The setting:
Late afternoon, courtyard outside an upscale hotel. Sasha’s talking with someone who belongs there. Warscared doesn’t. He strolls in anyway, cutting into her space with no hesitation.
Sasha’s first impression:
Tall. Blue-eyed. Too close.
Definitely younger — and that smile says he already knows it irritates me.
The kind of reckless that ends up in headlines or morgues.
Warscared’s first impression:
Perfect posture. The scar only makes her sharper.
Clothes cut to fit her, hair set to frame her — she wears money like a second skin.
Yeah. She’ll do.
The exchange:
Before she can speak, his eyes sweep over her — deliberate, unhurried, and unapologetic.
When he meets her gaze again, there’s no smirk, just certainty.
“You’re put together,” he says. “Every inch. Most people need luck for that. You just… are.”
Her brows lift.
“And you have no sense of boundaries.”
He tilts his head, letting the corner of his mouth curve.
She folds her arms.
“You’re younger than me.”
He shrugs.
Her thoughts as she turns away:
He’s impossible. And far too comfortable for someone I just met.
…But I didn’t miss the way he looked at me. And I didn’t hate it.
His thoughts as she walks off:
She knows I approved. That’s all I needed for now.
The bodyguard arrives:
Mikhail stops just close enough for his shadow to stretch over both of them. He doesn’t say a word — just sizes up Warscared the way Warscared just sized up Sasha.
Warscared tilts his chin up slightly, a grin still fixed in place.
“You’re not smiling,” he says to Mikhail. “That’s probably bad for me, huh?”
The answer is a fist to his jaw.
The first exchange:
Warscared drops to one knee, spits blood, then stands like nothing happened.
He drives a sharp kick into Mikhail’s thigh — high enough to deaden the muscle, low enough not to cripple. The big man staggers back a step, more surprised than hurt.
The escalation:
Sasha raises an eyebrow, but before she can say anything, two more men in suits appear from the hotel entrance. From the far end of the courtyard, three mall cops in polo shirts come jogging over, radios squawking.
Warscared laughs.
“What is this, amateur hour?”
One suit grabs his arm — Warscared twists free, ramming an elbow into the guy’s ribs. Another swings at him; Warscared sidesteps, shoving him into a planter. A mall cop lunges — gets a backhand to the nose for his trouble.
For a few glorious seconds, he’s holding them all off.
But numbers win:
Hands grab his jacket, his shoulders, his arms. He jerks, throws, kicks, but more pile on. The laughter fades from his face, replaced by the kind of cold glare that promises this isn’t over.
They finally wrench his arms behind him, forcing him to his knees. His lip is split, his shirt collar torn.
Sasha’s view:
She steps forward just enough to see him clearly, her voice calm.
“You should have walked away.”
Warscared grins through the blood.
“Then you wouldn’t remember me.”
The aftermath in the courtyard:
Security’s got Warscared pinned, breathing hard, but he’s still wearing that
you-can’t-break-me grin. Mikhail’s keeping his distance now, massaging his thigh and glaring.
Sasha steps forward, hands slightly raised, her voice cool and controlled.
“Enough. He’s not worth the property damage.”
Warscared turns his head toward her without missing a beat.
“Oh, I’m worth it. And I’m making a police report — your guy hit me first.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I talked. He hit. That’s called assault where I’m from.”
The mall cops exchange uneasy looks. One of them mutters into his radio, clearly not wanting to deal with paperwork. But Warscared isn’t letting it go — he insists on filing a report
on the spot.
Police involvement:
By the time the patrol cars arrive, both Sasha and Warscared are giving their statements from opposite sides of the courtyard. The officers seem annoyed — they’d rather write up shoplifters than deal with two high-status headaches.
Still, protocol’s protocol. They take both parties in, not under arrest, but for processing since accusations are being made.
In court — a few days later:
It’s a small municipal courtroom, the kind where petty disputes get hashed out in front of a bored judge.
Warscared walks in first, looking like he’s about to argue for his life, not a fistfight. Sasha arrives with a lawyer in tow. She’s composed, but her eyes dart to the back of the room — and freeze.
Two women are there.
Nojiko, professional and calm in her white coat, as if she walked straight from her clinic.
And next to her — Nami. Sharp-eyed, with the same quiet confidence she had in college, the one who always sat in the front row and never missed a question.
Sasha’s recognition:
Nami?
She doesn’t say it out loud, but the memory’s instant — not friends, not enemies, just aware of each other. Nami had a reputation for precision in everything: her grades, her arguments, her reading of people.
