery and turned on the phone. The first app she opened was the Chinese black card—over $600,000 loaded. Next, she saw over ten brokerage apps, each holding between $1 million and $4 million, mostly blue-chip investments. Two apps showed riskier plays, but they were up 20%.


Nojiko’s voice broke through, calm but incredulous: “Was he a millionaire at seventeen? Technically, he’s too young to invest.”


Sasha only stared, absorbing it all, the weight of his mind and foresight settling around her.


Back on the East Coast, the ZPR clique gathered. Sasha recounted the grim story—WS’s desperate call, what she and her team had found in San Francisco. Robin, who had returned the bloody cut to the clubhouse, confirmed it: no biker leaves his cut behind. That alone suggested the worst.


Vidal had spent the night at Bella’s. He listened quietly, shaken, his usual bravado dulled. Even with little firsthand knowledge, he felt the weight of what the cut represented.


Nami’s chest tightened. She remembered the fragile child he once was, and now the story painted a figure transformed by unimaginable violence. The probability of survival seemed minimal.


Ayauh focused on Nami and Vidal, concerned for them more than the events themselves. For her, the San Francisco details didn’t matter—the outcome was clear: WS was presumed dead.


Sasha trembled as she recounted everything she knew. Robin added the final, undeniable detail: the cut. Even without seeing the bodies, the evidence left no room for hope.


Bella felt the loss keenly, even if only through fragments and stories. Nadjia’s carefully constructed dreams crumbled.


For all of them, the grim truth was unavoidable: WS was gone—or at least, everyone who knew the truth assumed he was.

 

[asdfqwert_789]

TL;DR I guess

 

[Citydriver]

wtf is this i was looking for kingdom of velvet chains

 

[Warscared]

Spanish music drifts softly in the background, blurred by the sound of someone speaking in rapid Spanish. His body aches with a deep, raw pain. Hands tilt his head back, slipping pills between his lips, pressing water to his mouth until he swallows. The warmth of the sun spreads across his skin like a fleeting comfort—then everything collapses back into blackness.


Three months slipped by. The girls of the ZPR clique moved on with their lives, though the brightness had dulled. They buried themselves in studies, each carrying her loss in silence.


Bella stayed with Vidal — how, no one could explain. She had grown sharper, cruel even, her words cutting, her temper sadistic. Yet the more she punished him, the more he seemed to love her for it, clinging as though her cruelty were proof she still cared.


Nami’s grades slipped, shadows creeping into the perfect record she’d always kept. But even so, she held firm at the top of her class, stubborn in her brilliance.


Far away in California, things began to settle in their own brutal way. With the government failing to keep law and order, the governor issued a sweeping pardon: all those who had armed themselves and taken the streets when the state faltered were absolved. Their violence was rewritten as duty.


Not all were spared. Several riders were captured and thrown into jail. Only three chapters remained on scraps of irrelevant turf within California. The Angels ruled most of the U.S. highways now, their grip iron-strong. Even Detroit and Chicago, once proud strongholds of chaos, were forced to rely on supply boats — the raiders there besieged and starving for money.


Beep… beep… beep…


“Hermano, ¿me puedes oír?” A young voice pierced through the fog.


Then another, sharper voice, one he recognized — cutting yet protective.
“Deja a tu hermano reposar, mi amor.”


Fingers pried his lips open with delicate care. Pills slipped past his teeth, followed by a trickle of water that pushed them down. He swallowed on reflex. The world tilted. His body surrendered to the warmth of the sun on his skin, and the blackness crept back in.


Three more months passed.


When his eyes finally fluttered open, the first thing he saw was a Mexican beauty leaning over him — green eyes bright with surprise, tanned skin glowing, waves of dark-blonde hair catching the light.


His throat rasped as the words tumbled out, unbidden:
“Wo bin ich?”


The girl frowned, shushing him gently in Spanish. “Tranquilo, cálmate…”


But his brain felt scrambled, language slipping like water through his fingers.
“どこだ…？ (Doko da…?)” he muttered in Japanese.


Her confusion deepened.


He tried again, desperate to make himself understood, but the words bled into one another:
“Ou je sui? Qui place cet ici?”


Just then, the door creaked open. A man stepped in — solid, confident, with the kind of presence that silenced a room.


“Eduardo,” he said warmly, spreading his arms as though greeting family.
“¡Qué bien que finalmente te has acordado!”


He closed his eyes, forcing his brain to line up the pieces. Spanish. He knew this tongue — had used it often — but the rhythm, the accent, it felt wrong in his mouth.


Still, the words came.
“¿Qué… pasó?”


The girl’s face lit up with laughter, her green eyes shining with relief.
“¿Por qué hablas con acento centroamericano?” she teased, covering her mouth with her hand.


Pablo chuckled at her joy, nodding approvingly.
“Suena bastante hondureño, hijo. Pero ya basta de jugar.”


Warscared adjusted, the vowels sharpening, his tone shifting until his accent matched theirs. Confusion crept into his voice as he asked,
“¿Qué está pasando aquí?”


The girl leaned closer, brushing his forehead with trembling fingers.
“¡Por fin despertaste! Estaba tan preocupada… pensé que había perdido a mi hermano para siempre.”


Pablo’s smile softened, but his eyes were heavy with reproach.
“Eduardo, casi te perdimos. ¿Qué crees que estabas haciendo?”


Eduardo looked between his father and sister, confusion clouding his mind. “What… what happened?” he asked.


Pablo’s expression grew serious. “You just returned from studying in Switzerland,” he said firmly. “While you were there, you got caught up in a nasty fight with some very ugly people. Your car swerved off the road and fell into the sea. You don’t need to worry — those troublemakers have been taken care of.”


Slowly, the pieces fell into place for Eduardo. He was the son of Pablo de la Casa, sent abroad to study and kept safe when the cartels came after his father — though that had cost them their mother, Maria.


Claudia, his younger sister, could barely contain her joy. She had a brother — hidden from the world for his safety, shielded from society itself.


Pablo continued, pride and gravity mingling in his voice. “Our family — the de la Casa — has been part of Mexico’s military elite for over three centuries. We’ve protected this country, generation after generation.”


He rested a hand on Eduardo’s shoulder. “You were named to honor a family hero… the only high-ranking officer who died standing at the front, fighting the Yankee gringos.”


The weight of his lineage pressed down on Eduardo, a mix of awe, anger, and something harder to name: destiny.


Eduardo ran his hands over his wounds. Fuck… it must have been a brutal fight. His body was covered in scars, though none marred his face — thank God for that. He blinked and caught sight of his eyes in the balcony sunlight: blue, magnetic, impossible to ignore. His hair — sharper, almost sharper than his father’s or sister’s — framed a tanned, well-weathered face.


The bed had been moved to the balcony during the day, sunlight washing over him during his recovery. Six months had passed.


Curiosity gnawed at him; he decided to catch up on the news from the past half-year. But something felt off. His memory was foggy, wavy, as though the months in Switzerland had blurred together. And his German and French — they weren’t quite Swiss. The accent, the rhythm, the little idioms — all slightly wrong, like a song he remembered only in fragments.


He shook his head, trying to anchor himself. I need to figure out what really happened…


He stared at the keyboard, fumbling with the keys as if they belonged to someone else. Slowly, painstakingly, he navigated through the online papers.


High-society magazines were full of his name: “Mr. Eduardo de la Casa, scion of the revered de la Casa household, caught in an ambush by cartels…”


There were countless articles — newspapers, magazines, blogs — all documenting his family’s wealth and influence. Not the richest, not the top political dynasties, but certainly one of the three most renowned military families in Mexico. Their name carried weight, respect, and fear in equal measure.


Eduardo scrolled, trying to absorb it all. Everything in Mexico seemed to revolve around factions: money, political influence, and, if necessary, military might. His family had always been a key player in that game.


One magazine article caught his eye — the tone sensational, almost ghoulish. It described the “savages up north” tearing each other apart in the streets of what they called the “lost, magnificent city of the Holy Francis.” Lands Mexico had once dreamed of reclaiming, now writhing in chaos and lawlessness.


He leaned back, absorbing the enormity of it all. Six months gone, and yet the world he returned to was a fractured mirror of the one he’d left.


His father handed him a crisp certificate from his college in Switzerland. Eduardo had graduated as the top strategist and third-ranking tactician of his military program — a remarkable achievement. Technically, the diploma wasn’t recognized in Mexico; it wasn’t part of the national school of military arts.


But everyone who mattered in society understood its weight. He had covered his family in glory.


In four months, he would begin studies at the prestigious Polytechnic National College. It was a public school in name only — attended only by the brightest and most elite. He would have to choose his course eventually, but that was a concern for another day.


For now, recovery was his priority. They handed him his pills — a lifetime requirement after the head trauma he’d suffered. The doctors had warned him: he had almost drowned.


The pills made him woozy, the warmth of the sun through the balcony glass lulling him. He swallowed them as usual, then let his eyelids fall. Sleep came quickly. Guess I’ll need to take these before bed from now on, he thought, drifting into a haze of rest and lingering pain.


The next four months passed in a steady rhythm of recovery and training. Pablo guided Eduardo as he rebuilt his physical prowess. Pablo was already a large man by Mexican standards, but Eduardo towered over him — 6’3” (or 190 centimeters, as Mexicans measured height).


He took to fighting naturally, displaying skills that even Pablo hadn’t known he possessed. Clearly, something had been forged in Switzerland. Rebuilding his strength was harder, but he pushed himself relentlessly, day after day.


Evenings were spent with Claudia. The nights felt familiar, even though they had never truly met before. She had been a toddler when he was sent away, raised by their grandparents while he was abroad. Yet debates about culture, science, and philosophy felt effortless, natural — like home.


There was only one domain where he struggled: law. Mexican law, grounded in Latin principles, felt unwieldy to him. The underlying logic seemed to slip past his cognition, no matter how hard he tried. Gringo laws, in contrast, came easily — a natural extension of his Swiss training.


Languages, on the other hand, were a different story. He was a true genius, as expected from someone trained in Switzerland: German, French, and Spanish all flowed from him with precision and ease.


Eduardo adjusted his uniform one last time as Claudia joined him, her youthful energy barely contained. At 21, he was tall, broad, and confident — fully recovered from his ordeal. Claudia had just turned 18, full of bright curiosity and ambition.


He would escort her to the Polytechnic National College, not just as a brother but as a protector. In the halls of the elite, Eduardo would ensure her safety, uphold her honor, and guide her through the world of privilege and intellect they were about to step into.


Together, they represented one of the most honorable lineages in Mexico’s history — the de la Casa name carried weight, respect, and expectation. It was a legacy that demanded excellence, courage, and integrity.


Claudia glanced up at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “I guess having you around isn’t so bad,” she teased.


Eduardo allowed a rare grin. “I’ll make sure it stays that way,” he said quietly, thinking of the challenges ahead.


The road to the elite school stretched before them, filled with both opportunity and peril. But side by side, the de la Casa siblings would face it as they always had: strong, united, and unshakable.


When they reached Mexico City, Claudia ran into the arms of their grandparents, embracing them with joy. Eduardo, however, felt a colder reception. He could hardly blame them — he had been taken from them at such a young age, sent abroad, almost erased from the life he should have known.


His grandmother’s eyes softened, and she pressed kisses to his cheeks. “Welcome home, my boy,” she whispered.


His grandfather, Pedro, was civil but cold, a rigid presence that gnawed at Eduardo’s sense of honor. Yet seeing his granddaughter hug her brother, the old man’s sternness relented. Slowly, deliberately, he embraced Eduardo. The snaps of cameras echoed the moment — one for the books.


That night, Eduardo took his pills, a secret he and Claudia were sworn to protect, and drifted into deep, necessary sleep.


The next day, the high-class magazines blared headlines like “The Return of the Promised Prince” and “The Angel Who Returned from Death Finally Shows His Angelic Face.” It was clear his family’s name carried immense weight in Mexico.


On the drive to the school, Pedro began recounting the family legacy. “Your great-grandfather died fighting the Roosevelt gringo. I — your grandfather — crushed several rebellions myself. But your father… he faced the cartels.”


Pedro’s face hardened. “He wiped out several groups, but whenever one fell, another took its place — Zetas, the hated Huesca. The Huesca have a blood feud with the de la Casa family to this day, vowing vengeance for the ruthless war your father waged against them. The Gulf cartel nearly vanished under his hand, yet still the monsters keep coming.”


Eduardo’s gaze sharpened. “So… the Huesca still want to destroy you?”


Pedro gave a faint, approving smile. “Yes. That is why the de la Casa name demands vigilance. Your father, Pablo, has protected us all with unmatched ferocity. I retired as Marechal, securing our family’s wealth and stability. We were never farmers or businessmen — war has always been our trade. But thanks to your father, our legacy remains unbroken.”


Eduardo absorbed it all: the relentless violence, the cycles of vengeance, and the burden of honor and survival that now rested on his family — and, soon, on him.


The drive through Mexico City was a study in controlled elegance. Towering buildings gleamed, wide boulevards were immaculately maintained, and every detail seemed designed to impress the elite. Eduardo didn’t see the chaos that plagued other parts of the country — this was a world apart, insulated, surveilled, untouchable.


Claudia sat beside him, eyes wide with anticipation. “It’s… different,” she said softly. “Everything’s so… clean.”


Pedro, driving, nodded. “This is the world you’re stepping into. The Polytechnic National College is no ordinary school. High walls, maximum security, everything strictly regulated. Students from the wrong circles never even see the gates. Here, only the elite, the brightest, and those who carry legacy are allowed.”


Eduardo leaned back, taking it all in. This was a world designed for the privileged — a world where danger came only in the form of competition, intrigue, and the subtle politics of high society. Outside, the rest of Mexico might be at war with itself, but here, he and Claudia were shielded, their family name granting them safety, influence, and expectation.


As soon as they entered the school, the adults were escorted out. The “kids,” as they were called, were taken to their dorms. Eduardo’s eyes swept the room. Fuck… I have to share this dorm with three others? He silently hoped they were cool — otherwise, he might have to “engineer some accidents.” He froze. Where did that thought even come from?


Curiosity drove him to the girls’ dorm, but security stopped him cold. Not even a scion like him could enter. Not even to visit his sweet sister. Yet, he noticed with a twinge of unfairness that girls freely entered the boys’ dorm, visiting their boyfriends, killing the loneliness summer vacations had left behind.


From a distant window, he saw Claudia surrounded by friends. She had been raised alongside most of these girls at the finest colleges. Then he saw her being sharp — almost cruel — to an innocent girl. Later, when he asked what it had meant, Claudia shrugged. “She’s a commoner. She needs a new valet.”


Eduardo’s stomach twisted. That feels wrong.


Claudia’s explanation was cold and precise. “She’ll be paid properly. Besides, it’s not like our family is rich enough to recruit talent. My job is to find the wealthiest or most influential future husband. I can introduce you to the best girls in Mexico. Marriage isn’t about love — it’s about dowry, influence, and advancement. A strong match can accelerate your career.”


Eduardo frowned. “Feels… wrong.”


Claudia’s eyes sharpened. “This isn’t the EU or the US. Here, one generation at a time, families climb the social ladder. You think your $10,000 allowance comes from grandfather’s immense wealth? Barely enough. Compared to half of these kids, we’re poor. Miserable, even. But only a handful — maybe five — have a pedigree worth anything. That makes us highly sought after.”


She leaned closer, a calculated smile playing on her lips. “There are three granddaughters of the Fox here. All would love to marry you. That old mummy is a billionaire — 100 million dowry, plus whatever inheritance comes from older members. Think strategically. This isn’t about love. This is about power, influence, and securing the family name.”


Eduardo swallowed, the weight of her words settling on him. The game here was different — ruthless, cold, and measured in fortunes and alliances. Love, morality, or fairness had little place in it.


Eduardo’s brow furrowed. “And… what about love?”


Claudia’s voice wavered, almost breaking. “Father married for love,” she said softly, “to a high-ranking public servant. It helped him climb the ranks. But… had he married for wealth, he could have kept Mother safe. Instead… you were sent to Switzerland until last year.”


She looked away for a moment, collecting herself. “I had assumed I only had our grandparents and father. There are more de la Casa, of course. But our cousins… they were already hoping I would pass away, or die alone, so they could inherit what little we have as a family.”


Eduardo’s voice was quiet, incredulous. “What little do we have as a family?”


Claudia listed properties, one after another, each worth a few million. She mentioned their grandfather’s rank, which came with a generous retirement fund, and the status that ensured certain privileges and influence. She added that their father had made a few smart, hidden investments, quietly securing millions beyond the public eye.


By Eduardo’s reckoning, they had more wealth than 99.5% of families in Mexico.


Claudia’s lips curled into a small, bitter smile. “To the people that matter… we are still in the bottom 20%.”


The weight of her words settled over him. Legacy, influence, and survival were measured not in absolute wealth, but in perception, connections, and power. Even a family like theirs, with riches most could only dream of, could still be considered modest in the ruthless hierarchy of Mexican high society.


Eduardo entered the dorm, his towering frame immediately drawing attention. Two of his roommates, from northern Mexico, shifted nervously in their seats, clearly intimidated by his presence.


The third, seated with calm authority, studied him for a moment before speaking. A Valador from ancient nobility, he said, “Don’t mind them. These two… commoners. Wealthy, yes, but only money. Their families built and operate factories for the gringos. Nothing more.”


He turned to Eduardo, a polite smile on his face. “Welcome. Thank God we didn’t get any of the smarty ones. I was dreading sharing a room with students who only have grades.”


Eduardo’s sharp mind immediately picked up the Valador’s angle. Political power, influence, and the subtle currents of allegiance — it was all there, etched into the man’s demeanor. He could see the potential these northern kids represented: money, yes, but backing the right family meant leverage.


The Valador leaned closer, voice low, almost reverent. “Do not be stupid. He is a de la Casa — the brute force of Mexico, the savage tamers, the shield that protects the light of civilization that is our country.”


The two northern students went pale. They had studied history and read about Eduardo’s great-grandfather, the legendary de la Casa considered a national hero — a man who had preferred death over surrender and whose deeds shaped Mexico’s most significant battles. The family’s reputation was so formidable that even the youngest scions carried its weight.


Eduardo extended his hand — calm, measured, and unexpectedly gentle. The tension in the room eased immediately. They weren’t just meeting a giant; they were meeting a living embodiment of a powerful legacy, a man whose presence alone commanded recognition, respect, and awe.


That night, they spent the hours drinking beer. One of the rich northern kids looked around nervously. “Isn’t this… forbidden?”


The Valador shrugged, a confident smile on his face. “I’ve got the right contacts. If anyone catches us, I can get us out. Besides… it was the night guard who sold these beers. As for threats? We’ve got a de la Casa with us. Only a mindless fool would try brute strength against him — and that’s before they even know who he is. Even today, his great-grandfather could probably call the Mexican army and half of them would respond on brand recognition alone. Or his father — who leads most of the Federales’ elite teams.”