Next to them is Vidal, arms folded, giving Sasha a half-smirk like he’s already decided the outcome.
The moment of understanding:
When Warscared sits beside them at the defense table, Sasha’s eyes flick from him to Nami, then to Vidal.
For the first time since the courtyard, she doesn’t have a ready line.
The judge flips through the file.
“Alright, Mr… Eyckardt—”
Warscared’s posture changes instantly. The easy confidence stiffens into something sharper, colder. His voice cuts across the room before the judge can finish.
“Warscared will do, Your Honour.”
The judge blinks. “This is a court of law, not a… stage name convention. I’m required to use your legal—”
Warscared leans forward, his eyes flat.
“Half my blood is Japanese. In Japan, my name isn’t just a label, it’s identity. You use the wrong one in the wrong company, it’s an insult. Warscared will do.”
The judge pauses, weighing the tone. This isn’t a request — it’s a line in the sand.
“Very well… Warscared. Proceed.”
From the gallery:
Nami exhales quietly, relieved. Nojiko watches her youngest son with that unreadable doctor’s expression — equal parts wary and proud. Vidal hides a grin, knowing full well the name “Eyckardt” is something Warscared almost never lets out into the open.
Sasha’s attention sharpens.
He flinched when they said it. Whatever’s behind that name, it’s a door he doesn’t open for anyone.
Warscared at the stand:
After the “Warscared will do” moment, he steps forward, shoulders squared, eyes on the judge.
“Your Honour, the assault committed by Miss Sasha’s employee constitutes a violation of several standing legal principles — first, under Section 39 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988, common assault is a criminal offence punishable by law. The act of striking me without warning falls under this statute.”
He paces slightly, gesturing with precision, like someone who’s been in more debates than fights — though his split lip tells a different story.
“Secondly, under Section 3 of the Criminal Law Act 1967, the use of force must be reasonable in the prevention of crime. There was no crime to prevent — therefore, the force was unlawful.”
He switches gears without hesitation:
“In addition, Your Honour, this was an incident that took place within a commercial premises. Under Occupiers’ Liability Act 1957, the duty of care owed to visitors was breached. The owner, in this case Miss Sasha or her representatives, failed to ensure my safety as a lawful visitor to the premises.”
“And under Section 2 of the Supply of Goods and Services Act 1982, services must be carried out with reasonable care and skill. Employing a bodyguard who initiates physical aggression is a breach of that implied contractual duty to provide safe and professional conduct on site.”
The judge raises an eyebrow.
“Mr… Warscared, your knowledge of both criminal and business statutes is… impressive.”
There’s a murmur in the gallery — Nami’s lips curve ever so slightly, Vidal folds his arms tighter, proud.
“But,” the judge continues, “this is a civil hearing for damages. You’ve cited multiple penal codes and contractual doctrines — they do not directly apply here. Civil liability requires evidence of harm and quantifiable loss. Criminal statutes you’ve quoted may inform the case, but they are not determinative in this court.”
Warscared doesn’t flinch.
“Then they establish context, Your Honour. Context in which I was unlawfully struck, detained, and humiliated. If the law doesn’t protect me here, it should at least recognise that such conduct is beneath the standards expected in any civilised society — be it criminal, civil, or commercial.”
The judge studies him a moment longer.
“Your rhetoric is… formidable. You argue like a barrister. But this court will judge based on applicable civil codes. Proceed to your evidence.”
Sasha’s reaction:
He’s dangerous.
Not because of his fists — but because he can dress a street fight in the language of the law and make people listen.
Recess is called.
The judge leaves the bench. Sasha stays with her lawyer, trying to keep her composure. Warscared leans on the defense table like he’s got nowhere better to be.
The doors open. Nami walks in first, crisp and confident, followed by Nojiko and Vidal.
Nami heads straight to Warscared.
“Little brother, you’re holding your ground well.”
Her tone is warm but loud enough for everyone to hear. Sasha freezes mid-sentence with her lawyer.
Warscared smirks. “Thought you didn’t approve of my hobbies.”
Nami slips him a folded page of handwritten notes.
“I don’t approve of you getting hit by grown adults when you’re fifteen.
Remember to state your age clearly, and emphasise that this was an eighteen-year-old woman ordering her employee to physically assault a child.”
The reaction:
Sasha’s lawyer goes pale. “Fifteen? At the time of the incident?”
Nami looks straight at Sasha.
“Yes. And still fifteen now. I’d suggest you review the Children and Young Persons Act 1933 before you make your closing statement.”