Eduardo tilted his head. “So… what exactly do you bring to the table? Last time a member of your family was a minister was over 20 years ago.”


The Valador shrugged again. “We secured power positions in three parties. We don’t need the spotlight. After the scandal in the ’70s — one of our great-uncles exposed for being gay — the family decided to stay hidden and secure. Besides, my sister is about to marry the future Minister of Finances.”


Eduardo frowned. “Aren’t they like… 30 years apart?”


The Valador shrugged, a half-grin crossing his face. “Who cares? That old pervert had his eyes on your sister. My family already did you a favor, whether you knew it or not.”


Eduardo tensed. His gaze sharpened, voice low and deadly calm. “Anyone touches my sister… they will burn.”


The intensity in his words and the piercing focus of his eyes made the room feel a few degrees colder.


That night, Eduardo fell asleep without taking his pills. In his dreams, the wind swept across his face, carrying the grit and dust of a long road. He felt the pull of movement, the sun on his skin, the faint echo of adrenaline and survival.


Meanwhile, the others continued talking in hushed tones.


“Fuck… this dude is intense,” one of the northern kids muttered. “Massive, too.”


The Valador nodded. “I never really understood what the de Casas had that was so special… until I met this guy’s father. That’s a true man. No doubt about it.”


He leaned closer, voice dropping. “But this one right here? You two better butter him up. You’re rich — you can afford it. If things ever go sideways, we’d need the military. He’s our insurance. So make sure you pay our premiums. Actually, we better pay anyway. At the very least, make sure he won’t be used against us.”


The northern kids exchanged nervous glances.


Valador added, “A few cartel kids bought their way into this school already. They’ve caused problems — harassing some of the girls. That’s why having someone like him around… well, you understand.”


The words hung in the air. Outside, Eduardo’s chest rose and fell steadily, unaware that his presence alone was already shaping the calculations of everyone in the room.


The next day, Eduardo woke from a strange dream, his head pounding with pain. He took his pills and dozed off again. When he finally surfaced, it was midday. Groggy but alert, he got ready for class — though he already knew he had missed the presentation ceremony.


As he walked through the school grounds, he spotted a commotion: a boy was talking to Claudia, flanked by two large, imposing bodyguards. Claudia had once called his walk “weird,” but now, he used it to full effect. Sneakers, once criticized for being informal, muffled his steps and made him feel almost invisible… until he wasn’t.


He leaned in.


“Marco, stop it,” Claudia said firmly.


“Come on,” Marco pleaded. “I’ll buy you whatever you want. The moment I saw you, I fell in love. Please… just your phone number. You know I’m good for it — my father has billions from his hotels.”


Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I know where those billions come from. You’re not tricking anyone. You don’t even make a profit on those hotels. That reporter who broke the story about your phantom guests might be dead, but everyone knows the truth. If it weren’t for the corrupt courts, your entire family would be in jail… like your grandfather is.”


Marco’s face flushed with anger. “I am not my grandfather! My father makes an honest living! My money is legit! Come on, Claudia de la Casa, give me a chance. I promise I’ll shower you with gifts — whatever money can buy, I’ll get for you!”


Claudia stopped him immediately. “It’s not happening.”


Marco slumped, looking like a lost puppy. Before anyone could react further, another guy stepped forward. He shoved Marco aside and grabbed Claudia by the wrist.


In less than three seconds, Eduardo went into automatic mode. The man’s face hit the ground with a muffled thud, Eduardo’s sneaker pressed firmly against the back of his neck.


The speed, precision, and efficiency of the move left everyone stunned. Silence fell across the courtyard. The two bodyguards froze, unsure whether to attack or retreat.


Claudia looked at Eduardo, wide-eyed. He didn’t say a word — his blue eyes were calm, cold, and unmistakably lethal.


Three of the men who had been with the fat kid tried to intervene, but Eduardo didn’t even lift his foot. With a single punch, one went down, and the others immediately backed off, intimidated by the sheer intensity of his gaze.


Meanwhile, another member of Marco’s group laughed, clapping his hands slowly. “Well done. It was about time someone put this moron in his place. But I wouldn’t hurt him if I were you.”


Eduardo met his eyes. The man didn’t flinch. It became clear why — he was the child of an extremely wealthy man, with powerful connections all over society. If Eduardo harmed him, there would be consequences.


Suddenly, the man’s face was slapped with brutal force. Blood ran from his nose.


Security arrived moments later and herded everyone to the principal’s office.


The principal looked nervous, clearing his throat. “Miss… uh… I apologize. Boys will be boys, and with… well, with a young lady like you, they’ll behave, I’m sure.”


He turned to Marco, fear evident in his eyes. “Mister Marco… why, after being rejected, did you involve yourself with these boys? Clearly… the man who struck you is not one of your friends.”


Marco replied earnestly. “I was protecting Claudia. Anyone who threatens her… deserves to be stopped. I couldn’t just stand by.”


The fat one muttered, “Criminals like him shouldn’t even be here.”


The sharp one’s eyes stayed fixed on Eduardo, full of disgust. “I was just trying to ingratiate myself with her,” he said. “Then… that brute attacked me.”


Claudia remained silent, her expression unreadable. No one in the room knew who Eduardo really was — just that he was terrifyingly fast, strong, and unyielding. That alone was enough to leave the room tense and uneasy.


Valador and his two roommates burst into the room, shouting. “Nobody touches my best friend! Blood will follow if you do!”


Valador hugged Eduardo tightly for a moment, then turned to Claudia. He glanced at Eduardo, back at Claudia, and back again. “Fucking hell… you freaks are all so damn attractive!”


The sharp-eyed Gonzalez stepped forward, sneering. “Valador, piss off. If this guy is one of yours, I’ll fuck you up.”


Valador just shrugged. “Yeah? You do that, and we’ll see about that monopoly law your family spent millions preventing from passing next time it reaches parliament.”


Gonzalez froze.


Valador pressed on. “From what I can tell, Mr. Marco here truly loves Miss Claudia… and I guess we can see why. But Mr. Gonzalez… you used the fat slob.”


The fat guy started to protest, but Valador cut him off. “Shut up, you fat bastard, before I ask my uncles to increase the freight taxes your family uses to get your shit transported cheap. So fucking rich, and yet it’s the poor man paying… so you can get even fatter.”


Gonzalez tried to regain some control. “Well, I was amused by how fierce Miss Claudia truly is. I came here to make friends, to establish the old alliance between my family and the de la Casa — and then your brute intervened. How could he enter such a school? Did you move influence around or just bribe someone to get your bodyguard in here to make me look bad?”


“Yes, I’m talking to you, you troglodyte, dumb beast, pea-brain son of—”


Claudia slapped him across the face. “Son of a what? Keep my mother’s name out of your mouth, you snobbish, worthless rat!”


She grabbed Eduardo’s hand and stormed out.


Valador exhaled and shook his head. “So… as I was saying, I came here to protect my best friend, Eduardo de la Casa. Guess I’m not needed anymore. Bye, idiots!”


As Claudia and Eduardo left, Marco ran after Valador, eyes wide. “Wait… is that really… Eduardo?”


Valador nodded. “Yeah. The one everyone presumed dead before they even knew he existed. The lost secret son of Pablo de la Casa.”


Marco staggered back, stunned. “The… Pablo de la Casa? The Federales general?”


Meanwhile, Gonzalez and the fat kid were on their phones, calling their parents to complain and try to get even. Their words barely left their mouths before their parents’ voices thundered back.


“Don’t you dare fuck with the Comandante’s children!”


“What? Pablo’s just a general!” Gonzalez protested.


“Just a general?” his parent barked. “That’s enough. Consider yourselves warned.”


Seething, Gonzalez hung up and immediately called in some of his father’s lieutenants. “Tomorrow… I’ll get my revenge.”


Even as he schemed, he knew something had shifted. The boy they’d humiliated was not just fast, strong, or terrifying — he carried a name and a legacy that few could challenge without consequences.


The next morning, Claudia noticed Eduardo wincing slightly. “Have you been taking your meds?” she asked, concern in her voice.


Eduardo rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I… got to drinking last night and forgot. But I took them this morning.”


Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Alcohol might be interfering with them. And… when did you learn to move so swiftly and silently?”


Eduardo shrugged. “Don’t know… I just do.”



Later that day, four men, clearly gangsters, stormed into the school, brute-forcing their way past security. They demanded to see the young Master Gonzalez.


The men eventually located Eduardo, Claudia, Valador, and Marco, who sat a little to the side, eyes discreetly on Claudia.


One of the gangsters asked, “Who does Gonzalez want to beat up?”


The answer came sharp and immediate: “Eduardo de la Casa.”


The gangsters froze for a second, then approached the group cautiously. “Apologies, Commander’s children. We were misinformed.”


They returned to Gonzalez and whispered, “We won’t tell your father, but you need to be careful. We were told to make friends with the de la Casa children, not turn them into enemies. The organization is heating up, and we’ll need the Commander before his uncles—or the treasurer—decide they no longer need the Chief.”


Gonzalez’s mind went into overdrive. The Commander… the man who trains the Sinaloa elite squads… she despises him for being a cartel grandchild, yet her own father works for the cartel. Fuck. How is he supposed to seduce and marry her with that beast guarding her?


And then there was the other cartel heir, one of the Gulf heirs, also after her. Maybe he could ask one of his sisters to seduce Eduardo… nah. A man like that can pick. And if it’s wealth he wants, there were the three Fox granddaughters — fat as they are, but their wallets were even fatter.


Gonzalez knew he wouldn’t get killed — at least, not by Eduardo. The kid had returned from Europe, a giant with the ability to fight, yes, but he didn’t look like a killer.


He’d seen killers all his life. He recognized the signs, the way the eyes could shift, the way presence alone could radiate lethal intent. Sometimes, Eduardo’s eyes would light up, a flicker of something sharp and dangerous, but they dimmed immediately. A death stare that lasted a second, then vanished.


Gonzalez frowned. Real killers didn’t flicker. If Eduardo could maintain that flicker… then maybe he had killed. Perhaps in the past. But his memory — what he knew of it — didn’t show anything.


He recalled the news, the articles: ambushed, presumed dead, his car drifting off into the sea. Could it be? Maybe he’d done something in those moments, something no one remembered, not even himself.


But no. Those who kill in panic, in self-defense, do not carry that spark in their eyes. Only those who murder in cold blood do.


How could Eduardo have killed in cold blood… and not remember it?


The thought made Gonzalez shift uneasily. There was something in that kid, something buried, something lethal — and he didn’t even know it himself.


Months passed. Eduardo was introduced to Mexico’s most beautiful girls — at least, according to the standards of high society. He endured dinners, garden parties, and gatherings where his presence was expected, all while quietly observing.


Three months in, he turned to Valador one evening, curiosity plainly on his face. “Valador… in Mexico, is beauty measured by the pound?”


Valador blinked. “Excuse me?”


Eduardo gestured vaguely. “Because… except for Claudia, all the other high society girls are… how can I put this nicely… well… fat as fucking pigs.”


Valador choked on his drink, a mix of amusement and disbelief. “You… you don’t say.”


Eduardo shrugged. “I’m just stating facts. No offense intended. Though, to be fair, I haven’t met a single one worth the trouble. Claudia… she’s the standard.”


Valador shook his head, still laughing quietly. “You really have no filter, do you?”


Eduardo just leaned back, arms crossed, perfectly at ease in his observation — blunt, honest, and entirely unconcerned with appearances or etiquette.


The two rich kids from the north laughed. “He’s not wrong,” one said. “There are amazing beauties in Mexico… but high society? They’re still stuck in the 16th century. A few extra pounds was considered the norm.”


Eduardo didn’t see it in Claudia — she was his sister, raised differently in a military household. But in this school? “If you want slender,” one of the boys added, “you have to go commoner. Even then… most of them who got in on merit? Let’s just say they’re not exactly runway models.”


Valador smirked. “Well… there’s always the Foreign Minister’s daughter.”


Both northern kids whistled.


Just then, Claudia returned to the group. “What are you three idiots muttering about?”


Marco, unable to help himself, blurted it out. “Sofía… the Foreign Minister’s daughter.”


Claudia considered it briefly. Her family wasn’t as wealthy, but they were influential — and she had to admit, Sofia was attractive. Not as attractive as herself, of course.


“Obviously,” one of the boys said in unison, “Claudia is the greatest beauty in the school.”


Valador nodded, a subtle grin playing on his lips. “But… perhaps Sofia could be a good fit for Eduardo.”


Eduardo, as always, said nothing, observing quietly. The world of appearances and alliances was something he would weigh carefully — but never be swayed by mere looks.


The next day, Claudia took Eduardo for tea with their grandmother outside of school. It was the first time he had been formally invited, a moment of quiet away from the halls and dorms.


Claudia asked cautiously, “Grandmother… what do you think of Sofia?”


Their grandmother sneered. “Sofia? No. The first ones on the line should be one of the Fox granddaughters… or perhaps a Slim’s younger daughter.”


Claudia frowned. “But Eduardo doesn’t like any of them.”


Her grandmother waved her hand impatiently. “Stupid European concepts. You have no idea. Do you know how much I had to sacrifice to stay… fat… for your grandfather to notice me? Once I was married, of course I lost weight. But those sacrifices have meaning.”


She leaned closer, her tone sharp and practical. “Slender girls are girls from poor families who cannot afford to feed themselves properly. That’s why they’re slender. Status, Eduardo — that’s what counts. Always remember that.”


Eduardo nodded silently. He had already met the Fox and Slim girls, and he understood immediately what his grandmother meant. These introductions weren’t about beauty alone — they were carefully curated for alliances, influence, and the weight of legacy.


Eduardo leaned back in his chair, swirling the tea. “What about the Cortez girl? Andrea… or Elena?”


His grandmother corrected him sharply. “Helena. And she’s nothing. Not from the main branch — practically beggars. Two haciendas barely enough to survive. If they had assets over a hundred million, maybe. If she were main branch, perhaps. But as it is?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Not worth consideration. And even if she were… she’s your cousin in the fourth degree. The Church won’t allow it, not unless we somehow wrangle an exemption. Sixth degree is the minimum advised for cousins.”


Eduardo shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. “What about Claudia? Who are the men being considered for her?”


eduardo asks, “Valador? Claudia, almost too casually, replied He’s already engaged. To Marco’s cousin — the one with the island in Yucatán. She’s twelve now. In ten years, they’ll marry. In the meantime, Marco’s family will bankroll Valador’s run for parliament.”


Eduardo frowned. “That asshole has seven uncles in the Senate. But nobody named Valador sits there.”


Their grandmother smiled thinly. “Of course not. They’re all married to Valador aunts and cousins. The family doesn’t want public spotlight anymore. Not after nearly being wiped out in the eighties, when they wasted their influence silencing journalists and aristocrats who exposed one of them as a homosexual. Since then, they’ve learned. They no longer crave power directly — they broker it. They became far more dangerous once they stopped being power… and became the ones who decide who gets power.”


Eduardo let that sink in. He could already see it: influence that never appeared on the books, power that never stood at a podium but whispered from behind curtains.


Eduardo sipped his tea, glancing at Claudia. “And my other two roommates… could they make a good match for you?”


His grandmother’s expression darkened. “No. Absolutely not. They have no family, no muscle, no influence… only money. I would never waste my precious granddaughter on such filth. Only first-class families are being considered for Claudia.”


She paused, letting the words sink in. “Perhaps… if one of the old patriarchs became a widow, they might be considered. A decade of marriage, enough wealth to extend for generations, while she got out young enough to remarry into influence. But aside from that? No. First-class only.”


Eduardo raised an eyebrow. “And what counts as first-class?”


“Money, power — either through influence or muscle — and lineage,” she explained. “A first-class family must top at least two of those categories.”


“And… are we first-class?” Eduardo asked cautiously. “We have some money, but not a lot.”


She smiled proudly. “We are. We have a Marshal and a General, and our lineage is impeccable. Several of your cousins and uncles are prominent politicians — we can call upon them. Your mother’s family remains high in public service. For the rest of us, they won’t move… but for you two?” She leaned closer, her voice low and firm. “They will move mountains. My proudest moment was seeing my precious daughter married into the de la Casa family. That marriage alone raised their lineage. We made them matter… by simply recognizing them.”


Claudia listened silently, her eyes wide, realizing for the first time the full weight of their family’s status and expectations. Eduardo sat back, absorbing the scope of power, influence, and legacy he had stepped back into — a world where bloodlines, muscle, and politics were currency.


Eduardo leaned back, pondering. “Is this system… all over South America?”


Claudia shrugged. “Probably.”


He turned his attention to another matter. “What about Marco? He absolutely loves and adores you. He’d make a devoted husband. He has money… a lot of it… and muscle as well.”


Their grandmother smirked. “That one is hard to sell. Your father almost destroyed his organization — he arrested his grandfather. There’s bad blood there. But yes, technically… he could be a good match. Money, some influence in Yucatán, and muscle.”


She paused. “Although their muscle these days consists mostly of gringo mercenaries… I think they’re called the Angels.”


Eduardo’s eyes narrowed. “The Fallen Angels,” he corrected immediately.


A sharp stab went through his brain at the correction, a flicker of pain, but it vanished as quickly as it came. He ignored it, focusing on the conversation. The game of alliances and bloodlines, even here in school, was already complicated — and he hadn’t even stepped onto the battlefield yet.


Claudia shook her head at Eduardo’s suggestions. “The other two? Absolutely not.”


“One is a fat slob and a coward — no refinement whatsoever,” she said, glaring at the memory of Marco. “The other insulted my brother,” she added, squeezing Eduardo’s hand. He immediately reciprocated, and their grandmother’s sharp eyes noticed.


“Do you two… love each other?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.


Without hesitation, they both replied, “Yes.”


The grandmother sipped her tea, calm and deliberate. “Well… if a fourth-degree cousin needs a Church exemption, a brother and sister? Impossible.”


Both Eduardo and Claudia froze.


Claudia’s cheeks flushed. “We love each other as brother and sister! What’s wrong with you, grandmother?”


The old lady laughed, a dry, knowing sound. “Nothing, my dears. Just… curious what the mind might consider.”


Eduardo pondered silently. Why would she even consider such a sin? The thought lingered, sharp and fleeting, as he tried to make sense of the family’s strange, intricate sense of social and moral calculus.


Claudia shook her head. “The rich ones? Fat. The pretty ones? Too far, and few. Most of them are poor, with no influence — much less muscle.”


Eduardo frowned. “So… there aren’t many options for love?”


Claudia’s lips pressed tight. “Sadly… no. In the de la Casa family, we’re not rich enough to pick a bride purely for love. Matches are about lineage, influence, and muscle — those three. Grandfather still makes most of the formal decisions, of course… but the real power? That’s grandmother. A Cortés by birth, one of the other three great military families in Mexico. The patriarch leads officially, but the force behind the throne is her.”


Eduardo nodded slowly, absorbing the intricacies. Money alone was meaningless. Muscle alone was meaningless. Influence alone? Barely enough. To play the game here, one needed at least two out of three — and even then, the grandmother’s judgment would weigh everything.


Eduardo stood at the board, chalk in hand, scratching out an answer that should have taken twenty lines of algebra. He didn’t even glance at the formulas on the page—just skipped straight to the solution.


“Mr. De la Casa,” the math teacher said, voice tight, “you must show your steps. Nobody solves integrals like that without the work.”


Eduardo frowned, annoyed, then turned back to the board. “Fine.” Instead of walking through the algebra, he pivoted, brought in a concept from advanced physics that half the room had never even heard of, and in three gestures carved out the answer.


A murmur ran through the class. The math teacher blinked. “That’s… not standard procedure. Perhaps the physics department should weigh in.”


They sent for the physics teacher—a pompous man with a belly stretching against his vest buttons—who waddled into the room and tried to make sense of Eduardo’s chalk marks.


The teacher squinted, then brightened. “Ah! Yes, yes. Very good—though your approach makes more sense in the context of string theory.”


Eduardo’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed. “String theory? That pseudo-science? That’s not physics—it’s poetry with math symbols. You people are frauds.”


The room froze. The physics teacher puffed up. “String theory is the forefront of modern physics. Only those too simple-minded to grasp higher dimensions reject it.”


Eduardo stepped forward, cold and sharp. “No. It’s a broken brain that accepts every fairy tale as if it were real. Today you defend strings—what’s next, Santa Claus? The tooth fairy with a PhD?”


Gasps and stifled laughter.


The teacher flushed crimson. “How dare you! I represent academic orthodoxy—”


Eduardo cut him off with a voice like ice: “Orthodoxy doesn’t make truth. God is truth. If you believe in lies, then God has already forsaken you.”


The class went dead silent. Nobody even pretended to take notes. Half of them didn’t understand the words, the other half didn’t understand how a student had just gutted a professor like that.


And still Eduardo stood there, chalk in hand, completely unfazed—like it was the most natural thing in the world to tear down a teacher with logic and disdain.


The principal was called in, flustered, sweat glistening on his forehead as he tried to calm the storm. “Mr. De la Casa, you must understand, we respect your enthusiasm, but the faculty’s position—”


Eduardo wheeled on him. “The faculty’s position? Don’t make me laugh. You’re all parrots! You cling to orthodoxy the way drowning men cling to driftwood—too scared to admit the ocean is wider than your tiny minds can grasp.”


A ripple of gasps spread across the class.


“What’s next?” Eduardo barked. “You’ll suck the monetarists’ dicks too, with their false theories on how the economy works? Science has become a whorehouse, and you—the pimps—demand we pay respect for cheap tricks and illusions!”


He grabbed the chalk again, slashing at the board with frantic strokes, symbols blooming like lightning. “The orthodoxy in science once belonged to the greats—Piaget, Newton! Men who pushed beyond the veil! Now?” He turned, eyes blazing. “Now it’s a den of charlatans and snake-oil salesmen hiding their mediocrity behind PhD diplomas!”


His voice rose, carrying into a fever pitch. “Durkheim may have been a genius—but all he did was open the door for mediocrity to flood in! And Comte? Weber? And Marx—” he spat the name like poison, “—that Jewish filth who cloaked envy in philosophy, too cowardly to reach for greatness, so he cut others’ legs to drag them down!”


His words slid across tongues like water over stone. He jumped without effort between French, German, English, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian—then other stranger languages, ancient or modern no one could place.


The students stared, half in awe, half in fear, as Eduardo’s chalk filled the blackboard with a storm of mathematics. Equations and symbols, intricate as lace, alien in their elegance, spiraled outward until he dropped the chalk like a sword at the end of a duel.


He turned back, breathing hard, eyes burning. “It’s so simple. So obvious. Only fools fail to see.”


Then the headache struck. A white-hot spike behind his eyes. He staggered, clutching his skull, his knees buckling. The words on the board blurred, his own brilliance collapsing in on him like a dying star.


Eduardo hit the floor with a thud, the classroom frozen in stunned silence, while the chalk dust still hung in the air like smoke after battle.


By the next morning, half the school already knew. The gringo De la Casa stood before the teachers and made them look like fools. That was the whisper. Some said he debated physics so fiercely he broke the old man’s will. Others claimed he ranted in five languages at once, humiliating the staff until they stood mute like children.


Nobody cared about the headache, or the way he’d been carried off pale and trembling. What lingered was the image of a giant tearing through professors as though they were cattle, spitting truths none dared refute.


For the students, it was intoxicating. For the faculty, humiliating. For the families behind them, dangerous. A boy who makes teachers look stupid is disruptive. A boy who collapses after doing it is unreliable.


Eduardo was returned to his room, where Claudia slipped inside quietly. She found him sprawled across the sheets, his head sweating, the pain written in every line of his face.


“Open,” she whispered, cupping his jaw with one hand. He obeyed weakly, and she slipped the pill against his tongue, stroking his throat until he swallowed. Just like when they were children.


“You have to take these, Eduardo,” Claudia murmured, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You can’t just… forget.”


He didn’t answer. He never told her that he did forget—sometimes on purpose. The pills made him heavy, slow. They dimmed the sharpness, left him hollow. He could only take them before sleep, or when the day was already lost.


But without them? He risked the headaches. The unraveling.


And so, even as Claudia tended him with quiet devotion, another truth set in like a blade twisting in his back: in their world, value was measured in strength, power, or wealth. A man who needed pills to keep from collapsing was none of these.


Eduardo De la Casa, for all his genius and size, was suddenly marked as something worse than dangerous—he was unstable.


Eduardo lay still on the bed, his eyes half-closed, breath even. To Claudia, he looked as though he’d finally dozed off after the pills. But his mind was awake, listening.


Marco’s voice carried across the room, low but earnest.


“That article about ghost customers? It was a set-up,” Marco insisted. “They wanted to block my sister’s marriage to the minister’s son. That’s all. Yes, my grandfather was a gangster. Our money was born dirty, I won’t deny it. But my father—he is not that man. He built what we have into something real. The hotels create jobs, they bring wealth. If our money wasn’t clean by now, Claudia, the state would’ve stolen it long ago and shared it among all those parasites in government.”


Claudia’s voice was steady, though not unkind. “You’re asking me to believe what everyone else knows isn’t true. Marco… you want my family’s name to wash away the stain of yours. That’s all this is.”


There was a pause, heavy with his breathing. Then, softer:


“No. That’s not all.” Marco leaned forward, and his words tumbled out with almost painful sincerity. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you. I don’t care if the world mocks me—I would let our children carry your name if that’s what it takes. I don’t care about pride, I don’t care about appearances. I just want you. I just want to make you laugh, to see you smile.”


Claudia tried to keep her expression cool, but Eduardo, feigning sleep, could hear the crack in her armor. A faint hitch in her breath. The quiet shift in tone. She was trying not to smile.


The boy was hopeless, stubborn, reckless. But he was also undeniably in love with her.


Eduardo lay still, eyes closed, pretending the weight of the pills kept him under. His body didn’t move, but his ears caught every word as Valador burst into the room, dragging the two northern heirs along with him.


Valador’s laugh rang out, wild and manic. “I thought I had found a gladiator, a brute to swing the sword for our faction! But no—no, I’ve stumbled into something better. A de la Casa who speaks languages, solves mathematics, debates like a philosopher! Dios mío, with a name like his, we have a future minister! Foreign affairs, finance, maybe even the presidency one day!”


The two industrialists chuckled nervously, but their eyes gleamed at the prospect.


Valador spun toward them, voice rising with excitement. “Imagine it—a wrestler of the mind, carrying a name that commands the loyalty of the army itself. Add Marco, once he’s cleaned, and we would be unstoppable. A faction impossible to ignore!”


He sighed, almost theatrically. “Pity his grandmother refused Sofía. Her family would have been extremely useful in the chessboard. But no matter! Claudia, speak with your father. We need a new governor in the south. With Eduardo as candidate, running under the opposition banner, victory is guaranteed. His grandfather and father were the hammers that crushed those states in the past—now he becomes the way forward! The youngest governor in Mexico’s history!”


Claudia cut in, sharp and incredulous. “He’s just twenty-one. He’s too young.”


Valador scoffed, flicking his wrist as though swatting a fly. “Laws are made to be bent. If not changed, then challenged. A plebiscite in the south—yes! We put Eduardo on television, send him on tour, let the people themselves decide if he is fit to run. And when they roar ‘yes’? Then no man would dare to stand against him. By the time the elections come, the fight is already over.”


He paced the room, eyes glowing with mad ambition. “Don’t you see? We wouldn’t be running a campaign. We would be running destiny.”


Eduardo’s temples pulsed under the weight of the words. Still motionless, he realized: Valador didn’t see him as a man at all. He was a weapon, a banner, a symbol to be wielded.


Eduardo kept his eyes closed, the throbbing in his head dulling, but Valador’s voice carried through the room like a sermon.


“You don’t understand,” Valador told the northern boys, gesturing with his glass as if sketching a map of the future. “This is how politics works in our country. Most of those with true legitimacy are useless — pampered, fat, and incompetent. They have the name, the pedigree, the Church behind them… but no skills.”


He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Eduardo de la Casa? He’s different. He has the name — the name — that already bends people to silence out of respect. But now we’ve seen the mind. Languages, mathematics, rhetoric — the kind of brilliance Mexico parades abroad to make foreigners proud of us. Legitimacy and ability? That’s something we can build an empire on.”


The industrial heirs exchanged a look, caught between awe and unease. Valador just laughed, raising his drink.


“Others saw him collapse. I saw the foundation of a campaign. We don’t need him to chase power. Power will come to him. And we’ll be there to shape it.”


From the bed, Eduardo felt his jaw tighten. Even with his eyes shut, he knew Valador was right about one thing: in this society, his name already carried weight. What unsettled him was how easily others saw his life not as his own — but as capital.


The two northern boys sat in the study of their family estate, the secure line active as they reported back.


“We’ve made our contacts,” the first said, voice steady. “We lucked out — our roommates are Valador and Eduardo de la Casa. That alone gives us leverage we didn’t expect.”


The second nodded. “With Eduardo, it’s more than just brute force. He’s sharp, disciplined, and respected without anyone fully understanding why. And his sister… she comes by all the time. Claudia de la Casa isn’t just a beauty; she carries influence. Every time she appears, people notice. Her presence alone makes others think twice.”


A pause. “So we’re protected and positioned?” one father asked.


“Yes,” the first boy replied. “Even the cartel children and political heirs know better than to provoke us with Eduardo and Valador around. And with Claudia occasionally nearby, her family’s reach is implicit. It’s a network we didn’t expect to have this early, but it solidifies our standing immediately.”


The second added, “We’ll continue observing, making careful moves. But with this combination, we’re ahead of almost everyone else in the school — and that matters to the families.”


The grandfather leaned back, eyebrows raised. “How much will this cost us?”


The two northern boys exchanged glances. “Sir,” the first began, “Valador hasn’t asked for anything personal from Eduardo. But of course, the usual expectations — political contributions, standard for someone managing alliances.”


The second added, “Except… he’s arranged support for three different parties. His family is playing the political game from every angle. Even… the communists.”


The grandfather blinked. “The communists?”


“Yes, sir,” the first boy said with a hint of awe. “Two of Valador’s cousins are running for parliament under the communist banner. The world has changed a lot since the old days.”


The grandfather let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Times indeed have changed… but if it secures influence, I suppose we adapt.”


The boys nodded. “Exactly, sir. It’s a calculated effort, but with Valador in the right positions, it creates leverage everywhere — all without him asking for anything in return.”


One of the northern boys leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Valador said… Eduardo could become the new governor of Chiapas.”


The old man paused, frowning slightly. Then his eyes narrowed in thought. Valadors are clever in politics if he thinks that… the boy isn’t just smart in fighting, I presume?


The second boy nodded eagerly. “Sir, he’s… extraordinary. He taught a physics teacher and a mathematics teacher, argued in several languages with unmatched passion. Everyone in the class was stunned.”


A faint twinkle appeared in the old man’s eyes. “Is that so? The de la Casa family has failed at most things outside the military… but if we have one who can do politics?”


He straightened in his chair, voice firm. “Tell Valador to drop Chiapas. If he must run, he will run in the north. That current governor is too expensive and incompetent. If Eduardo runs for the government party with that name, we’ll ensure he wins easily. The chamber of commerce will back him without question.”


The boys nodded, impressed by the clarity of the old man’s strategy.


Valador felt the tension immediately when Gonzalez approached, the weight of his father’s words pressing down. “My father heard the north is preparing a campaign… for a de la Casa,” Gonzalez said, his tone measured but edged with caution. “Sinaloa in the east… they want someone worthy as governor. A de la Casa there would please the cartel — too many politicians had to be eliminated in the past… not real people, he added wryly, mostly just obstacles. That kind of bloodshed? Bad for business.”


Valador’s stomach tightened. His original plan, putting Eduardo in the south for freedom and minimal strings, suddenly felt like a luxury he might not be able to maintain. The north’s wealthy industrialists wanted him there, Sinaloa demanded him in the east, and the west… well, they’d hear about it soon enough.


“There’s only one like him,” Gonzalez continued, almost apologetically. “South means power and influence with fewer obligations. North means wealth and structure. Sinaloa? Real muscle, money, and danger.”


Valador clenched his jaw. Saying no wasn’t an option — not to any of these factions. And yet, he had imagined a path where they could maneuver freely, without being pawns in every regional game. Now, he realized, everyone wanted a piece of Eduardo de la Casa… and there was only one Eduardo.

 

[Warscared]

González caught Valador alone after class, his voice smooth, too smooth.


“My father heard a rumor from the north. They’re preparing to run a de la Casa for governor. But Sinaloa would prefer if it happened in the east, maybe even here itself. A de la Casa in Sinaloa pleases the cartel. They’ve killed too many already—politicians, not really people, so barely a loss—but still, bad for business. They’d rather not keep cleaning up that way.”


It was a warning and an invitation in the same breath.


Valador forced a smile, but his mind was racing. The south had been his play—power, influence, and most importantly, freedom. A place where Eduardo could build a reputation of competence and morality without heavy strings, the kind of clean record that could carry him to the presidency before he turned thirty-five.


The north? That was money, clean on paper, but tied to businessmen whose loyalty was split between Mexico and the gringos. Governorship there meant choosing sides, and looking bad to half the country no matter what.


And the east… Sinaloa. Real money, real muscle. But accepting their help meant Eduardo would forever be shadowed by whispers—if the cartel didn’t kill him, then surely he was working with them.


Valador’s smile thinned. Everyone wanted a piece of Eduardo now. North, east, south. Only one Eduardo to go around.


Marco leaned forward, voice full of sudden confidence.
“Well, if we’re speaking governors… Yucatán has suffered under bad ones its entire history. But my hotels, my shipping, my properties there—they feed half the damn state. If it’s votes you need, any opposition party would happily run Eduardo for governor there.”


Valador chuckled, wagging a finger.
“If Eduardo were to run in the west, he’d be better off with the government party. It cements his position, and the best part? When the party eventually loses, he’d become the chief of the opposition. A fresh face with lineage, charisma, and legitimacy. That party doesn’t lose—it just takes vacations when people get tired of it. And when it comes back, it always comes back strongest. Add the Catholic Church’s blessing, and you have an unshakable foundation.”


Marco bristled, then countered quickly, turning toward Claudia.
“Maybe times are changing. If we want a de la Casa in Yucatán… why not you, Claudia? My family’s wealth and influence down there, plus your name and your beauty—”


The words hung in the air. Marco’s tone was full of devotion, but also calculation. He was offering himself not just as a suitor but as a political kingmaker.


Valador’s smile sharpened. A de la Casa in Yucatán, yes—but married to a cartel heir? That was another game altogether.


Marco was about to double down, but this time Claudia’s voice cut clean through the chatter.
“He is not his grandfather. Not even his father… Or are you your great-grandfather, Valador? The one who ran Mexico’s finances during the Great Depression?”


The room went silent.


Valador’s grin faltered, his throat tight. He forced a laugh, but it came out brittle.
“What was my great-grandfather supposed to do? The entire world was fucked. People keep bringing that shit up—just because you sit at the steering wheel, you get blamed for the storm!”


Claudia didn’t smile. Her eyes lingered on him as if she’d just peeled away the politician’s mask for everyone to see.


Marco leaned back with a sly grin, enjoying the shift. Eduardo, however, only watched Valador carefully—measuring not his words, but the crack that had just shown in his composure.


Gonzalez laughs and says he will be married to Claudia… his grandfather is already preparing a billion-dollar dowry. “I’m sure your father will accept,” he adds.


Claudia cuts in, firm: “It’s my choice. Besides, if it were like in the old days, my grandfather would decide.”


gonzalez admits, almost sheepishly, “We already presented the offer…” but before he can continue, her grandmother nearly has them thrown out.


“The prejudice against cartels… I’m a victim, I tell you!” .


Eduardo finally steps forward. “Everyone’s a victim. At least you’re a rich victim. My sister will decide for herself, and I will fight to uphold that.”


Claudia hugs him. Times were changing—but the white hairs with money and power still held sway.


rodrigez leaned back, his smirk full of arrogance. “I liked you better when you didn’t have a brother.”


Claudia met his gaze without hesitation. “It doesn’t matter how many brothers or sisters you have. I could never love a coward or a fat slob like you. At least the cartel kids aren’t weak—or fat.”


Eduardo stood silently behind her, his presence enough to make rodriguez pause, if only for a heartbeat.


Eduardo sat in philosophy class, staring at the board. Today’s topic: Kierkegaard’s leap of faith. The teacher began confidently, dissecting a passage and insisting the punctuation dictated meaning.


Eduardo raised his hand. “No. The commas here aren’t mere pauses. They shape the ethical tension Kierkegaard is exposing. You can’t reduce it to grammar.”


The teacher scowled. “Young man, the sentence reads one way. Your interpretation ignores syntax entirely.”


Eduardo leaned forward. “Syntax serves meaning, not the other way around. Kierkegaard isn’t writing for clarity—he’s forcing us to feel the absurdity of choice, the anxiety before the leap. Commas are instruments of the soul, not tools of pedantry.”


A few students stifled yawns, but Claudia and Valador were riveted. “He argues with fire,” Claudia whispered.


The teacher huffed. “And you claim to understand the subjective experience? You’re treating faith like an equation.”


Eduardo’s gaze sharpened. “Faith is an equation. It’s infinite variables—the self, the crowd, ethics, despair. The leap doesn’t defy reason; it transcends what reason alone can measure. Your interpretation confines Kierkegaard to the page. I extend him into the human condition.”


Murmurs rippled across the room. The teacher’s face turned red. “You’re twisting philosophy into spectacle!”


Eduardo shrugged. “And yet here we are, spectators to the absurdity of blind authority. If Kierkegaard is unpalatable, perhaps it’s because you fear being unmasked by his logic. I simply follow it where it leads.”


Clauda and Valador exchanged a glance. Not the philosophy, not the commas—Eduardo himself was the lesson.