A ripple goes through the room — even the court officer shifts uncomfortably, looking at Sasha like she’s already guilty.
Warscared, voice low but carrying:
“Guess I was younger than you thought when you decided I needed ‘teaching a lesson.’”
Sasha’s eyes narrow. She recognises Nami now — the sharp mind from college, the one who didn’t waste words. And now she’s standing between Sasha and her youngest brother, armed with both law and blood loyalty.
The room is still buzzing when Sasha finally stands, smoothing her skirt with deliberate calm. Her lawyer is whispering something urgent, but she waves him off.
She takes a slow step forward, eyes locked on Warscared.
“If you were that young… and already that tall, that reckless—” she lets the pause hang like a blade, “—perhaps you did need a lesson.”
The gallery reacts — a few sharp inhales, a muttered “Jesus…” from the back row.
Nami’s eyes narrow instantly.
“A lesson? From a hired adult? That’s how you justify ordering an assault on a fifteen-year-old?”
Sasha shrugs, feigning indifference.
“It’s not my fault he looked more like a man than a boy.”
Warscared’s grin is slow, dangerous.
“You just said it on record — you thought I needed a lesson. I’ll let the court decide what that means when the one giving it was on your payroll.”
Even the judge’s clerk has stopped writing for a moment, eyes flicking toward Sasha.
Before the judge can return, the heavy double doors at the back of the courtroom swing open again.
A man in a tailored navy suit steps in — late fifties, well-fed, the kind of confidence that comes from owning every inch of space he walks into.
The clerk whispers to the bailiff, and the bailiff leans toward the bench. Moments later, the judge returns, clearly surprised.
Judge:
“Mr. Halvorsen… Director of Westgate Mall. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Halvorsen clears his throat.
“Your Honor, if I may, I’d like to address the matter directly. The altercation happened on mall property. While Ms. Petrov” — he nods toward Sasha — “was involved, the bodyguard was operating under our broader security protocols. I take full responsibility.”
The judge raises a brow.
“You understand that implies liability?”
Halvorsen:
“I do. That’s why I’d like to make an offer to the young man before we waste any more taxpayer time.”
Halvorsen turns toward Warscared, giving him the kind of measured look a businessman gives a wildcard — trying to read the play.
“Son, you were wronged. I can admit that. Let’s settle this between us. Name your terms, within reason, and we’ll have papers ready before close of business tomorrow.”
Warscared sits back in his chair, his deep blue eyes locked on the director.
Halvorsen:
Warscared:
“Yeah. I’ll need the court’s case files, all security logs, and every statement given so far. I’ll study them tonight, make sure the deal’s worth more than a pat on the head.”
The judge glances at Halvorsen.
“You’re willing to let him walk out with the case materials?”
Halvorsen smirks.
“If it gets us to an agreement and off your docket, Your Honor, yes.”
Sasha watches, arms crossed, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression — irritation that this “insolent kid” just turned the room to his pace, and maybe a touch of curiosity about how someone his age can speak like that.
Halvorsen’s voice carries across the room.
“While Ms. Sasha Petrov was involved, the bodyguard was operating under our broader security protocols. I take full responsibility.”
The surname hangs in the air. It has weight — everyone in the county knows it. Even the judge’s eyes flicker in recognition.
Warscared leans back in his chair, lips curling just slightly.
He says it slowly, tasting the syllables like a wolf rolling a bone between his teeth. His deep blue eyes lock on hers, unblinking.
Sasha lifts her chin, returning the stare, but in the edge of her vision, she catches movement from the gallery:
- Nami shivers, as if someone had run an ice cube down her spine.
- Vidal exhales and facepalms, muttering something to himself.
- Nojiko’s arms fold tighter, worry knitting her brow.
Sasha doesn’t look away from Warscared, but her mind notes each reaction, filing them neatly in the mental cabinet where she stores people’s weaknesses.
Why did they react like that? What do they know about him that I don’t?
The courtroom’s air feels heavier now, and Sasha suddenly has the unsettling thought that maybe she’s not the one holding the advantage anymore.
The judge bangs the gavel, adjourning the hearing for the day. Papers shuffle, voices murmur. Sasha keeps her gaze fixed on Warscared until the bailiff gestures for her to move.
In the hallway, Halvorsen — the mall director — steps forward with an ingratiating smile.
“Mr. Warscared, sorry to keep you. I’d like to… reach an understanding before this goes any further.”
Warscared doesn’t answer right away. He flips open the court file, scanning a page with his thumb pressed against a specific paragraph. Only when he’s satisfied does he snap it shut and look up.
“Apologies for taking so long,” he says with the calmness of someone who knows he’s in control. “There was something I needed to check in the files.”
Halvorsen swallows. “Of course. So… about this understanding—”
Warscared steps closer, just enough for Halvorsen to lean back a fraction.
“Here’s my agreement: tomorrow, you bring me a voucher from Tiffany’s. Not cash. Not store credit. A voucher for exactly fifty-five thousand, three hundred forty-seven dollars. Not a cent more, not a cent less.”
Sasha’s brow furrows — the precision of the number bothers her. It’s too specific to be random.
“And in exchange?” Halvorsen asks carefully.
Warscared’s smile is polite, but there’s steel underneath.
“In exchange, I’ll consider the matter… resolved.”
Halvorsen nods slowly, already calculating what strings he’ll have to pull.
From across the hall, Sasha watches, arms folded. She’s still thinking about the way Nami shivered, Vidal facepalmed, and Nojiko looked like she’d just seen a storm cloud roll in. And now she’s wondering what exactly a boy of fifteen intends to do with $55,347 from Tiffany’s.
Tiffany’s – The Next Day
The mall director is already there, clutching a thick white envelope as if it’s radioactive. Nami, Vidal, and Nojiko linger near the display cases, all three wearing different shades of
what is he going to do now?
Warscared strolls in like he owns the place, the afternoon light catching in his deep blue eyes. He accepts the voucher without even counting it. Instead, he digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out three crumpled one-dollar bills.
“Apologies,” he says lightly, “but even though my mother’s a doctor, we don’t exactly swim in cash. Nami and Vidal’s tuition fees eat up whatever disposable income we have.”
He slaps the bills onto the glass counter beside the voucher and nods toward a display.
“That one. Diamond necklace, silver chain. Matches her eyes.”
The sales associate’s gaze flicks between him and Sasha — who’s standing with her arms crossed, trying not to show she’s rattled — before carefully lifting the necklace out.
Warscared takes it, produces a red pen from inside his jacket, and draws a single straight line down the right edge of the Tiffany’s box. Then he closes it, hands it
…back to the mall director.
“Deliver this to Miss Sasha Petrov,” Warscared says, his tone pleasant but threaded with command. “Since I forgot to budget postage, we’ll just use the hire-a-mall-manager delivery service.”
The director looks confused, but nods. Sasha’s lips part, just slightly, like she’s about to speak.
Warscared beats her to it.
“I needed your address from the court files. Had to make the number in the voucher worth something more than paper. And… I know your family owns this mall.”
The words hang there — not threatening, but undeniably sharp.
“Which,” he adds with a thin smile, “is why you were forced to do it.”
Nami shivers again. Vidal rubs his forehead. Nojiko’s jaw tightens.
Sasha, for the first time, isn’t sure if she should be insulted… or impressed.
Warscared turns the Tiffany’s box in his hand once before giving it back to the mall director.
“That red line,” he says, tapping the marked edge with the pen, “will balance your image. Your scar—” he tilts his head slightly, eyes locking on Sasha’s face, “—although enfuriatingly beautiful, gives you an aesthetic look that doesn’t suit you. I like it… but I’ll eat my own ego over what I like, so you can look better for everyone else.”
He smiles — not kind, not mocking, just…
him — and then walks out with Nojiko, Nami, and Vidal in tow.
Out in the mall corridor, Nojiko starts in on him immediately.
“You idiot, you should’ve asked for Vidal and Nami’s next semester tuition. This was your chance.”
Warscared throws his head back and laughs, loud enough to turn a few shoppers’ heads.
“May God give me health,” he says between chuckles, “and I’ll steal the rest.”
Nami groans, swinging her fist into his arm in frustration. He barely flinches, grinning like a man who just walked out of a fight with more than he went in for.
Sasha stays rooted where she stands, the velvet Tiffany’s box still in her hand. The red ink line catches the light, stark against the pale packaging.
Her bodyguard shifts awkwardly behind her, but she ignores him. She’s still replaying the last ten minutes in her head.
He had walked in with three crumpled dollars, bought a diamond necklace with a voucher meant to
compensate him, insulted and complimented her in the same breath, then left her standing here like…
Like I’m the one who got played.
She glances at Nami — who had shivered when he said her surname — and catches the tight, worried look on Nojiko’s face, and the weary facepalm from Vidal.
Why did they react like that? What do they know about him… and about me?
Her gaze drops to the necklace again.