By mid-morning, Eduardo’s philosophy class had dissolved into a duel of ideas. It started with Kierkegaard’s leap of faith and the significance of a single comma, but it quickly escalated.


“Faith is not grammar!” Eduardo snapped, gesturing at the board. “It is the tension before the leap, the anxiety of existence itself. Commas are mere instruments of expression, not the substance of truth.”


The teacher, growing red in the face, retorted, “And you think the experience overrides the text? You’re ignoring structure, context, the author’s intent!”


Eduardo leaned back, calm, his voice slicing through the room. “Intent is invisible. What matters is the encounter—the encounter of the self with despair, with absurdity. You’re hiding behind symbols while the human being trembles before choice.”


Classmates filed out to their next lesson, whispering about the strange spectacle, leaving only Claudia and Valador, enthralled. The room now belonged entirely to the boy and his teacher.


By the second hour, the debate had spilled into phenomenology. Sartre, Camus, Moureaux—all of Eduardo’s favorite absurdists—were dragged into the fray. “Words are inadequate. Meaning resides in lived experience, in the self confronting the void,” he said, pacing. “The text points, but it does not encompass. You argue the map while ignoring the territory!”


The teacher tried desperately to regain control. “But language conveys intention! Without precision, philosophy collapses into chaos!”


Eduardo’s eyes sparkled. “Chaos? No, it reveals reality. Structure is a scaffold for weak minds. The leap of faith is absurd precisely because it cannot be codified, cannot be reduced to grammar or logic. To insist otherwise is to deny life itself!”


By the time the bell rang, no one else remained. The classroom was silent except for the two of them, arguing, shouting, gesturing, each refusing to concede. Hours had passed, and the teacher, normally unshakable, sat stunned, sweating, realizing he had no answers for this whirlwind of intellect, instinct, and sheer argumentative force.


Eduardo finally slumped back in his chair, satisfied, letting the tension linger. Claudia leaned slightly forward. “He’s terrifying,” she whispered to Valador.


“Terrifying,” Valador echoed, grinning.


By the time Eduardo finally leaned back, the teacher noticed the light outside had faded completely. “Eduardo… it’s night. You’ve been at this all day. Lunch, perhaps?”


“Dinner, then,” he said, eyes still gleaming with argument-ready intensity.


The teacher hesitated. “Only if next time we debate how Foucault was influenced by these writings,” Eduardo added smoothly, as if issuing a challenge rather than a condition.


Valador and Claudia, who had been quietly observing, shook their heads and walked off. “Fucking nerds,” Valador muttered with a grin.


Valador chuckled. “Remember when they debated Espinosa or Thomas of Aquinas?”


Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Who?”


Valador laughed. “Guess you weren’t paying attention. By the way, Marcos is right, you know? You could also run… harder to elect a woman, but with my skills, Marcos’ support, and your family name, it’s doable.”


Claudia’s teasing faded, replaced by a measured calm. She looked at Valador. “You’re sure Gonzalez isn’t just joking?”


Valador shook his head. “Not joking. If you want, you can get whatever you want from them—except, of course, the drugs and the violence. Your branch of the family would be cut off from that, but you’d have enough wealth that you wouldn’t need it anyway.”


Claudia considered this, letting the weight of it settle. The joke had ended; now the stakes were very real.


Eduardo leaned in, taking a strawberry directly from her belly button. She let out a soft laugh, eyes sparkling. “I knew you would be an amazing mind as soon as we debated Erasmus of Rotterdam’s influence on Western thinking… your raw passion is incredible.”


Eduardo, barely looking up, replied, “I knew you would be remarkable as a teacher once I discovered you had once been a nun, grounded in theology, and then transitioned into philosophy.”


She shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. “I’ve always loved to teach. To teach, you must learn, and I took the learning experience further than most. To be a bride of the Lord no longer felt right, so I quit, used my theology degree to earn a scholarship in philosophy, and I’ve been inspiring young minds ever since.”


Eduardo pressed closer, kissing her lips, letting his hands find her beneath the sheets. He murmured, “You’ve succeeded… I feel truly inspired,” and the words carried the promise of another round, the electric charge of what was already begun lingering between them.


The next day, Pedro de la Casa and Pablo de la Casa arrived at the school, flanked by a full escort of elite military men. Everyone instinctively moved aside, the presence of these imposing figures leaving no room for doubt: these were dangerous men, and no one wanted to be caught in their way.


Claudia, sitting in the patio, immediately lit up at the sight of them. “Daddy! Granddaddy!” she screamed, leaping to her feet and rushing into their arms. The joy on her face made the tension in the area almost palpable.


Gonzalez shifted nervously, his usual arrogance faltering under the weight of the de la Casas’ presence. Marco attempted to rise to his feet, but his legs seemed to refuse him, frozen in awe and intimidation.


Pablo’s gaze fell on Claudia. “Where is your brother?” he asked.


Eduardo didn’t wait. He moved like a ghost, each step calculated. The hard boots of the security entourage hitting the ground alerted him instinctively; he slipped into the shadows, approaching his father’s perimeter with perfect timing. By the time anyone realized, he had already broken through the formation, weaving effortlessly between the guards before they could react.


He reached Pablo in a heartbeat and embraced him. “Father, always a pleasure to see you,” he said smoothly, a hint of mischief in his tone. “Though, you might want better bodyguards—they’re a bit slow on the draw.”


Claudia watched, a mixture of awe and delight lighting her face. The de la Casas exchanged a glance, both amusement and approval reflecting in their eyes. Eduardo’s seamless, ghostlike infiltration had already set the tone: he belonged in this world, and he belonged at their side.


Pedro’s gaze was steely. “We didn’t come to admire your ghost tricks,” he said with factual brutality, every word a weight of authority only a lifetime of military command could carry. “We came to deliver a message. The de la Casa have always stayed out of politics. Dirty game, unlike war, which is honorable. And these rumors about you running for governor? Seven different places we’ve already heard it. Not who we are. This family does not run for office.”


His eyes scanned the courtyard, sharp and cold. “Now, where is Valador? That scheming cunt… I know his father. He probably assigned your dorm to him by design. They’re always looking for people to win elections and carve their cut of the prime steak.”


Then Pablo’s gaze landed on Rodriguez. He spat in the man’s general direction. Pedro put a hand firmly on his son’s shoulder and stepped forward himself. “You ever lay a hand on a woman of this house,” he said slowly, voice like iron, “and consider your hand lost. This is your first and only warning.”


Rodriguez almost collapsed on the spot, knowing he had just met the field marshal—the most influential military man in all of Mexico. If the country went to war, he would likely be called to organize the general staff, or perhaps even lead it. The weight of that reality pressed down on him, and he knew exactly where he stood.


Pablo turned to Marco, his gaze sharp but measured. “Not without concern,” he said. “You have your grandfather’s nose and chin. When my men and I dragged him out, I doubted whether I should kill him or not… now, I’m glad I didn’t. But this does not mean you’re free to take liberties with my family. A wrong choice can always be undone if one has the courage—and for my children, my courage will never falter.”


Three of his elite bodyguards stepped forward. Pablo gave a nod, and they approached Eduardo—not with menace, but with the kind of respect and relief reserved for men who’d faced real danger together. They patted him on the back, ruffling his hair. “Glad you’re okay, kid,” one said.


Eduardo froze for a moment, confused. Pablo smiled. “These are the men who dragged you out of the water when you nearly drowned. Fully equipped, ready for anything. You should thank them for their bravery—they jumped in without hesitation.”


Eduardo nodded, uncertain but polite, and thanked them. The men grinned. “It’s good to do good things. Not many chances come along, but when they do, we jump at it.”


Another laughed, “Literally into a frozen sea!”


Eduardo stood amidst the circle of hardened men, their hands ruffling his hair, slapping his back, and clapping him on the shoulders. Their laughter and easy camaraderie made it look like he belonged with them, like he had faced the same dangers and earned the same respect.


He thanked them politely, a little confused by the intensity of their attention, unaware of what it implied.


Around them, whispers floated. “The kid’s been in combat.” “He moves like he knows the field.” “No ordinary son of a general.”


No one realized he had never held a weapon in anger, had never been under fire. Yet the way these soldiers treated him — with trust, with comradeship, with unquestioning respect — made everyone else assume he was one of them.


Eduardo smiled, still puzzled, as the men laughed and recounted their frozen-sea rescue. To him, it was simply an act of gratitude. To everyone else, it was confirmation: the de la Casa boy was already a soldier in spirit.


Pablo called Gonzalez over, his tone commanding. Gonzalez moved quickly, and the men formed a disciplined perimeter around them. Pedro, the patriarch, watched, curious but cautious.


Eduardo, without realizing it, began reading Gonzalez’s lips—something he hadn’t known he could do. He caught fragments: respect for Claudia, willingness to do anything to marry her, whispers of alliances, cracks in plans, mentions of a third child and the treasurer setting up succession. Pedro’s eyes widened; he hadn’t expected his grandson to pick up on that.


Pablo ended his conversation with Gonzalez and returned to his daughter. He embraced Claudia tightly. “I’ll be in town until tomorrow,” he said. “I hope to have lunch with all my children. We have a future to plan. I’ve received excellent offers for your marriage… grandchildren cannot be far off.”


The next day, they gathered at their grandfather’s house for lunch. The table was adorned with dishes both foreign and extravagant. Eduardo’s eyes lit up as he sampled the first bite. “Kobe steak, A5 grade?” he said, laughing.


“Almost right,” his grandmother replied with a smirk.


“This is Omi beef,” Eduardo corrected, enunciating carefully.


“Oh-mi beef?” she repeated, intrigued.


Eduardo nodded and, without realizing it, continued in Japanese, thanking her for the meal. Claudia froze, stunned. What were those sounds? She and her friends had watched some anime—they recognized the language immediately.


His great-grandfather looked troubled, as if something familiar yet foreign had unsettled him, while Pablo simply beamed with pride. Eduardo, meanwhile, ate with the unshakable calm of someone completely at ease in the world.


That evening, they received word that the Minister of Energy would be hosting a banquet—and they had been invited.


“I’ll pass,” their grandmother said, waving a hand. “I got bored of those things sixty years ago. Once I found my man”—her husband, Pablo’s father—“it lost its purpose.” She pinched Pedro’s cheek playfully. The old man’s ears reddened, and he chuckled sheepishly.


Claudia laughed at the display, while both Pablo and Eduardo exchanged glances, surprised to witness a side of the old wolf they hadn’t known. Claudia, having grown up with them, had seen it before—but for the two men, it was a revelation.


That night, Pablo, Eduardo, and Claudia arrived at the ball. Pablo surged ahead, weaving through the crowd with a predator’s focus—there were politicians to needle, favors to leverage, and a budget to secure for new body armor for his men.


Eduardo felt a faint pulse of pain at the back of his head. “Petrov body armor?” he murmured.


Pablo glanced back, eyebrows raised. “Yeah. Still costly, but our projections show that in three years, with mass production, the price drops. Lives saved go up—mortality could fall by twelve percent. An injured man can be healed. A dead one? Never again.”


Eduardo nodded, his mind already running the numbers, calculating risks and outcomes as casually as if he were solving a geometry problem.


Claudia and Eduardo entered the ballroom arm in arm, their presence commanding attention as scions of one of Mexico’s most elite houses. The chandeliers caught the glint of their attire, casting reflections like spotlights on the pair. Eduardo dipped into a bow with a natural flair, then took Claudia’s hand for the waltz.


He was a touch clumsy, his long limbs not yet accustomed to the formalities, but his height and broad shoulders made him impossible to ignore. For many in the room, it was the first time they saw the De la Casa siblings together in public. Claudia had already made her debut, but Eduardo was entirely new, having spent years tucked away in Switzerland.


Several young ladies, and the bolder young men, approached him under the pretense of civility, hoping to align themselves with the family. Claudia leaned close and whispered, a sly smirk playing at her lips, “Better get ready to have your ass kissed, brother. Everyone wants a piece of us, and they’ll do whatever it takes to have us in their faction.”


The dance continued, each step a subtle declaration: the De la Casas had arrived, and the struggles for power were about to take a new, undeniable shape.


Eduardo barely had a moment to breathe before a cluster of young women, all married or connected to powerful families, descended upon him. Each promised him dances, invitations, subtle favors, even whispers of alliances. He stood there, tall and unflappable, letting the sheer weight of his presence do most of the work.


Valador was already moving through the crowd, intercepting any who got too close, deflecting them politely but firmly. “I think my friend here has obligations,” he’d say, flashing a grin that brooked no argument. A subtle wave of his hand, a pointed glance, and most of the eager suitors hesitated. A few persisted, but Valador’s reputation and insistence carried weight—even in this room packed with influence.


Claudia noticed from the side, her eyes narrowing slightly but her lips curved with amusement. “You really are his bodyguard, aren’t you?” she whispered.


Valador chuckled. “Bodyguard? Hardly. I’m just protecting the best card in my hand. Once he dances, once people see what he’s capable of…” he let it hang. “Everyone will want a piece of the De La Casa influence. Better he chooses who gets it.”


Eduardo, meanwhile, simply smiled, accepting the dances he wished to, declining none outright but moving with an easy, almost gliding grace that made it impossible to look away. His presence alone—tall, broad-shouldered, confident—was enough to draw attention, awe, and yes, respect.


The factions present understood the unspoken game: whoever controlled Eduardo, even briefly, gained a window into the De La Casa orbit. Every dance was a silent negotiation; every bow a subtle claim staked in a crowded battlefield of social and political power.


And through it all, Valador moved like a shadow, ensuring no one underestimated his friend—his trump card.


Valador leaned in, nodding toward the next dance. “Here—my fifteen-year-old sister. Good match, right?”


Eduardo blinked. “She’s… too young for me.”


Valador shrugged casually. “No harm in doing it either. She just met you, anyway. Besides, she’s my sister—part of my network.”


Eduardo shook his head. “We’re already friends. No need to tie it with blood.”


Valador smirked. “No arm in doing it either.”


Reluctantly, Eduardo took her hand and stepped into the dance. She giggled, her blush deepening as she followed his lead, leaving him awkward and disoriented by her shy attention.


Valador laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “What did you expect? She’s fifteen, but there’s already a spark. Promise of a great beauty, right?”


Eduardo notices an Arab-looking man, headgear and all, staring at Claudia. His scarf marks him as Saudi. Without hesitation, Eduardo steps toward his sister and wraps her in a protective hug, locking eyes with the man. The man shifts, clearly unsettled.


Valador leans in, whispering, “That’s the new OPEC ambassador to Mexico. That’s why they’re organizing this ball—Mexico wants more Saudi investment, so we have to play nice with him! Bunch of heathens, they are!”


Eduardo shakes his head. “They believe in the same God as us… they’re just sort of slow and needed an extra prophet, that’s all!”


Claudia bursts out laughing. Valador follows suit, chuckling. Eduardo blinks, confused. “Wait… did I just say something factually wrong?”


That second consideration—the real-time doubt he vocalized—triggers another round of laughter from both of them, leaving Eduardo feeling a bit embarrassed.


People notice them, though not everyone; most men’s attention was already on Claudia. At 18, her dark blonde hair and green eyes make her an unmatched presence in a sea of darker, grayer, and brown-eyed attendees.


The ballroom buzzed around them, but Eduardo had already picked his target. He spent the rest of the evening quietly tracking the OPEC investor, letting his presence press like a shadow. Every time the man glanced at Claudia—or even in her direction—Eduardo locked eyes with him, a slow, deliberate challenge that made the ambassador visibly uneasy.


Once the man tried to hold his gaze, but barely lasted fifteen seconds before Eduardo unleashed a sharp, wolfish grin. His discomfort was palpable. Every move he made afterward kept Eduardo in his sight, but the boy feigned motions as if to intercept him, pushing the man into a subtle retreat. Sycophants followed, whispering, shuffling, but no one dared ask what was happening. The menu had been purged of all pork to accommodate, yet still, Eduardo’s presence unsettled him.


Claudia and Valador exchanged knowing glances, realizing the quiet cruelty in Eduardo’s play. He had done the same to Rodriguez in the past, leaving the businessman practically shitting himself after a month of that relentless, silent eye harassment.

Claudia and Valador deliberately kept their distance, exchanging a glance that said they would handle the delicate matters without him. They grabbed glasses of iced tea and moved toward the prince, offering them with practiced courtesy. Eduardo stayed behind, alone in the shadows, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he continued to watch his own game unfold, entirely unconcerned with the ambassador or the politics swirling around him.


Deliberately distancing themselves, Claudia and Valador grabbed glasses of iced tea and went to speak with the prince. Everyone else was impressed by the interaction, but Eduardo knew better. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did—Saudi Arabia had around five thousand princes, and being a prince there was like being a fisherman in Baja California: throw a stone, and one in every twenty guys you hit is a fisherman.


Eduardo lingered behind, smiling to himself, entirely absorbed in the quiet chaos he had created, unconcerned with the ambassador or the social theatrics around him.


Eduardo stood a few paces back, his presence like a dark shadow across the ballroom. Every line of his body screamed control, but beneath it simmered a barely restrained fury. Watching Claudia laugh and gesture, her hands resting lightly in the prince’s, he felt the familiar spike of protective instinct. He had read that man’s lips before—small tells, subtle patterns—and knew exactly what he was thinking.


Locker room bravado was one thing; Claudia was another. She was off-limits. And yet here she was, smiling, holding the prince´s hands as though she were training a dog to sit or stay. The prince, rich enough to believe he could flout the rules, had no idea the storm behind those blue eyes. Every second of Eduardo’s measured composure was a test: could he keep his calm while the world watched, or would that dreadful aura finally snap into full force?


Eduardo’s presence had shifted from unsettling to outright terrifying. The prince, pointing nervously, stammered explanations, but every word seemed to vanish under the weight of Eduardo’s glare. The man’s face—once composed—was now pale, eyes wide, and hands twitching as if to shield himself from some unseen force.


Valador stepped forward, trying to calm the prince, his own voice tight. “Sir… it’s just Eduardo… he’s…” His words faltered as he finally met Eduardo’s eyes. Terror flashed there, even in someone who had been his closest friend for months.


He tugged on Claudia’s sleeve. “Claudia… your brother—he’s about to snap. I’ve known him since school started, and even I don’t want to get in his way right now.”


Claudia tried to laugh it off, attempting to mask her own unease. But when she turned fully, she froze. Eduardo’s wolfish grin had fully taken hold—a predator’s expression, sharp and predatory, promising to tear through anyone who dared challenge him. Even the prince’s sycophants began to edge away, sensing the danger radiating from the tall, American-looking figure in the corner.


Claudia steeled herself and stepped between Eduardo and the prince. Even she felt a flicker of fear as Eduardo advanced, deliberate and unnerving. Once he reached her, she hugged him tightly, whispering, “Please… stop. You’re scaring me.”


Eduardo’s gaze shifted from her to the terrified prince. “Marhaba,” he said calmly.


The prince froze. “W-what… what did you just say?”