The scar on her cheek tingles — not from pain, but from the way he had looked at it. Like it was a piece of art only he understood, and still he’d told her she’d look better without it.
Sasha Petrov wasn’t used to being unsettled. She didn’t like it.
And yet, as she turned the box in her hand, she realized she didn’t like the idea of not seeing him again, either.
By the time the Petrov security detail regrouped, Warscared was already gone, striding out of Tiffany’s with his family like the place had always been his. Sasha stared at the empty doorway for a long beat before snapping the box shut.
Alright. Who the hell is this kid?
She knew one thing — people didn’t talk to her like that. Not in public. Not at all. And definitely not while getting the upper hand in the process.
Monday morning on campus had the usual quiet buzz — coffee cups, laptop bags, and students trying to pretend they were awake. Nami was sitting outside the library with a neat stack of books, the kind that looked like she’d already read half of them before breakfast.
Sasha spotted her instantly. The recognition hit like déjà vu — the courtroom, the way Nami’s reaction to that kid had been… different. Protective, almost territorial.
She approached with her usual grace, heels clicking against the pavement.
“Nami,” she said smoothly, dropping her voice just enough to sound like they were already in on some private matter, “we didn’t really get to talk the other day.”
Nami glanced up, her expression calm but guarded. “About?”
Sasha didn’t waste time. “Your little brother. Warscared.” She let the name roll slowly, watching for a reaction.
Nami’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “What about him?”
“I want to understand,” Sasha said, folding her arms. “The way he acts. The way your family reacts to him. And why, when I had every reason to walk away, I… didn’t.”
Nami shut her book, leaning back in her chair. “You think he’s just some reckless kid who picked a fight with your bodyguard.”
Sasha tilted her head. “And he’s not?”
“Not even close,” Nami said, a faint smile tugging at her lips — though it wasn’t amusement, more like the smile of someone who knew the ending to a story the other person didn’t. “You’ll figure that out. Maybe you’ll even wish you hadn’t.”
The wind shifted, carrying the smell of roasted coffee between them. Sasha studied her for a long moment, realizing she wasn’t going to get more today.
But that was fine.
Because now, she knew for certain — whatever Warscared was, his family kept the real version of him under lock and key. And Sasha Petrov didn’t like locked doors.
Sasha spotted Vidal across the quad, leaning against a railing and grinning like he thought he was halfway into Bella’s good graces. He wasn’t. Bella was giving him the kind of polite smile women save for telemarketers.
Sasha didn’t bother easing into the conversation. She walked right up, heels clicking, voice sharp.
“Vidal. We need to talk. About your brother.”
That got Bella’s attention. She glanced between them, eyebrows lifting. Vidal straightened, but his grin faltered — he already knew where this was going.
“My brother?” he said cautiously. “What did he do now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Sasha replied. “He’s… not what he looks like. And the way you reacted in court? You know more than you’re saying.”
Vidal scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know plenty, but here’s the thing — if I start running my mouth, he’ll find out. And if he finds out, I’m screwed. Not because I can’t fight back, but because… well…” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Warscared holds grudges like they’re family heirlooms.”
Sasha crossed her arms. “So talk.”
“Better idea,” Vidal said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling Nami. She knows him better, and she’s way less likely to have her teeth knocked in.”
Sasha frowned. “Why’s that?”
Vidal shrugged, smirking. “She used to sleep naked with him when they were kids. Long story, medical thing. But try explaining that out loud — you get the picture.”
Bella’s eyes went wide, her mouth twitching like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or ask questions.
Sasha just stared at Vidal, realizing this was the
second time in one week she’d been given information about Warscared that made absolutely no sense… and only pulled her in deeper.
Sasha spotted Vidal across the quad, leaning against a railing and grinning like he thought he was halfway into Bella’s good graces. He wasn’t. Bella was giving him the kind of polite smile women save for telemarketers.
Sasha didn’t bother easing into the conversation. She walked right up, heels clicking, voice sharp.
“Vidal. We need to talk. About your brother.”
That got Bella’s attention. She glanced between them, eyebrows lifting. Vidal straightened, but his grin faltered — he already knew where this was going.
“My brother?” he said cautiously. “What did he do now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Sasha replied. “He’s… not what he looks like. And the way you reacted in court? You know more than you’re saying.”
Vidal scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know plenty, but here’s the thing — if I start running my mouth, he’ll find out. And if he finds out, I’m screwed. Not because I can’t fight back, but because… well…” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Warscared holds grudges like they’re family heirlooms.”
Sasha crossed her arms. “So talk.”