Eduardo’s lips curved into a small, controlled smile. “Marhaba.”


For a tense moment, silence hung in the room. Then the prince replied, “Shukran.” A brief, careful exchange in Arabic passed between them, quiet but charged, leaving Claudia and Valador wide-eyed at Eduardo’s effortless command of the moment.


Nobody in the room understood what was being said except the prince’s personal secretary.


“Marhaba, motherfucker… what would you do to me if I did to your sister what you were talking about doing to mine?” Eduardo’s voice was low, controlled, deadly.


The prince’s lips twitched into a faint, uneasy smile. “If… if you dishonored my sister, I would have you marry her. And… I cannot deny it — your sister is extremely beautiful.”


Eduardo blinked, processing the confession.


The prince added, almost in a whisper, “I have only one wife… a short, fat, ugly cousin. To have a beauty like Claudia… it would be a dream come true. And… what would you do?”


“I would rip off your genitalia and punch every tooth from your mouth until my hand reached your throat,” Eduardo replied, voice calm, lethal, deliberate. The threat carried more than violence — it spoke of understanding, of cultural codes, of a man who knew what honor demanded.


The prince’s eyes flicked to Claudia, terrified, before returning to Eduardo. “Understandable,” he said quickly, apologizing, his courage tempered by fear and admiration.


They switched back to Spanish, exchanging polite pleasantries, leaving the room buzzing with confusion over what had just passed. The prince’s personal secretary had fainted mid-exchange.


They moved into the hotel garden, the cool night air easing the tension from the ballroom. Claudia turned sharply to Eduardo and the prince. “What were you talking about?”


The prince glanced at her, a trace of a smile on his lips. “Your brother… he loves you deeply. I envy you. My own brothers… they don’t appreciate me the way he does.”


Eduardo smirked. “Could have tried harder… been a bit more attractive, like Claudia.”


The prince laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “I tried. But alas… some things cannot be overcome. I must have been born too inexperienced.”


Eduardo laughed in return. “Yeah, it sucks. But hey… you can always overcome your small flaws.”


The prince shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Useless. A man’s flaws are countless.”


Eduardo’s expression softened, measured. “Then a man’s job is to focus on the blessings God has granted him… and develop them for the good of all mankind.”


The prince raised an eyebrow. “Have you read many books on the wisdom of the great cadis?”


Eduardo shook his head modestly. “Not really…” But the debate that followed left no doubt: his humility masked deep knowledge. He argued with precision, insight, and authority on topics he was not supposed to know, leaving the prince visibly impressed.


Meanwhile, Valador trailed behind them, Claudia at his side, frowning. He whispered under his breath, “Wtf is going on?”


Eduardo leaned closer to Claudia. “The prince… he apologized. Said my reading his lips was accurate. Claimed Latinos tend to bring out the worst in him—too competitive.”


Claudia laughed, shaking her head. “Damn, brother… you ruined my plan. I was going to seduce the prince, put on some cat ears—maybe even a cat-tail accessory—and take photos of me riding him in that outfit. Then get a sponsor for life.”


The prince’s lips twitched in amusement. “The joke’s on you… if it’s with you, I’d be into that. But we’d need to be married.”


Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, not worth it. Last dowry for me was ten billion.”


The prince laughed—but froze when he realized she was serious. “I can see it… if I had that, I might even pay for it.”


Valador chuckled. “You’ve priced yourself out of the market. Not even the Foxes or the Slims could afford you without taking a real beating. Guess only Gonzalez stands a chance.”


Claudia smirked. “I might choose to stay single.”


The prince sighed dramatically. “Such a waste of true beauty.”


Eduardo rolled his eyes. “Hey, stop being pedantic. Single doesn’t mean celibate!”


Valador shook his head, smirking. “Yeah, but she’d be a black widow. Which man in his right mind would risk bedding your sister when you’re her sting?”


Eduardo shrugged, calm but measured. “I wouldn’t kill her lovers… or beat them. Well… maybe a little. As long as they respected her and gave her what she needed or wanted, I’d be happy for her.”


Claudia whistled. “That damn Switzerland education…”


The prince leaned forward, curiosity bright in his eyes. “Which college?”


Eduardo blinked, feeling his head grow heavy. “Uh… sit down first,” he muttered under his breath, slumping onto a nearby chair. “Maybe I drank too much… wine and champagne are not my thing.”


Valador tossed him a bottle of tequila. Eduardo took a swig, grimaced. “Not my thing either, I guess,” he admitted. “I’ll return to the ball and let you enjoy yourselves… I mean, I’m just muscle, right?”


The prince’s expression softened, impressed. “He’s probably the smartest—or at least the most cultured—person here.”


Eduardo found his father and hugged him. “Did your talk go alright?”


Pablo waved a hand dismissively. “Politicians… darn scum. Lots of promises, no guarantees.”


Eduardo wandered the garden, sampling drinks, when a black bottle caught his eye. The label read Hendricks, and something about it tugged at his memory—he couldn’t place it. Ignoring a warning from a bystander—“If you’re going to drink that poison, better go with Sapphire”—he grabbed the bottle anyway.


Returning to the garden, Eduardo saw Valador had left the prince and Claudia together. Slipping into the shadows, he took a deep swig of gin, the alcohol hitting him harder than usual—he hadn’t slept, hadn’t taken his pills, and his system was overloaded. This feels… right, he thought, even as the world began to tilt.


Claudia leaned toward the prince, teasing. “Would you accept being tied up? I… enjoyed it.”


The prince, inexperienced but eager, nodded. “Of course… I’d do anything for you.”


Claudia’s smirk deepened. “Then can I put a dog leash on you and walk you around?”


Suddenly, the prince barked like a puppy, and Eduardo’s head exploded in a visceral, uncontrollable agony. He screamed, “Shut up, Vidal!”—his instinctive response to the overwhelming shock—and collapsed, unconscious, into the shadows.


Blackness swallowed him. How many months—or was it minutes?—he couldn’t tell. He could feel Claudia’s fingers, delicate but firm, guiding something into his mouth. The taste of the pills lingered as she forced water down his throat.


These pills… he recognized them, the ritual of them. And then, finally, the world surrendered him again. Sleep claimed him, deep and unrelenting, pulling him away from the chaos, the noise, and the memory of the puppy bark that had shattered his head.

 

[Warscared]

their voices hushed as they glanced at Eduardo’s still body.


“What do you think he heard?” Claudia whispered.


Ali frowned. “I don’t know… but when he screamed—‘shut up, Vidal’—his voice…” He shook his head, searching for words. “It was hoarse, raw. Like a rebellion of the soul against something profoundly haram. I’ve never heard anything like it.”


Claudia studied her brother, uneasy. “Then let’s hope he didn’t catch too much. We were talking about things better left unheard.”


Ali exhaled. “Yes. About family. About what I would abandon, or what I would keep.”

Claudia shifted. “Answer me first—are you really ready to abandon your family for me?”


“I would rather wait for my great-grandfather to pass,” Ali said. “Right now my fortune is only a few dozen millions—perhaps a hundred. My yearly cut is four, maybe five million. If my great-grandfather dies, I receive a few hundreds. If my grandfather too… then a few billions. But if you were offered ten billions, why accept a pauper like me?”


“That’s Valador’s spin on how González behaves,” Claudia said. “The real dowry I refused was closer to one billion.”


Ali hugged her and kissed her cheek. “You wicked, devilish woman—tricking me like that. One billion? I’m not sure I can ask my father, but… it’s doable.”


“I won’t convert,” Claudia said.


“My family can be persuaded,” Ali replied, “but without conversion, there is no money.”


“Would you convert for me?”


Ali hesitated. “I’m not particularly religious. The more I learn, the more some rules—no booze, no pork—seem foolish. But leaving the faith is abandoning my family.”



Eduardo stirred, his voice rough but steady. “Ali, your vision of the facts is that of a spoiled brat. Converting to Catholicism wouldn’t be abandoning your religion—it would be transitioning to a new way of worshiping God. It’s the same God, and God is good, right? How can He care for His children who live in desert lands—or lands of chaos, if you prefer—without giving them Islam? It fits their struggle. But for people meant to grow and prosper, Catholicism seems like the better interpretation of God’s words.”


Ali blinked, taken aback.


Eduardo leaned back, smiling faintly. “As for alcohol—it’s only forbidden to those attending the mosque. So if you go out, drink, and enjoy yourself, just don’t bother the ones who are praying. Pretty self-explanatory.”


Eduardo smirked as Ali leaned in, testing him.


“What about pork?” Ali pressed.


Eduardo tilted his head, his smile turning wicked. “That one actually makes sense. Pork used to carry trichinosis and all sorts of parasites. In the old days, without refrigeration or proper cooking, you could rot your guts or worse. It wasn’t divine mystery, it was survival. A smart rule for people living in the desert, where food spoiled fast.”


Ali blinked, momentarily caught off guard.


Eduardo continued, voice low but sharp. “But today? We’ve got fridges, hygiene, medicine. As long as you know how to cook and store it, pork isn’t some cursed flesh—it’s just meat. What was once a health safeguard has become a religious prison.”


Ali exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t.


Eduardo’s eyes were still heavy, his voice rough but steady as he leaned forward.


“Family is a blessing… and a curse,” he said. “Sometimes you have to cut pieces out, but most of the time, you should fight to preserve the links you’ve been given. Few bonds are stronger than blood.”


He reached over and took Claudia’s hand, squeezing it gently, his gaze flicking back to Ali.


“Don’t push them aside. And if they decide to cut you off, let that be on them. But you—” he tapped his own chest with two fingers “—you never close the door on blood.”


For a moment the garden fell into a hush. Eduardo tilted his head at Ali, a faint half-smile tugging at his lips.


“Don’t you have your own version of the prodigal son story?”


Eduardo’s return to school was quiet, almost ceremonial in its understated chaos. He had been absent for a full week, and the halls seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Most teachers—those who had long ago grown tired of his relentless challenges—celebrated in their own silent ways: a subtle eye-roll, a muttered “finally,” a barely-concealed smirk.


Only his philosophy teacher lingered in the doorway, a faint shadow of disappointment crossing her features. She hadn’t exactly mourned his absence, but she had counted the debates, the ferocity of his mind, and the raw, almost mischievous curiosity that always made her classroom feel alive. Without him, the energy had dulled, and she felt it—even if she would never admit it to anyone else.


Eduardo, unfazed, strode through the halls with the same calm arrogance he always carried, completely unaware of the relief—or the disappointment—his presence evoked.


Eduardo leaned back against the lockers, chatting with Marcus and Gonzalez while Rodriguez kept his cautious distance, pretending to be busy with his books.
“So, what’s the deal with Claudia and that Saudi prince?” Marcus asked, grinning like he already smelled gossip. Gonzalez leaned in, waiting for the punchline.
Eduardo smirked. “You should probably ask her best girlfriend… Valador.”
Both boys burst into laughter, drawing a few curious glances down the hall. What Eduardo didn’t notice—at least not right away—was Claudia standing right behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.
“You shouldn’t talk about your best friend like that,” she said, her tone half-scolding, half-amused.
Eduardo turned his head, eyes glinting with that familiar wolfish mischief. “I just feel lucky to be your brother.”
Claudia narrowed her eyes. “And why is that?”
“Or else,” Eduardo said smoothly, flashing a grin, “I’d have been gang-pressed into your harem by now.”
Marcus and Gonzalez exchanged a glance, somewhere between embarrassment and laughter, while Claudia’s cheeks flushed scarlet.


Eduardo’s smirk faltered when he caught sight of a girl a few steps down the hall — Japanese, petite, clutching her books while trying and failing to hide her laughter at the circus unfolding around Claudia and the others.


Their eyes met. Eduardo tilted his head, letting that wolfish grin spread slow and deliberate.


Her cheeks exploded red, and when he started toward her with an easy swagger, she nearly dropped her books.


“Eduardo,” he said smoothly, voice low enough for just her.


The girl stammered something, bowed half a second too late, and bolted down the hall like a startled deer.


Eduardo watched her go, chuckling under his breath. Not the first time a girl panicked and ran from him, but the way she’d flushed…


He licked his teeth, eyes gleaming.


“Well… this one should be fun.”


Eduardo was still grinning when one of the northern boys piped up, catching the direction of his gaze.


“You don’t know her? She’s the daughter of that Japanese car magnate up north. His factory cranks out parts for the American plant in Tennessee — gringo land.”


Another chimed in, smirking, “Government wanted him to stay, so they sweetened the deal. Part of the package was getting his daughter into this place. The most prestigious school in Mexico.”


Eduardo arched a brow, wolfish grin sharpening. “Really? And where exactly is that school? I’d love to go… instead of putting up with idiotic hooligans like you.”


The northerners laughed, some nudging each other, some pretending not to hear the sting. Eduardo’s attention, though, stayed fixed on the direction the girl had fled, already amused by the possibilities.


Claudia’s palm cracked against his arm. “Stop being a moron. You’re twenty-one, hanging out with eighteen-year-olds. So who’s the idiot here?”


Eduardo just smirked, rubbing the spot. “Not my fault my degree from Switzerland is still being gatekept from recognition. The army won’t take it, so I’ve gotta start over. New degree, same circus.”


Claudia rolled her eyes. “Excuses.”


Before he could fire back, Valador strolled up with his usual grin. “Come on, we’ve got Spanish next.”


Eduardo sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “Fantastic. One of my worst classes. As if today wasn’t already trying to kill me.”


Valador clapped him on the back, laughing. “Don’t worry, hermano. You butcher it so badly it’s entertainment for the rest of us.”


The Spanish teacher leveled her gaze at Eduardo. “How the hell can you speak English, French, even Portuguese—and yet you can’t grasp your mother tongue?”


Eduardo shrugged. “Too many years in Switzerland. Honestly, I’m better at German grammar than Castilian grammar.”


“Spanish!” she roared, cheeks reddening. “Stop calling it Castilian, you freakishly tall, attractive man…” Her voice trailed off, blush deepening, and she hurriedly ended the class.


As they filed out, Valador elbowed him. “So… you gonna nail the Spanish teacher or what?”


Claudia rolled her eyes. “She practically admitted she’d love it.”


Eduardo smirked. “Yeah, maybe… thirty pounds ago.”


That earned a sharp intake of breath from one of the Fox girls nearby. “Fat doesn’t mean rich, you gnome!”


Valador facepalmed. “Dude. Don’t piss off the rich girls. If you ever run for office, you’ll want their families’ money and support.”


Eduardo raised his hands, mock-innocent. “I’m not disparaging rich girls—just the fat ones.”


She fled the hallway, cheeks burning. Eduardo de la Casa is such an asshole.


Once, she and Claudia had been inseparable. Now, even his sister barely spoke to them. These de la Casa men were too arrogant, too untouchable. If Eduardo hadn’t been so damned attractive, she might have begged her father to put him in his place. But force against a military family? That never ended well.


She had lived in Mexico long enough to understand: money gave her visibility, but real power—the kind the de la Casas wielded—couldn’t be bought. Muscle could be hired, yes, but their influence ran deeper, rooted in blood, service, and legacy.


Valador had crossed her mind as a potential husband, but it was obvious he was falling head over heels for Claudia. And Eduardo…


Ever since the first time she laid eyes on him, she had dreamed of marrying him. Yet her mother’s voice haunted her: His grandmother refused our proposal. That path is closed.


And still, she couldn’t help it. Every time he smirked, every time his careless arrogance cut through a room, she felt the sting of rejection—yet still wanted him all the more.


Ruth Fox poured her complaints out as if unburdening a heavy chest, her new confidante listening quietly.


Miss Wagyu had only recently arrived, grateful to find someone friendly, and Ruth had been all too welcoming. But she noticed a pattern quickly—every conversation circled back to Eduardo de la Casa. His arrogance, his looks, his cutting words.


It wasn’t lost on Wagyu that Ruth’s old best friend had been Claudia de la Casa herself. The shift was clear: Ruth had lost Claudia’s closeness and was clinging to her as a sort of replacement.


Still, what struck Wagyu most was when Ruth, in one of her long rants, admitted she had even thought of offering Claudia’s hand to her rich cousin. And considering how wealthy the fox were already… just how rich was that man, if ruth herself called him the rich cousin?


Wagyu filed it away in silence. Ruth might be using her as a sounding board, but there was information here—patterns, power, family ties. All circling, inevitably, around Eduardo.

 

[Warscared]

Gonzalez, Rodriguez, and Marcus were debating how good they truly were in sports.


“I was the best goalkeeper at my private college,” Rodriguez boasted.


“I was the fastest guy on track at my school,” Gonzalez countered.


Marcus smirked. “Me too.”


Immediately, the three started challenging each other, voices rising.


Eduardo rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Claudia isn’t even here. Besides, your personal records are shit anyway. Let me guess—whenever you ran, everyone else stayed behind, got left in the dust, or someone got shot in the leg?”


Marcus bristled. “Of course not… but his dad had a weird accident.”


Gonzalez added, “The only time I lost was when the kid’s father lost his job… and his house… and his wife. The kid and the father ended up living in poverty. So Eduardo, don’t mess with me—it’s a bad look to piss him off.”


Rodriguez threw his hands up. “You two morons… cartel kids don’t even understand when the world is handed to them on a silver plate!”


Both cartel kids smirked, unbothered.


Rodriguez shook his head. “And I’m the bad guy.”


Eduardo raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you shouldn’t get involved in shady business with government contracts. Wasn’t your father’s company tied to fifteen corruption scandals in the last ten years?”


Rodriguez shrugged. “That’s how it’s done in Mexico. We get painted as the bad guys, but either we pay, or the contracts go to others who provide worse services at higher prices. Does anyone thank my family? No. We’re assholes… while it’s the politicians forcing people to pay or starve.”


“Poor rich boys,” Eduardo said, eyes flicking between them.


Marcus laughed. “Eduardo, you’re funny. Your family’s always sucked at everything except violence. And now you’re bitching about those who pay their taxes to enable your good life?”


Eduardo smirked. “My family is just the most cost-effective monopoly on violence. People pay us to keep assholes in line.”


Rodriguez frowned. “The situation in Mexico doesn’t exactly speak well for your family.”


Eduardo shrugged. “Guess they don’t pay enough. Federales make a fifth of what a cartel enforcer earns. And the cartel enforcers outnumber them by how many? With the funding my father has, it’s a wonder the cartels are on the defensive. Most cops are corrupt anyway, working for the cartels. Mexico City breathes on a low budget thanks to my family… so enjoy the peace we provide.”


Eduardo stood, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “Look, money spent on police and courts… it’s like putting money into factories of social peace and security. If you don’t invest enough, there won’t be enough peace or security being produced. And if you hire bad workers, use rotten raw materials, or ignore the best technology… well, producing security and social peace becomes damn near impossible.”


He paused, letting the words sink in. “That’s why my family gets paid. We don’t just muscle people around—we run the production line.”


Valador appeared, flanked by the two northern guys. “Hey, I asked my uncle—he’ll let us have a party at his mansion, pool included! You two cartel kids are not invited, though. It’s just for Rodriguez and Eduardo.”


Marcus and Gonzalez immediately started complaining about the constant discrimination.


“Sorry, guys,” Valador said, “my uncle can’t be connected to the cartels in any way or form.”

As usual, Marcus and Gonzalez started whining about the constant discrimination, rolling their eyes and muttering complaints.

Rodriguez laughed. Eduardo, arms crossed, interjected: “I won’t go if Marcus and Gonzalez aren’t coming.”


Valador groaned. “Fine, but if you don’t come, Claudia won’t either… so you two violent idiots? Cap and sunglasses only. And if any pictures of you show up in newspapers or magazines, I’ll revoke your rights.”


Gonzalez blinked. “What rights?”


Valador smirked. “I’ll think of something if you fuck up.”


Valador went on to invite everyone he was interested in—Claudia, the Slim girls, the Fox girls, and all the other attractive students in school. The announcement caused a stir; whispers, giggles, and pointed glances filled the room. Even Marcus and Gonzalez, still grumbling about their “discrimination,” had to acknowledge the party would be unforgettable—though they weren’t invited.


Eduardo simply watched, smirking slightly, as the girls buzzed with excitement, mentally taking note of who would be at the pool, who might be flirtatious, and which alliances might shift by the end of the night.


Eduardo grabbed the family car from his grandparents’ home and roared off toward the school to pick up Gonzalez, Marcus, and Claudia.


As the boys asked about the driver, he shot them a grin. “That’s for pussies,” he said, slamming the gear into drive.


The old tin groaned under his antics as he hurtled down the street. “This car has no reaction speed! If only I could get my hands on my SL500 Silver Arrow…” His mind buzzed for a moment, lost in the memory.


Gonzalez leaned forward, curious. “Wait… is that the car you drove in Switzerland?”


Eduardo shrugged, eyes on the road. “I don’t remember… but it feels about right.”


The car groaned again, but Eduardo only laughed, pressing the accelerator harder.


When they arrived at Valador’s uncle’s house, Gonzalez, Marcus, and Eduardo couldn’t help but gape. “Wait… is this Obrador’s house?”


Valador stood at the door, grinning. “Eduardo, drive around back. No way those two hoodlums get to enter through the front.”


Claudia slid out of the car and joined Valador at the door, leaving Eduardo to maneuver the car around the rear entrance.


Inside, Ali Ibn Hassan was already speaking with Claudia. As Eduardo and the boys entered, Ali greeted them warmly, hugging each in turn.


“Valador,” Ali asked, eyebrows raised, “why are you having a pool party at Obrador’s mansion?”


Valador shrugged. “My cousin Pena refused me.”


Marcus’s jaw dropped. “Wait… are you connected to everyone that matters in government, congress, and the senate?”


Valador laughed. “Of course not. There are at least thirteen senators I have no familial connection to, plus… well, a bunch of congressmen. But the important ones? Either family or close friends. For example, my cousin Pena is my cousin because his daughter married my cousin.”


The group exchanged knowing looks, impressed and slightly overwhelmed by the tangled web of connections.


Eduardo looked at Ali. “So the reason Obrador allowed you to have a party is because you told him it was a diplomatic approach to us? And you decided to use Claudia to get him here while showing off your connections to impress the girls?”


Ali interjected, a slight smile on his face. “Pretty much… except for the small detail that the bait Valador used to attract me is the same girl he’s trying to impress.”


Valador blushed slightly. “So now I have to protect Claudia from her entire harem gathered here instead of enjoying myself.”


Claudia laughed and departed. When she returned, her bikini was scandalously skimpy, leaving the other girls uncomfortable with just how hot she looked.


Eduardo facepalmed. “Fuck my life… Claudia, what is that thing? You lost your swimsuit and decided to knot together some strings and pretend it’s a bathing suit?”


Claudia tilted her head. “It’s my new bikini. What’s wrong with it?”


Before Eduardo could reply, all the guys around shouted at once, “Nothing at all! It’s a gift from the heavens!”


Eduardo grabbed a towel and wrapped it carefully around his sister. “If any of you start drooling,” he warned the surrounding boys, “I’ll start smacking heads. Maybe I should ask one of the girls to lend you a decent bathing suit.”


Claudia rolled her eyes and shouted, “Hurry up and put on your swimming trunks!” before deftly evading Eduardo and leaping into the pool.


Eduardo settled onto a poolside bed, arms crossed, and pondered life. If she weren’t his sister, he could easily imagine trying to seduce her… fuck, she was hotter than he’d like to admit. Thankfully, his nether regions stayed cooperative—blessing the laws of biology in this particular instance.


Just then, Wagyu approached, hesitating for a moment before speaking. “Sorry for running away last time… I was just… surprised.”


Without noticing, Eduardo responded in Japanese, his voice casual yet friendly. A conversation quickly blossomed between them, flowing effortlessly, while around them the other boys and girls returned from the house, laughing, splashing, and diving into the pool.


Eduardo continued talking with Wagyu, completely absorbed, when suddenly Ruth and Claudia approached, peering at them curiously. “WTF is that language you’re using?” Claudia asked, her brow raised.


Eduardo blinked, realization dawning. He’d skipped into Japanese without even noticing, speaking fluently but entirely unconsciously. “Oh… uh… Japanese,” he admitted, a bit embarrassed.


Wagyu laughed, cheeks flushing. “Your Japanese is so amazing… you even use hillbilly Japanese!”


Eduardo smirked, shaking his head. “It’s not an accent—I’m just… speaking Japanese.”


Wagyu’s flustered expression deepened. “Wait… this is your Japanese? I thought you were joking with me, trying to make me laugh and feel at ease!”


Eduardo’s wolfish grin softened into something almost mischievous. “No joke,” he said, letting her realize just how effortlessly he could shift between languages.


Ruth and Claudia exchanged a glance, half impressed, half exasperated, as Eduardo and Wagyu resumed their conversation, the pool parties chaos swirling around them like background music.


Claudia slipped up behind Eduardo, wrapping her arms around him in a warm, firm hug. “I understand if you don’t want to go into the pool,” she whispered, her voice soft and full of emotion. “But… I’m so happy you came with me.”


Ruth tilted her head, curious. “Why wouldn’t he want to swim?”


Claudia’s eyes glimmered with unspilled tears. “Eduardo… he almost drowned after that ambush. He might still be scared of the water… or maybe he doesn’t want anyone to see the scars from it.”


She hugged him tighter, pressing her lips to the back of his head. Eduardo remained still, letting her warmth ground him, while Wagyu, standing a few feet away, stared in surprise. She hadn’t realized the full extent of what Eduardo had survived—an ambush by cartel men—and yet he was here, unbroken.


The pool party carried on around them, the laughter and splashing of the other students a distant echo compared to the quiet intensity of that moment.


Once Claudia joined Eduardo, the rest of the guys sauntered over, grinning and teasing, daring him to jump into the pool. Claudia immediately stepped forward, her protective instincts flaring. “Don’t even think about it!” she warned, but Eduardo simply stood, calm, and began unbuttoning his shirt.


The first thing everyone noticed was his skin—pale, almost luminous under the sunlight. Ruth’s eyes went wide. “Are you a vampire… from Twilight?” she blurted. Eduardo smirked, letting the comment slide.


The second thing they noticed was his physique. Not just tall, but sculpted—muscles that rippled with every subtle movement. The boys exchanged glances, whispering, “How the hell does he stay like that?”


The third thing was more somber: the scars. Bullet wounds, knife slashes, even what looked like a dog bite on his right arm. Claudia reached out, tracing the patterns with her finger, her voice soft. “I took care of you for months while you recovered. I know all of them.”


Wagyu, standing close, suddenly felt the weight of it all and tears sprang to her eyes. “It must have hurt so much, Eduardo…” she whispered, stepping forward to hug him from the front. Claudia tightened her embrace from behind, wrapping him completely. Eduardo was caught, immobilized by their simultaneous care and warmth, a mix of protection, relief, and unspoken gratitude pressing in from both sides.


Gonzalez, ever accustomed to seeing men bear gun wounds, squinted at Eduardo’s torso and asked casually, “How many fights have you been in?”


Claudia’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and protective. “What do you mean?” she demanded.


Gonzalez waved a hand, unphased. “I’ve always had the best bodyguards. Seeing scars and bullet wounds like these… it doesn’t shock me. But yours—these are not from the same fight. From reading the body, I’d say at least seven different wounds from different times.”


Eduardo’s mind went sharp with pain, a sudden throb behind his eyes. It’s all from the ambush… it’s what my father told me… he thought, gripping the edge of the pool bed.


He glanced at Claudia. Her confusion mirrored his own, the protective fire in her eyes clashing with the dawning uncertainty. Both stared at Gonzalez, unsure how to reconcile what they were seeing with the truth of what Eduardo had endured.


Wagyu gently grabbed Eduardo’s arm. “Come on,” she said, tugging him toward the pool. “You’ve been so tense—I got nervous. You need to relax.”


Before he could protest, she pulled him forward, and they leapt into the water together. The splash broke the weight of the afternoon, and for a brief moment, Eduardo felt the darkness lift from his face.


Wagyu laughed, splashing water toward him. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves! Not brood over scars and ambushes.”


Eduardo surfaced, coughing and laughing despite himself, the sunlight dancing on the rippling water. Claudia watched from the edge, a small, relieved smile tugging at her lips, while Wagyu continued to chatter, keeping him distracted, coaxing him into the lighthearted chaos of the pool party.


Ruth splashed water at Claudia, glaring. “First he steals my best friend, now he’s stealing my new friend? Your brother is such an asshole!”


Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Is that truly how you feel?” she asked, remembering the time Ruth had demanded to meet Eduardo after spotting him in a high-class magazine.

remembering the time Ruth’s mother had formally requested Eduardo’s hand in marriage from Claudia’s grandmother—which had been denied.


Claudia asked, “Wasn’t your mother refused for his hand in marriage?”


Ruth admitted, blushing, “I… I find him attractive. I wouldn’t mind having a baby with him!”


Claudia laughed, shaking her head.


Ruth continued, smirking, “We’d be true sisters if I mothered your nephew.”


Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Ruth… I know what the relationship is between you and your two sisters. I prefer to keep being your friend, thank you very much!”

Meanwhile, Eduardo and Wagyu were swimming around each other, splashing and holding onto each other, laughing as they playfully twirled through the water, completely absorbed in their own little world.

 

[Driver9r]

 

[Warscared]

Eduardo sat back on the pool chair and squeezed sunscreen into his palms before carefully spreading it across Wagyu’s shoulders. She shivered under his touch and whispered, almost pleading,


“Please… sunbae…”


Eduardo’s eyebrow arched with curiosity, his lips curling into a half-smile. He leaned closer, his voice low in her ear.


“Call me oppa.”


Wagyu’s face went scarlet, her whole body stiffening before she pushed at his chest weakly.


“You… you also read that Korean garbage?”


Something about her words stirred a strange familiarity inside him—like a faint bell ringing from somewhere he couldn’t quite recall. Eduardo only smirked.


“Sure… Wagyu-ssi.”


She shot him a sly smirk back, calling him without hesitation, “Pervert.”


The rest of the afternoon, they were practically glued to each other—switching between Spanish, Japanese, and now even Korean. They debated manga, argued over favorite characters, and even dove into the not safe for work titles, making them laugh in hushed tones while the others splashed about in the pool.


“I never expected to meet someone like you in Mexico,” Wagyu admitted softly, her eyes glowing with both surprise and something else she couldn’t name.


Their laughter carried them inside when they went together to fetch more beers for everyone. And there, away from the noise of the party, their words slowed, their eyes locked, and Eduardo leaned down. Wagyu didn’t run this time. Their first kiss was clumsy but electric, sealing the bond that had sparked between them only hours before.


Eduardo stretched and stood, announcing casually,
“Wagyu’s not feeling well—probably too much sun. I’ll take her back to the dorms.”


Immediately, Gonzalez and Marcus groaned in unison.
“Hey, that’s our ride!”


Claudia cut them off with a smirk sharp enough to slice glass.
“Shut up, idiots. We can grab a cab or an Uber. Let my brother enjoy his prime steak.”


Wagyu flushed crimson at Claudia’s teasing, ducking her head. Ruth, on the other hand, looked at both girls with pure venom in her eyes, her nails biting into her palms as she watched Eduardo and Wagyu leave together. Eduardo noticed none of it—his gaze never left Wagyu, and the tent in his shorts left little room for interpretation.


Once in the car, Eduardo drove in silence, his knuckles tight on the wheel. He pulled into a quiet park, engine still humming, and turned to her with a wolfish grin.


“So… are we sticking to tradition? Straight to a love motel?”


Wagyu’s breath caught. Her cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin just enough to answer,
“If… that’s what my sunbae wishes…”


Eduardo stopped. His eyes locked onto hers with a piercing intensity, drilling past her words into her very core. Wagyu squirmed under that gaze, then, almost instinctively, corrected herself in a trembling whisper:


“If… oppa wishes to.”


Eduardo’s grin widened, satisfied. He leaned in, kissed her hard, then shifted gears. The car rolled out of the park, headlights cutting through the night as they drove off toward something that neither of them was ready to name—but both of them craved.

from the girls point of view!


Eduardo didn’t bother to lower his voice when he’d made his little declaration. It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t even a boast—it was a fact. And when Wagyu didn’t rebuff him, didn’t deny or deflect, everyone present understood exactly what was about to happen.


So did she.


She’d read those stories, the manga where one step leads to another, where a girl’s silence is its own kind of answer. Her name didn’t help either—Wagyu, prime steak. Claudia’s teasing words echoed in her head, and all she could do was blush.


By the time Eduardo’s car rolled away from the mansion, the destination was clear to both of them. They weren’t just going for a ride.


They were going for a meal.


Ruth stood frozen, watching the taillights vanish into the street. Her nails bit into her palm.


All her life, she’d been the one boys tripped over themselves to impress. They didn’t want her, not really—they wanted the Fox fortune, the status, the glitter that clung to her name. But Eduardo? Eduardo hadn’t bent, hadn’t begged, hadn’t so much as looked twice at her when she dangled her wealth. He mocked, he ignored, he cut right through her veneer like it was nothing.


And now he was driving off with that girl.
That skinny little Japanese cow. Wagyu. Her father wasn’t even old money, just a corporate lackey—a general director who happened to land in Mexico by government favor. Nothing compared to the Fox empire.


Ruth’s lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. Fine. If Eduardo wanted a challenge, she’d give him one. For once in her life, she’d fight for something instead of having it handed to her.


Tomorrow she’d join a gym.
Tomorrow she’d stop letting herself drift in silk and sugar.


If he wanted discipline, beauty, fire—she would forge it. And she swore, watching those taillights disappear, that Eduardo de la Casa would look at her the way he had just looked at Wagyu.


Or she’d burn the whole game down trying.

Claudia sat apart from the laughter around the pool, her towel still damp where Eduardo had wrapped it around her earlier. She could still feel the ghost of his warmth in it.


Her brother. Her miracle. Her shield.


It had only been months since she’d even learned he existed, months since she’d watched over him in that fragile, broken state when the cartel’s bullets had nearly taken him. She had nursed him, clothed him, guarded his dreams from nightmares—and in return, he had given her something she had thought lost forever: safety.


Not the false safety of guards with guns, not the conditional safety of money or alliances. Real safety. The kind a man gives when he loves without lust, when he protects without wanting something in return.


Her idea of a man had never been her father. Never. It had been her grandfather—the old lion who had raised her after the gunfire that took her mother, after the security detail fell one by one. The night she’d learned what loss meant.


Now Eduardo was here. Flesh and blood. Hers. And she wasn’t going to lose him to some nobody girl with painted nails, and certainly not to a foreigner who knew nothing of their blood, their history, their cost.

Even Ruth…


Claudia’s eyes flicked toward her childhood friend, watching the way Ruth fumed while sneaking glances at Eduardo. On paper, Ruth was perfect: old money, respected name, the kind of girl their families would nod approvingly at. But Eduardo wasn’t attracted to her. Too short, too chubby, too spoiled and convinced of her own importance. He didn’t see her as a prize—he barely saw her at all.



Because Eduardo needed guidance. He needed someone to steer him toward the right wife, the right family, the right alliance. If Claudia didn’t shape his path, someone else would—and she would not risk losing him after she had invested her heart, her time, her very sense of safety into him.


Her thoughts broke when she noticed movement.


One by one, they came. Ali ibn Hasan, with his foreign charm. Valador, grinning too wide. Marcus, Gonzalez, even the northern boys. They hovered around her like planets circling a sun, bearing offerings—cookies, sodas, slices of cake stolen from the catering trays.


They placed them at her feet as if she were a queen enthroned. And Claudia—Eduardo’s sister, the girl who had once cried herself to sleep for want of protection—let herself enjoy it.


It felt good. It felt powerful.


But power unguarded is a temptation. Power without Eduardo at her back was dangerous. She knew this, deep in her bones. Still, for now… she leaned into the attention, smiling faintly as her little harem hung on her every gesture.


Because with Eduardo standing behind her, none of these boys could ever take her against her will.


And that was the difference between power… and ruin.


After that day, Eduardo and Wagyu were officially a couple. She was always dropping by the boys’ dorm, without fail bringing him a neatly packed bento for lunch. He, in turn, made her tremble with his shameless public displays of affection. Her grades in philosophy took a small dip under the distraction, but whenever that happened Eduardo took matters into his own hands.


He would corner their philosophy teacher after class, sparring with her for hours in fierce debates over ethics, society, and the human condition. Sometimes they’d leave together, share tapas or light dinners, and by the next day Wagyu’s “rightful” grades had mysteriously been restored.


Meanwhile, Eduardo had purchased a ridiculous Robin Hood hat, complete with a bright red feather. It became an unspoken signal among the boys in his dorm: when the hat was on the door, the room was strictly out of order. Even so, thin walls told no lies—anyone who understood Japanese could make out Wagyu’s flustered screams: “Don’t lick there, it’s dirty!” or “That tickles!” or the ever-damning “Oppa, please…!”


Eduardo was, for once, happy. A girlfriend who doted on him. A sister he trusted completely. Friends—strange, violent, or spoiled as they were—who made life interesting.


And yet, the shadows still haunted him.


He could recall fragments of Switzerland, hazy figures and moments before his memory had been shattered, but never a single day of school. No classrooms, no teachers, no corridors. Nothing. As if an entire chapter of his life had been erased or locked away. Sometimes headaches came, sharp and burning, whenever he remembered things he shouldn’t know.


But Wagyu was always there. She never let him skip his pills, always pressed the tablets into his hand with that earnest look that mixed worry and devotion. Her presence steadied him, even when the gaps in his past loomed like holes in a map.


From the outskirts, a young man from a native tribe watched the central group with a mixture of awe and bitterness. Life, he thought, had never been fair. Around Eduardo and Claudia, the rich, powerful, and well-connected flocked like moths to a flame. All these people had amassed their wealth and influence through generations—but these two siblings? Their only inheritance was a talent for violence and an unyielding strength. Yet the privileged circled them, drawn to the symbols of oppression, to the very hands that had broken his people’s backs time and again.