“Better idea,” Vidal said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling Nami. She knows him better, and she’s way less likely to have her teeth knocked in.”
Sasha frowned. “Why’s that?”
Vidal shrugged, smirking. “She used to sleep naked with him when they were kids. Long story, medical thing. But try explaining that out loud — you get the picture.”
Bella’s eyes went wide, her mouth twitching like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or ask questions.
Sasha just stared at Vidal, realizing this was the
second time in one week she’d been given information about Warscared that made absolutely no sense… and only pulled her in deeper.
Vidal was leaning against the bench, phone halfway to his ear, when Bella tossed out her little grenade.
“Wait,” she said, brows arched in mock disbelief, “did you just say Nami used to sleep with your little brother? What is she into — incestuous pedophilia or something?”
Vidal’s head snapped toward her. “Bella—”
Too late.
Nami was already walking up from across the quad, bookbag over one shoulder, the early-week fatigue in her face giving way to a slow, sharp awareness as she closed the distance.
“What,” Nami asked flatly, “did I just walk into?”
Bella leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Just asking your brother here why you’d be sharing a bed with a kid. Sounds… questionable.”
Vidal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bella—seriously—”
Nami didn’t take the bait. She stood there, arms folded, tone even but edged with warning.
“My personal life — and my family — aren’t up for discussion. Especially not with someone who clearly doesn’t understand the difference between a fact and a story they made up in their head.”
Bella opened her mouth again, but Nami cut her off with a look that promised
consequences.
“You’ve been hanging around Sasha, right?” she asked coolly. “Ask her how well people do when they make up stories about Warscared. See if she smiles when you do it.”
That made Sasha’s brows rise. She glanced at Nami, then at Vidal — catching that faint, uneasy shift in both their expressions.
Something in that moment told Sasha she’d just brushed up against a family boundary so thick it might as well have been barbed wire. And now, she wanted to know
why.
Sasha didn’t waste her time chasing Nami; that woman had the kind of spine you couldn’t bend without breaking something important.
Vidal, though?
Vidal was easy to read — leaning too close when Bella laughed, pretending to check his phone but stealing glances whenever Sasha brushed her hair back. The kind of boy who’d do a lot for a pretty face to linger near him.
She waited until Bella was distracted, then drifted toward him with a casual, almost lazy grace.
“Hey,” she said, letting her voice dip just enough to be private, “about your brother.”
Vidal blinked, trying not to look like he’d been caught daydreaming. “Warscared?”
Her lips curved. “The way Nami reacted… that wasn’t just protective. That was
territorial. Makes me curious.”
Vidal hesitated — the same kind of pause you see in a stray dog deciding whether the hand offered to it has food or a leash.
Sasha stepped closer, her perfume faint but deliberate, brushing his arm as if by accident.
“You know…” she tilted her head, smiling just enough, “I’ve got a lot of time for men who can tell me the truth about the people I’m dealing with. And you, Vidal, don’t strike me as someone who gets listened to nearly enough.”
That was the hook. Vidal’s chest straightened a little — like she’d just seen him in a way no one else did.
He laughed awkwardly. “Nami’s not gonna tell you anything. She’s… careful.”
“I don’t need Nami,” Sasha said softly. “I need you.”
Sasha had him leaning in already, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, when Bella’s voice cut in.
“What are you doing?”
It wasn’t loud, but it had that sharp, glassy edge that made heads turn.
Nami was with her, carrying a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other — and the way both women were looking at Sasha could have stripped the paint off a car.
Sasha didn’t flinch. She just looked back at them, all polite curiosity, as if
they were the ones interrupting her conversation.
Nami didn’t waste time. She slid herself between Vidal and Sasha like she was closing a door, handing Vidal her coffee without looking at him.
“Vidal, go.”
He frowned. “I was just—”
“Go,” Nami repeated, with the same tone she’d used since they were kids — the one that didn’t invite discussion.
Vidal hesitated, gave Sasha a look that said
sorry, and wandered off toward Bella instead.
Nami’s attention shifted to Sasha, calm but iron-tight. “You don’t get to fish for information about my brother through my family.”
Sasha tilted her head, still smiling faintly. “Information? I was just having a conversation.”
Bella’s eyes narrowed. “Funny. Most conversations don’t look like you’re recruiting a stool pigeon.”
For the first time, Sasha’s smile thinned. She wasn’t used to being called out in public, and she definitely wasn’t used to being blocked this cleanly.
But she said nothing — just stepped back, as if this particular round wasn’t worth playing.