It wasn’t ancient history, either. Less than fifty years ago, the siblings’ grandfather had been the general who crushed his tribe’s rebellion. And now, politicians and greedy industrialists hid behind those cold, frozen blue eyes, relying on the unbending will of the family to shield their corruption from the rightful wrath of the dispossessed. Mexico’s problems weren’t only in crooked officials or cartels—they were preserved, protected, by the strength of those who could enforce the law of the powerful with their own hands. Not even the cartels dared to cross them.


Even now, two of the cartel profiteers hovered near the De La Casa siblings, seeking shelter beneath their wings, hoping to bask in the reflected glory of the “straw heads.” Valador approached the young tribal man with vague promises of influence: one day, he claimed, the boy could become a mayor, then a governor. He would even have the liberty to choose from which of the three major parties to run. For a village forced to walk ten extra miles to fetch water, there was never a cent of support—but for a campaign to elevate a future governor into the system’s pockets? The Foxes, the Slims, and the industrialists would line up to contribute.


What could he do? Accept the proposal? Valador’s network showed that no real opposition existed. Perhaps the communists, but even there, three of the politburo members were connected to Valador. There was no democratic escape from the quagmire. Mexico’s corruption, the young man realized, would endure—not because of weakness, but because of the unassailable strength of the few who wielded it without compromise.


Valador leaned in, serious. “I need one of you—Claudia or Eduardo—for a favor. There’s a crucial election happening in Oaxaca. My uncle asked for support, and having a de la Casa backing the government candidate could make all the difference.”


Claudia raised an eyebrow. “Of course your uncle Peña is against it.”


Valador smirked. “Naturally. But the opposing candidate isn’t part of my network, so even a small favor from Obrador himself would be useful. Let me introduce Joseph—he’s a native of the region and part of the delegation. If we secure this city, we can flip the state for the government party. They’ll probably lose the next elections anyway, which is even better—a new power base.”


He glanced at Eduardo. “I was actually considering this state for you, but since your family wouldn’t approve… well, we move on.”


Gonzalez frowned. “If it’s the city I’m thinking of, he better quit. It’s too dangerous—Sinaloa and Huesca have been fighting over it. It’s an important route, protected by MS-13, paid by Sinaloa, but Huesca is no joke.”


“If a de la Casa intervenes and gets injured… people won’t be thanking you, Valador, for creating a war there,” Marcus added.


Marcus’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing. “My sweet Claudia isn’t going.”


Gonzalez crossed his arms, nodding. “I’m with Marcus. No way.”


Even Eduardo, normally more measured, added, “I agree. That’s too dangerous.”


Claudia’s eyes narrowed, her voice calm but steel-edged. “A de la Casa goes wherever he wills in Mexico.”


The three men froze for a moment, realizing that no argument, no concern, could sway her when it came to family agency.


Claudia stepped closer to Joseph, the native man from Oaxaca, her presence commanding yet effortless. She held his arm lightly, just enough to guide his attention, and smiled, letting her emerald eyes catch the sunlight.


“Tell me about your region,” she asked softly, her voice melodic yet curious.


Joseph found himself captivated almost instantly. Those eyes—so vivid, so unlike the piercing diamond gaze of Eduardo—drew him in, disarming him. Her hair, burnished gold in the afternoon light, shimmered like liquid sun. Against his own darker skin and hair, it seemed to glow, a radiant contrast that left him momentarily speechless.


He stammered, trying to collect himself, yet every word he managed to speak was colored by the quiet awe of being near her.


Claudia’s perfume drifted toward Joseph, making him inhale deeply, a dazed smile spreading across his face like an idiot lost in light. Eduardo, standing beside them, cut in sharply, his voice low and deadly serious: “No liberties with my sister, or I’ll take my liberty with your balls, shove them down your throat, and turn you into a woman.”


Joseph froze, caught between the radiant warmth of Claudia’s presence—her arm in his, her laugh like sunlight—and the glacial, unyielding glare of Eduardo, a man who had just threatened him with absolute certainty he would act on his word. Even the cartel boys, hardened by a lifetime of violence, stiffened, taken aback by the obsessive level of protection Eduardo extended to his sister.


Claudia shivered slightly at the coldness in Eduardo’s tone but quickly shook it off with a mock laugh. “her brother’s a bit overprotective,” she told Joseph.


Joseph, still smiling, blurted out, “Understandable… you´re so beautiful, like a princess in a fairy tale!”


Valador chuckled, shaking his head. “Darn, Claudia, don’t you already have enough suitors? Are you perhaps Helen of Troy? Ten thousand cartel speed boats coming just to fight for your beauty?”


Marcus rolled his eyes. “I’m no longer in the cartel.”


Gonzalez smirked. “We’ve upgraded—jets now, not speedboats.”


Joseph couldn’t decide where to look. On one side, Claudia’s warmth and charm radiated like a sun he had never seen, pulling him into a daze. Her laughter, the light in her emerald eyes, the soft burnished gold of her hair—it all made him dizzy. On the other, Eduardo’s presence slammed into him like ice: sheer, unyielding strength, the kind of ruthless certainty that scared even hardened men. The words about his balls reverberated in his mind like a warning bell he couldn’t ignore.


A country boy from a minority, sent here only because of Valador’s request, Joseph felt swallowed by the two of them. One side a fairy tale princess, the other a frozen enforcer, and he was trapped in the narrow space between. His confidence crumbled, replaced by the sharp clarity of fear and awe.


Finally, he understood. This was why the De la Casas commanded attention, loyalty, and power without ever holding formal office. This was why everyone, even the boldest and wealthiest, gravitated to them. They didn’t need to announce dominance—it radiated. And it was terrifying.


Even the cartel boys, toughened by years of violence, looked on in quiet awe. Joseph swallowed, knowing that trying to act boldly here would get him flattened—and yet, somehow, the warmth of Claudia’s smile made him want to step closer anyway.


Eduardo leaned close to Claudia, his voice low but teasing. “So… if you wanted to do it with one of your suitors, what am I supposed to do? Move you to the United Arab Emirates?”


Claudia laughed, tilting her head. “I could see myself living in Doha or Dubai.”


Eduardo smirked, the smirk of someone who had read too much and liked to show it. “Sharjah, actually. And whenever you wanted to go out, I’d accompany you. You could try all the latest Middle Eastern fashion gadgets… you know, that brand new brand that all women wear the burkah.” He winked, letting the joke land.


Claudia chuckled, shaking her head at him, but Joseph couldn’t help noticing more than just the humor. Eduardo and Wagyu moved like this all the time — openly, brazenly, flaunting the rules the school officially enforced. Sexual encounters, whispered jokes, bending curfews, even casual drinking after classes — everything that would get anyone else in trouble was treated like a casual game for them. And Wagyu? She didn’t even bother being quiet, thinking the walls were soundproof, while everyone else could hear exactly what was happening.


Joseph felt the bitter pulse of resentment. It wasn’t that he wanted Eduardo’s attention or Wagyu’s companionship — it was the audacity, the privilege, the casual defiance. If he tried even half of what they did, he’d be caught, ratted out, and forced to spend a fortune on hotels outside of school. Yet here they were, laughing and joking as if the rules didn’t exist.


“And they get to do it every day,” Joseph thought, clenching his fists lightly, “while the rest of us have to obey every line in the handbook.”


The group caught a plane to Oaxaca — a public aircraft being used privately for political purposes. Gonzalez did not come; he explained it was too dangerous, though he would warn the commander anyway. Marcus stayed behind as well; his family refused to allow him to travel without twenty armed mercenaries, and even then, the risk was too high.


Joseph, the native man, complained quietly about the misuse of public funds. “This is an abuse,” he muttered, glancing at the sleek interior of the plane. He was also irritated by Gonzalez’s earlier comment about the MS13 — “Savages on the payroll, sure, but still monsters.” Joseph bristled, thinking not all native communities were like that. “We’re not all monsters,” he said.


Eduardo could feel a simmering bloodlust at the mention of the gang, instincts carved into him to hate the name itself. Valador, trying to smooth things over, asked Joseph if he’d prefer losing two days driving instead. Eduardo shook his head. “The bus system is poor, the Platino service is just barely adequate, but still — trains connect a nation. Their absence is a statement of disrespect. Politicians claim to love this country, but they don’t build the bonds that make it whole.”


Claudia rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. Good thing you’re not running, or someone would probably assassinate you for saying that.”


So, the group that boarded the plane was Joseph, Valador, Eduardo, Claudia, and Wagyu — the others were left behind. The power dynamics were clear: Marcus and Gonzalez had legitimate reasons to stay away, but Joseph couldn’t help noticing the disparity. The siblings’ influence, their control over the elite circles, and their unspoken authority made even a politically aware man like Joseph uneasy. The legacy of the de la Casas, combined with inherited prestige and sheer force of personality, towered above everyone else, even those born into power or wealth.


On the flight to Oaxaca, Wagyu rested her head against Eduardo’s shoulder, her eyes full of pure affection, almost addicted to the scent of him. Meanwhile, Eduardo was deep in conversation with Joseph, cheering every time the young native discovered something new about his own region: the climate, the local cultures, the ongoing archaeological digs. Joseph was astonished — Eduardo knew things even a local like him didn’t, from ancient Mayan scripts to subtle dialectical differences.


At one point, Joseph asked, incredulous, “How do you know all this?”


Eduardo glanced at him like he’d asked a strange question. “Because I care to learn. Who wouldn’t want to learn these things? They’re incredible.”


Valador and Claudia smirked knowingly. Joseph wasn’t part of the “general class” — that was reserved for lazy students who hadn’t picked a major. As a scholarship student, Joseph was already in the engineering track. The conversation quickly shifted to hydraulics, the ancient Aztec floating gardens, and how such systems could be implemented today. Both boys eagerly brainstormed solutions to global problems.


“If only we had the power,” Joseph complained.
“If only we had the money,” Eduardo added.


Two hours passed like this, with ideas flowing as freely as the conversation. Then Wagyu subtly brushed against Eduardo, signaling she needed him. Eduardo rose, feigning a trip for snacks — though they were in the opposite direction of where he headed.


Within two minutes, Wagyu excused herself to use the bathroom, taking the same path Eduardo had pretended to take. The last thing Joseph saw was Eduardo sweeping her up by the collar and pulling her into the airplane bathroom.


Fucking hell, these two.


Joseph looked uncertain.


“Claudia… that brute of a brother of yours… is he really like this?”


Claudia bristled. “Like what?”


Joseph hesitated, trying to explain. “So… combative, cultured, smart… it’s like his public image and who he truly is are completely opposite. He can analyze problems down to the minutiae, yet… in person, he’s overwhelming.”


Valador chuckled. “Eduardo’s like a coin. One side is bravery, strength, and looks. The other? A genius who could make a physics teacher cry for being called incompetent.”


Claudia smirked. “Or a philosophy teacher… spread her legs,” she added teasingly.


Joseph frowned. “Aren’t the bathroom doors supposed to be soundproof?”


Valador raised an eyebrow. “Yeah… why?”


A faint moan carried through the plane. Joseph’s eyes widened. “Because of this… how hard can he be on such a fragile girl?”


Claudia shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She can handle it. Wagyu actually spoke highly of my brother’s… prowess.”


Valador grinned. “Well, in Switzerland, prostitution is legal. He probably got all the experience he needed there.”


Joseph laughed nervously, while Claudia flushed, clearly annoyed at the suggestion that Eduardo would pay for anything.


When Eduardo and Wagyu returned from the bathroom, she was a little disheveled, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, hair slightly mussed. Eduardo, on the other hand, looked perfectly composed—like nothing had happened.


They both offered quick apologies. Wagyu mumbled, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to—” and Eduardo interrupted with a small smirk, “All good. No harm done.”


Wagyu, still flustered, grabbed a handful of snacks and practically devoured them, cheeks turning even redder with every bite. Joseph and Valador exchanged knowing glances, trying hard not to laugh at her embarrassment.


Claudia rolled her eyes, though the corner of her lips betrayed a small smile. “Typical Wagyu,” she muttered. “Always making a scene, but we love her anyway.”


Joseph shook his head. “I swear… how can one girl cause so much chaos and make him look like the calmest person alive?”


Valador just laughed. “That’s Eduardo for you. Chaos follows him… but somehow, he makes it all look effortless.”


They landed in Oaxaca and moved toward the political rally. Wagyu stayed close behind Eduardo, quietly following him. Some of the locals noticed her and whispered, “Who’s the foreigner?”


Eduardo’s gaze swept the crowd calmly. “It’s either her or your daughter,” he said, voice steady. “A man has needs. This way, I respect you.”


The words hit the crowd with a mixture of shock and relief. In a land where the powerful sometimes took liberties with wives and daughters, here was a man who openly admitted desire but drew a clear line. The honesty, and the respect behind it, made the peasants relax just a little, sensing a rare code of honor in this “blanco.”


Claudia stepped forward, trying to make an impassioned speech, but her voice wavered—she was clearly still too green. Some of the elders in the crowd eyed her carefully, and a few recognized traces of her grandfather in her features. One of the older men muttered, half to himself, “Thank him for letting him live… curse him for making me live like this.”


A ripple of murmurs ran through the more tribalist members of the group. Eduardo, sensing the tension, stepped forward and positioned himself behind Claudia. Instantly, his presence chilled the crowd; the aura of the De la Casa was unmistakable.


He spoke, voice low but commanding. “Let bygones be bygones. We are here as proof of friendship from Mexico City. Your wrongs cannot be erased, even if we wanted to. But this man here”—he gestured to the candidate—“can help make amends if you continue to vote the same way. Nothing will change. Now is the time to give change a chance. Stand with Mexico City and earn the laurels of progress. Remain as you have been, and… well, you know where it leads.”


His gaze softened slightly, and he continued, “My good friend Joseph—no, my brother Joseph—has told me of his village, twelve kilometers from here, where it takes twenty-two to arrive because there is no bridge. I do not have much, but I have spent sixty thousand dollars, and in two days bricks and concrete will be delivered near the crossing. Joseph is an engineer; he can guide you to build it properly. Now it is your choice: grab the tools and build yourself up, or keep extending a hand, hoping for charity, and feeling betrayed when it is not enough. You command your own destiny if you dare to take it. In two days, you can cut your journey by ten kilometers, and next week, you can choose to take control of your lives and vote for true change!”


The crowd erupted in cheers, especially as every fourth line Eduardo spoke in the local dialect—a language forbidden for the past 340 years. For the first time, a blanco had called one of them brother.


Claudia sighed, stunned. “Fucking hell… he spent his own money?”


Joseph laughed. “He spent more in my village than the government has in the past fifty years. Even the sewer system is older than any man still alive.”


Eduardo stepped deeper into the crowd, moving toward the oldest members of the village. His tall figure and glacial presence immediately drew attention, but his approach was calm, measured, almost careful.


“So… you have met my grandfather Pedro?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of familiar Spanish—Honduran in accent—but subtly blended with Zapotec and Mixtec inflections. “I am glad he did not have to kill you. Sad stories… so many of them.”


The elders murmured among themselves, surprised by the effort. Wagyu, watching closely from behind, tilted her head and whispered to Joseph, “Is he… a devil who can speak all languages?”


Joseph chuckled softly. “He just might be.”


Even when Eduardo faltered, struggling with a word or phrase, the villagers were captivated. It wasn’t perfection—it was the attempt, the respect shown in their own tongue, that won them over. In a way, it symbolized the changing generation in Mexico City: unafraid to step into foreign worlds, eager to build bridges, literally and figuratively.


Turning back to Claudia, Eduardo’s tone softened, almost human in its warmth. “Miss Claudia… two weeks ago, when I saw you and your brother in the school plaza… I had very nasty feelings toward you. I wish to apologize. I didn’t know how… nice you truly are. And… well, the brute is still a brute, but I guess… what I mean is that… he is more than just a brute.”


Claudia blinked, a small, incredulous smile forming on her lips. Even Joseph, standing nearby, felt the subtle power in Eduardo’s words: blunt, honest, and strangely disarming.


When the political meeting ended, Eduardo told Claudia and Wagyu to go to the hotel with Valador. He wanted to stay behind and visit Joseph’s village—after all, he had just spent half a year’s stipend helping out, and he wanted to see exactly what it was paying for.


Driving in a lent car borrowed from the local candidate, Eduardo turned to Joseph. “So… what’s going on here? Why is this man running for elections?”


Joseph explained. “The previous mayor was killed by the Huesca cartel. Originally, the police here were divided into three groups, enough to keep the region in check because it’s historically rebellious. But when the cartels started bribing them, the balance shifted. One group aligned with Sinaloa and formed a new police squad. Since the previous mayor also served as police chief, friction emerged, and Huesca was invited to counterbalance Sinaloa. That led to the creation of a third police station.


“But the cops didn’t increase in number, so none of the stations had enough power to fully oppose the cartels. When Sinaloa started using MS13, things spiraled out of control. Huesca became more aggressive, and when the previous mayor tried to strike back, they wiped out the original police station. Now, only two police groups remain: the Sinaloa-aligned faction, which runs the city, and the countryside police, which oversees the rural areas.”


Eduardo nodded slowly, his eyes darkening slightly as he processed the information. “So the city is basically a cartel-run state, and the countryside… is barely holding together.”


Joseph grimaced. “Exactly. That’s why this election matters—any change could either stabilize the region or spark another wave of violence.”


Eduardo frowned as he processed the situation. “This makes no sense for the government party… except, if they’re working with Sinaloa and this mayoral election becomes the tipping point for the next governor’s race…”


Joseph’s eyes widened. “With what you just pulled today? It might… I mean, the communists have been receiving massive support, so they split the vote with the main opposition party. Since they’re all left-wing, the left is fragmenting. But you… you just shifted a sizable portion of the native vote, which normally leans left. Fuck… Valador was right. You would have been an amazing governor. The native vote is around 33%, the majority is still mestizo, but getting the natives on your side totally shifts the political game board!”


Meanwhile, back at the hotel lounge, Valador explained the same situation to Claudia over drinks. “Joseph is a key pawn here,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Get enough native support through him, and the balance shifts entirely. You see, this isn’t just about today’s mayoral race—it’s about creating a foundation for the future. And Eduardo… he’s the one capable of moving those pieces.”


Claudia nodded slowly, understanding the scale of what her brother had just done. Valador’s praise for Eduardo was subtle but unmistakable; the boy was a force of influence few could match, whether by charm, intelligence, or sheer presence.


The morning after the rally, Eduardo woke early. He had borrowed the candidate’s car again and driven out alone to check the river crossing. The foundation of the bridge was there, the base stones still firm after decades. He squatted by the water, staring at the half-buried supports.


“Idiots,” he muttered. “Why waste money when you could’ve cleared trees and laid a proper span from here?” He kicked at the gravel, annoyed both at the lost time and at himself for not checking before paying. Still, the people would build — and that was what mattered.