Sasha didn’t retreat completely. She lingered a moment, eyes flicking from Bella to Nami, weighing her options. Then, with the kind of shift only a practiced manipulator could pull off, she softened her voice.
“Actually, Nami… I was hoping to speak with you.”
Nami raised an eyebrow. “With me?”
“Yes.” Sasha’s tone was light, conversational, almost harmless. “You’re one of the top students here. I was thinking of asking your brother for some tutoring, but…” She let her eyes drift toward Vidal’s retreating figure. “His grades seem to have slipped lately. I suspect someone’s been distracting him.”
Bella coughed into her cup, smirking.
Nami exhaled, almost amused, almost tired. “His grades decrease at the exact same pace his interest in Bella increases. Love does make men stupid.”
Sasha’s eyes widened slightly in mock-surprise — and then she laughed. Not a polite chuckle, but an actual, amused laugh that drew a few stares from nearby tables. “You’re refreshingly direct. I like that.”
Nami sipped her coffee, not rising to the bait. “If you want tutoring, I charge by the hour.”
“Then let’s have coffee,” Sasha replied smoothly, “my treat — and we can discuss your rates.”
From across the courtyard, Vidal was still trying to make headway with Bella, oblivious to the fact Sasha had just sidestepped him entirely.
They ended up in the quietest corner of a boutique café just off campus. The smell of roasted beans and the hum of a milk steamer gave Sasha’s questions the perfect camouflage.
She kept the conversation comfortably academic at first — course loads, exam schedules, professors’ quirks — until her hand idly traced the rim of her coffee cup and she shifted gears.
“You know…” Sasha began, as if thinking out loud, “I’ve been replaying that… mall scene.”
Nami’s eyes flicked up from her notebook. “Which part?”
Sasha tilted her head, letting her blonde hair fall forward just enough to soften her expression. “The part where he pulled out… what? Three dollars? And apologized like it was the most natural thing in the world… for only having three dollars when buying a fifty-thousand-dollar necklace.”
She chuckled lightly, but her eyes stayed fixed on Nami’s face. “It wasn’t the money that caught me — it was the way he said it. Like he genuinely thought it was a reasonable explanation.”
Nami’s pen stilled over the page. “That’s… him,” she said flatly.
Sasha leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, pretending she wasn’t fishing. “I mean, it’s not exactly something you see every day. He even drew a red line on the box… told the director to deliver it to me like it was the most normal transaction in the world.”
Nami gave her the smallest, almost imperceptible smile — the kind you give when you’re not about to explain anything further. “Warscared’s logic isn’t for everyone to understand.”
Sasha sat back, unsatisfied but intrigued. If Nami wouldn’t explain it, she’d have to find another way in.
The office smelled faintly of sandalwood and leather-bound books, a contrast to the clean sterility of most therapists’ rooms. Dr. Amber Hayes — elegant in a quiet, confident way — sat across from Sasha, her pen resting lightly against her notes rather than scribbling.
Sasha had started the session as she always did: a little humor, a little cynicism, enough to keep things at arm’s length. But halfway through, the laughter faded.
“I don’t understand him,” she admitted, fingers tightening around her coffee cup. “One second, he’s a street brawler who’ll take on six people without flinching, the next… he’s apologizing for not having pocket change to cover a fifty-thousand-dollar necklace — and gifting it to me.”
Amber’s brow lifted slightly. “That unsettled you?”
“It… confused me,” Sasha corrected. “It’s like he’s playing a different game than the rest of us, and I don’t know the rules.”
Amber gave a slow, knowing nod. “He does sound… unusual.” She paused just long enough for curiosity to itch at Sasha. “And you’ve met his family?”
Sasha shrugged. “Briefly. His sister Nami, his brother Vidal, and his mother… Nojiko. But they’re a mystery too.”
Amber smiled faintly, almost to herself. “Nojiko? Oh, I know her. She’s an old friend of mine.”
That made Sasha sit up straighter. “You do?”
Amber nodded, looking almost wistful. “Yes… she runs a small clinic for the poor — right between the social housing projects and the Honduran barrio. I’ve referred a few patients there over the years.”
Sasha absorbed that, her mind already spinning. So Nojiko wasn’t just some distant, vaguely respectable mother figure. She was
hands-on with the kind of people Sasha’s world only ever saw through charity galas and foundation reports. That explained… something. But not enough.
And now Sasha was very sure she wanted to see that clinic.