By the time he rolled back into the hotel courtyard, the air was already heavy with shouting.


Through the glass doors of the restaurant, Eduardo saw Pablo — their father — face red, fists clenched, standing inches from Valador. “¡Pendejo! You dragged my children into this slaughterhouse! Do you think their lives are a token in your filthy games?”


Valador, arms raised half-heartedly in defense, tried to laugh it off. “Señor De la Casa, you’re overreacting. It’s politics, nothing more—”


Pablo nearly swung at him. Chairs scraped back as waiters hurried to the edges, not daring to intervene.


Eduardo stopped cold in the doorway, instinct urging him to step in — but then he paused, eyes narrowing. Instead, he slipped back against the wall, out of sight. For once, he wanted to listen. To hear what Claudia would say without him overshadowing the room.


And Claudia did not disappoint. She stood between Pablo and Valador, voice sharp, eyes blazing emerald fire.


“Father, stop! You raised us to stand for Mexico, and now that we do, you call it reckless? You want us locked in a house while others decide the future? We are De la Casas. We go where we will in this country — even here.”


Pablo turned on her, fury mixing with worry. “You think this is a game? Huesca isn’t some schoolyard bully, Claudia. They cut throats for fun. If something happens to you or your brother—”


Eduardo, hidden in the shadows by the hallway arch, felt that familiar burn of bloodlust stir at the name Huesca. His hand tightened into a fist.


Claudia didn’t flinch. She leaned forward across the table, her perfume cutting through the scent of sweat and coffee. “If something happens, then it happens. But better here, for something that matters, than safe at home doing nothing.”


Valador smirked, trying to smooth his jacket, as if he had orchestrated the whole scene. Pablo’s hand twitched again, but the rage in his eyes was mostly fear.


Eduardo stayed where he was, quiet, observing. His sister had claimed her ground. His father was learning that she would not back down. And if Huesca came for them… then Eduardo would finally have an excuse.


Pablo de la Casa stepped out of the restaurant, cigar smoke trailing from his lips as the night air thickened with tension.
Waiting for him were a Sinaloa sicario and the city’s newly appointed police chief.


Pablo’s voice cut like a knife.
“Listen carefully. I want the city locked down. Double protection on every corner, every road, every checkpoint. Call in all Sinaloa strike teams—we need every unit inside this region by dawn. If Huesca thinks they can play games with us, they’re about to wake up to something far worse than a nightmare.”


He turned, eyes narrowing on the police chief.
“And one more thing… my daughter doesn’t leave this city. Not under any excuse, not for any reason. You understand me? If she so much as crosses a border checkpoint, it’ll be your head.”


The sicario nodded without hesitation. The police chief swallowed hard and bowed his head.
Pablo flicked his cigar onto the pavement, grinding it beneath his heel.
“Good. Now make it happen.”

The sicario and the police chief bowed their heads almost in unison.
“Sí, comandante,” they answered.


González hadn’t meant some faceless officer. No—he had been talking about the military commander of Sinaloa. The man who forged their strike teams, drilled them like an army, and placed them across the region with surgical precision.


Eduardo’s stomach sank. The MS-13 might run transport, muscle shipments across the borders, and guard convoys on the highways—but they weren’t the ones who made Sinaloa untouchable. That power came from the elite squads: ex-soldiers, former federales, men who had traded the uniform of the state for the pay of the cartel.


And how had they been recruited? Eduardo already knew the answer.
A name like De la Casa opened doors. It carried weight. It promised wealth, fear, and protection. Men lined up to swear loyalty when that name called.


Eduardo clenched his fists.
This isn’t just corruption. This is an army. An army built on my father’s name.


Eduardo had been wrong to think of it as simple corruption. The De la Casa name wasn’t rotten—it was sharpened steel. They were butchers, yes, butchers who had always cut in the name of the government. Technically, they still did.


They didn’t hunt clean cops. They didn’t terrorize civilians without reason. Their blades were saved for cartels—every cartel, except Sinaloa.


Even then, Sinaloa wasn’t immune. When lieutenants grew arrogant, when capos drifted too far from the founder’s line, when the leadership sensed the faintest whiff of betrayal, the De la Casa strike teams would descend like wolves. Whole cells would vanish overnight. Bodies would turn up in shallow graves, if at all.


And now… Sinaloa was bloated. Too many leaders, too many factions straining at the seams. The only thing holding them together was the founder’s authority and his willingness to share power among the rival cliques. That—and the knowledge that the De la Casa strike teams answered to one man alone. The Old Man.


Eduardo felt a chill.
This isn’t corruption. It’s order. Brutal, surgical order. And it all runs through my bloodline.


“Letting” them live was relative. The strike teams didn’t belong to Sinaloa, not really. They followed Pablo de la Casa. The bosses might be the ones paying the salaries, but money alone didn’t buy loyalty.


If the boss ever fell, Pablo could recall every man who still bore his mark, and the mighty Sinaloa organization would be left gutted—maybe clinging to one or two strike teams they could bribe to stay. The rest? They would vanish overnight, and the empire would be left toothless.


That was the truth: most cartel bosses had muscle, but muscle wasn’t the same as killers. And even among the killers, almost none could fight as teams. Pablo had recruited them, trained them, forged them into something that moved like a military unit instead of just rabid dogs with guns.


It was the same reason the Angels north of the border were so feared. In Gringoland, most of them weren’t just killers—they were strike teams. They could move, breach, clear, and hold territory. They weren’t a gang. They were a shadow army.


Eduardo slipped into the shadows along the harbor, hoodie drawn tight. He remembered he hadn’t slept in the hotel last night and had forgotten his pills—but surprisingly, he seemed to be holding it together.


He moved quietly among the fishing boats, making small talk with the fishermen to blend in. Even sitting down, he carried the weight and posture of a man standing, alert.


As night began to fall, a nearby warehouse stirred to life—lights flicking on, the murmur of voices echoing. Eduardo ignored it at first, focusing instead on how he would confront his father.


Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Joseph arrived and was surprised to find Eduardo hadn’t returned. Pablo barely reacted, his face calm. “He can take care of himself,” he said casually.


Valador was already there with five journalists, planning to rebuild the bridge tomorrow. Pablo shook his head. “They’re staying in the city. It’s not safe out there. I can’t spare fifty men to protect them—it would take that many, at least.”


The tension hung in the air, thick as smoke. Eduardo’s shadowed figure by the harbor, Joseph’s concern, and Pablo’s calculated command formed a delicate balance—one wrong move, and everything could tip into chaos.


Eduardo’s eyes caught a flash of ink: a 13 tattoo on one of the men inside the warehouse. A throb ran through his head, but instinct took over.


He snagged a knife from the plate of salted pork he’d been eating and slipped into the shadows. It felt right. Comfortable. A voice whispered in his mind, in Japanese: “Walk the shadows.” No sound escaped him.


As he waited for the right moment to slip inside, calm settled over him. At peace. This—this was what he was born to do.


Step by step, he entered the warehouse. The screams were only in his mind. El Diavolo… the Angel… Faces flashed before him—panicked, surprised, terrified. Hundreds of men, mostly like these: MS-13 tattoos, Calle 80, even riders.


How did he know their names? Blanco Gringos—he had never even been to the States. But it didn’t matter. The fury in his soul had transformed into deliberate, cold certainty. Each movement was calculated.


By the time the first light of dawn crept in, Eduardo, exhausted and still unslept, had grabbed a car and driven to the vicinity of the bridge. Joseph would be there in a few hours.


He concealed himself in shadows, under leaves, and allowed himself to rest. The bloodlust had been sated—though he hadn’t known he needed it until it was done.


Knife and gun safely tucked in his hoodie pockets, Eduardo finally closed his eyes, calm, complete, and ready.


As the sun crested over the harbor, a fisherman stumbled across the massacre and immediately called the police.


Luckily for the authorities, the federales commander was in town. By the time sicarios and federales reached the warehouse, the scene was horrifying: over twenty-two MS-13 members lay dead. The drugs remained untouched, every body marked by a single, unmistakable sign—a fight that never really happened. Whoever had struck had caught them completely by surprise, terror rendering them incapable of resistance.


One nervous sicario whispered, “It must be Huesca…”


Pablo’s eyes snapped to him. “Shut up.”


He had seen this before. But this time it was different. His son… had he awakened? The thought hit him hard. His son’s hatred for MS-13 had always been extreme, but what if this was only the beginning?


Without hesitation, Pablo spread his federales teams across the city, every street, every alley, every corner under careful watch. Then he moved to the police station, gathering the Sinaloa sicarios under his command.


“Prepare to strike,” he ordered. “At the police station on the edge of town. If they’ve chosen to work for Huesca, they’ve chosen their fate. Without police support, Huesca will be blind inside this city.”


Chaos was coming, and Pablo knew exactly how to control it.


Eduardo awoke from dreams of bloodshed, the heat of the desert brushing against his skin as he rode a wave of tarmac cutting through the sands. Names floated through his mind—Walt, Williamson… Greg, Robertson? He shook his head, trying to clear it.


Then—gunshots.


On the bridge, Valador and Joseph were directing the natives rebuilding it, explaining angles, supports, and all that meticulous, nerdy stuff. The Huesca hit them from both sides—at least twenty men—indiscriminate fire cutting through the crowd. Two reporters and three natives fell immediately. The rest scattered toward the village.


Their guns were relics—old AK-47s from previous rebellions—but it was futile. Fifteen Huesca men pressed on, shooting relentlessly. A small group near the river cornered Joseph and Valador; escape was impossible. One man stayed in the car, the other four fell under Huesca control: Obrador’s nephew, Valador, the new indigenous political leader, and Joseph himself.


Huesca seized the TV crew, forcing them to record their “victory.” A captain called to the car to kill the engine. The reporter off-camera trembled, nearly mute.


Then chaos erupted. The man in the car had his throat sliced. The captain—the first Huesca man to fall after that—was next. A gunshot rang through the chaos; another man’s head exploded as Eduardo appeared, holding him up as a shield.


“Drop your guns or die,” Eduardo commanded. The man behind the TV crew panicked, firing at him. Eduardo used his comrade’s body as cover, returning fire, taking down the Huesca operative in front of Valador and Joseph.


The microphone-holder ran, leaving the captain’s position exposed. Eduardo took his shot—but too late. Joseph went down, a bullet shredding his windpipe. Enraged, Eduardo surged forward, slicing the remaining man’s neck without hesitation.


The scene was being broadcast nationwide. Blood smeared part of the camera; Eduardo’s face barely appeared. Valador, cradling Joseph, cried openly.


The reporter finally found her voice. “What… what is happening?”


Valador, tears streaking his face, replied: “The internal enemies of Mexico strike again. We were building bridges—they tried to destroy them.” His eyes tracked Eduardo moving through the chaos, picking up weapons—Galils.


He gathered ammunition and disappeared into the village, where the largest group of Huesca men were engaged with villagers.


Valador, still holding Joseph, saw him moving forward and shouted, “WTF are you doing?”


Eduardo’s voice was calm, measured, almost resigned. “By the grace of the Holy Mother… and if she allows me, my duty to protect the innocent and punish the sinners.”


With that, he vanished into the chaos, every step deliberate, every movement a shadow of judgment.


The reporter asked, “Who is the hero who saved them so effectively?”


Valador, still holding Joseph, choked out, “My… and dear Joseph’s… best friend. Eduardo de la Casa.”


The reporter hesitated. “The commander of the federales?”


Valador shook his head. “No… his eldest son.”


The reporter turned to the camera, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Tears streaked mascara down her cheeks.


“Here we have it, Mexico. The old heroes who forged our nation… still stand, by God and what’s right, even against the brutality of the cartels. We are… sorry to show you this live. This is ++++++ for… Mexico.”


Her voice trembled, but the conviction behind it lingered—a fragile light against the darkness that had just unfolded.


The villagers fought desperately, but Eduardo struck from the flank, silent and lethal. One by one, he took down the Huesca attackers, moving like a shadow of judgment. Only three remained, trembling, surrendering.


Eduardo stepped forward, drenched in blood—old stains from the MS-13 massacre mixing with the fresh huesca blood. He looked like a demon risen from hell, his glacial blue eyes burning with unholy rage.


One of the Huesca muttered, “Good luck… our primary team has probably taken over the hotel where your father and sister are… they’re probably dead by now.”


Rage surged through him. The cameras rolled. In a single, fluid motion, Eduardo sliced the throats of all three cartel members. His face remained obscured in blood; only his piercing blue eyes were visible.


For the audience watching nationwide, the image was terrifying, mesmerizing, and ambiguous. Was this a hero delivering justice—or pure, unsettling murder?


The fallout was instantaneous. NGOs erupted online, condemning the government for cruelty against men who had surrendered. From the north, counter-campaigns praised Eduardo, arguing that anyone truly committed to ending cartel violence would have armed the De la Casa long ago and let them finish the work. Victims of the cartels joined in, tearing into the NGOs, recounting relatives the police had failed—or perhaps murdered—leaving the nation divided, debating morality, vengeance, and the price of justice.


Eduardo felt the words echo in his mind: “Your sister is probably already dead.”


Valador offered to drive him into town. Eduardo was unsettled.


“I’m scared,” Valador admitted, gripping the wheel. “I’ve never been in a situation like this.”


Eduardo’s voice was quiet, deadly calm. “I’m unsettled… not because of this.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “It’s Claudia. I need to make sure she’s okay. If these bastards have hurt my sister… I will hunt every last one of them to the ends of the earth. I will track their children, brothers, nephews… and wipe their bloodline from the face of the earth.”


Meanwhile, the reporter kept rolling, filming the floor of the car while catching every word. The camera caught a bloodied knife, droplets slowly falling—a grim countdown to the carnage erupting in the town.


When they arrived, the police station on the edge of town was burned down. Several cops were dead, alongside two sicarios sporting poorly inked Huesca tattoos.


As they entered town, twenty dead Huesca cartel members were being guarded, and the central hotel was surrounded by roughly seventy federal special intervention teams. Inside, Claudia and Wagyu were hostages of the surviving ten Huesca members—half injured, all shocked. They had never expected so many federales, and worse… elite federales gunning them down with precision.


Pablo orchestrated the siege when Eduardo appeared, covered in blood. He ran to him, grabbing him in a trembling embrace.


“Mi hijo… I was so scared,” Pablo whispered.


Eduardo’s eyes burned with focus. “Where is Claudia?”


Pablo looked guilty. “After the chaos at the warehouse, I spread out the teams… but the police station got attacked. During that time, a Huesca battalion fought through and took over the hotel.”


Eduardo tried to sleep, but the nightmare gnawed at him. Pablo would not act, and his daughter’s life hung in the balance.


Mono, the highest-ranking Huesca operative still alive, appeared at a window, pressing a gun to Claudia’s temple. His voice was cold, calculating.


“Do you hear, federales pigs?” he sneered. “Had you not interfered in the cartels’ business, none of this would be happening. Yes, Pablo de la Casa… every cartel you wiped out for the the Sinaloa, the government… is there even a difference now? The Gutiérrez brothers? The Carvajal syndicate? The Pompones? You destroyed them, and what happened? the zetas came forth, We Huesca came. And if you try to wipe us out… a worse, more violent group will rise. So either you let us leave, or we violate your daughter. She will be forever blemished. whether you hand her to Sinaloa or the Gulf—we’ll make sure she’s tarnished goods. The precious honor of the De la Casa…”

Eduardo emerged from the shadows, an abysmal figure drenched in blood, his glacial blue eyes burning with rage and fury.


“You have forgotten what happened to this country the last time a De la Casa woman was violated?” he growled. “Have you forgotten the Cachiotlz tribe in Sinaloa? They dared… and now they are no more. Mexico City burned for three days. Half the parliament… four ministers… hanged from the presidential palace. Our honor is washed in the blood of your women.”


He stepped closer, voice ice and fire. “Luis de Runca… oh yes, we know who you are. Isn’t that right, Mr. Antonio de Bodegon? Carlos Turreal? And that idiot Mono? We know who you all are. We know your families, your children, your nephews. If you need a woman to use… use my Japanese whore—but touch my sister, and by the end of the year, not a single member of your family will remain alive.”


Wagyu screamed, her heart shattered. The man she loved… had chosen his sister over her.


It was no use. The city didn’t even have a decent sewer system. Any overt movement would be suicide.


He would have to rely on the shadows, wait for nightfall, and let the darkness become his ally.


Every alley, every abandoned building, every shadowed corner became part of his plan. Patience, precision, and the inevitability of his vengeance would be his weapons until he could strike.


Pablo forbade him from entering the city. “Even if you succeed, Eduardo… you cannot shatter Claudia’s image of you.”


Eduardo’s eyes burned with fury. “She’s already seen me covered in blood! She had a gun pressed to her head, a strange man touching her against her will! You should have kept her safe!”


Pablo looked pensive, then admitted softly, “It’s true… I could never have guessed they’d send such a strong force… not after the last operation.”


“What last operation?” Eduardo demanded.


Pablo sighed. “Inside Sinaloa? An infiltrator from the government, of course… officially. In reality? I train soldiers for their strike teams—the squads that let them control their regions. Half their killers are soldiers… paid by the government.”


Eduardo’s jaw dropped. “What?”


“The government doesn’t have the money to pay decent soldiers,” Pablo continued. “So this way, they have funds to pay for weapons and troops. An elite federal gets half of what a special forces soldier from the army earns—and yet thousands leave the army to join the federales. Why? Because we pay them twice as much, they have less work, better weapons… but it’s cartel money. They obey the boss… and me. They needed these troops; we needed their financial power. Without this arrangement, three times more people would be dead.”


Eduardo’s eyes narrowed. “And the problem?”


Pablo let out a bitter laugh. “Politicians are bastards… yeah, I’m talking about you too, Valador. Once we started, your Uncle Peña discovered he used half our budget to build a road in his home region… and the rest of the country? Can go fuck itself.”


“So… the last operation?” Eduardo asked, voice tight. “Why wouldn’t they be this strong?”


Pablo sent Valador away and locked the door. The room felt suddenly smaller, heavier.


“The last mayor?” Pablo began, voice grim. “It was us. He had originally called Huesca. Now, he and forty percent of the police force were going to receive guns from them, join them, and cut out the pipeline in this city. Since he was corrupt, I gathered a team and wiped them out. I also used the Huesca-corrupt cops to send them into a trap. We gave them our gathering place, and when they attacked… they died. At least seven heads. Fifteen more… eliminated. Their operational capability in the region shouldn’t have allowed them to gather more than twenty men.”


“That… usage of counter-information…” Eduardo whispered, stunned.


Pablo’s eyes twinkled faintly, a grim smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You taught me that one, Eduardo.”


Eduardo pressed his temple, head pounding. “Where did you…?” But the answer was clear—he had learned it from the prophet Obadiah in the Bible. Mining the field… he thought, doubting a prophet would have called it that, but the principle was the same.


The room spun. His headache throbbed so violently that he collapsed, fainting onto the floor.