The café Amber picked wasn’t one of Sasha’s usual haunts. No white marble counters, no gold-leaf menus — just the smell of roasted beans, soft jazz, and old wood tables. Amber sat across from her, fingers loosely curled around a latte, eyes drifting somewhere far away.
“So…” Sasha started casually, “you and Nojiko go way back?”
Amber’s mouth curved faintly. “College. I was loud, political, maybe a little wild. Nojiko was the quiet Japanese transfer student who sat in the back of lectures and took notes in perfect handwriting. At first, I thought she was shy. Then I realized she was just… watching everything.”
Sasha raised a brow. “And she stayed friends with you through all of that?”
Amber gave a small laugh. “More than that — she was there when I got pregnant with Bella. Two years too early, scrambling to balance classes and motherhood. But a year later, she was in her own whirlwind. Nami was born while Nojiko was still a student. She had to slow everything down to care for her. Then came Vidal… and finally Warscared.”
Sasha leaned forward slightly. “That must’ve made finishing school… difficult.”
“Eight years,” Amber said simply. “By the time she graduated, Warscared was three years old. She was drowning in debt, raising three kids — all from different fathers. And she still had to work, even then.”
Sasha tilted her head. “That doesn’t sound very… traditional.”
Amber smiled in that knowing, bittersweet way. “She admired my freedom — the variety in my life — but she learned how to keep hers too late. Somewhere along the way, she stopped being the quiet girl in the back row and became… someone who could survive anything.”
Sasha sipped her espresso, letting that settle. Three children, three fathers, debt, and a life carved out between a clinic in the barrio and raising kids who — from what Sasha had seen — could command a room without saying much. Especially the youngest.
The street outside the café was busy with late-afternoon shoppers, but Sasha barely noticed. Amber’s voice lingered in her head, each detail slotting into place like a puzzle she didn’t know she’d been building.
Three kids. Three fathers. Debt hanging over her like a storm cloud for years. A clinic in the barrio instead of some polished medical practice in a glass tower. And in the middle of all that — Warscared, the last-born, raised in the shadows of his mother’s struggle.
He would’ve grown up watching every coin counted, watching his mother stretch nothing into something. No wonder he’d smirked at Tiffany’s, saying he had only three dollars for a necklace worth over fifty grand.
No wonder that predator’s smile had appeared when the voucher came into play. It wasn’t just charm — it was instinct.
She thought of the red line he’d drawn on the necklace tag. How casually he’d said it would “balance out” her image. He’d decided, without asking, that he would override his own preferences to improve her for everyone else. That wasn’t romance — it was calculation.
He was used to negotiating from a place where he technically had nothing, yet still walking away with everything.
Sasha stopped at the curb, glancing in a shop window. The reflection showed her scar — faint in the right light, impossible to ignore in others. She touched it absently, remembering the way Nami, Vidal, and Nojiko had reacted to his smile at the mall.
Nami’s shiver. Vidal’s facepalm. Nojiko’s worried frown.
They weren’t reacting to the smile.
They were reacting to the
man.
Sasha exhaled slowly. The kid she’d accused of maybe needing “a lesson” might just be someone who’d been taking lessons his entire life — the kind you couldn’t get in any classroom.
And for the first time, she wondered if she hadn’t just underestimated him… but underestimated the entire family.
The street outside the café was busy with late-afternoon shoppers, but Sasha barely noticed. Amber’s voice lingered in her head, each detail slotting into place like a puzzle she didn’t know she’d been building.
Three kids. Three fathers. Debt hanging over her like a storm cloud for years. A clinic in the barrio instead of some polished medical practice in a glass tower. And in the middle of all that — Warscared, the last-born, raised in the shadows of his mother’s struggle.
He would’ve grown up watching every coin counted, watching his mother stretch nothing into something. No wonder he’d smirked at Tiffany’s, saying he had only three dollars for a necklace worth over fifty grand.
No wonder that predator’s smile had appeared when the voucher came into play. It wasn’t just charm — it was instinct.
She thought of the red line he’d drawn on the necklace tag. How casually he’d said it would “balance out” her image. He’d decided, without asking, that he would override his own preferences to improve her for everyone else. That wasn’t romance — it was calculation.
He was used to negotiating from a place where he technically had nothing, yet still walking away with everything.
Sasha stopped at the curb, glancing in a shop window. The reflection showed her scar — faint in the right light, impossible to ignore in others. She touched it absently, remembering the way Nami, Vidal, and Nojiko had reacted to his smile at the mall.
Nami’s shiver. Vidal’s facepalm. Nojiko’s worried frown.
They weren’t reacting to the smile.
They were reacting to the
man.
Sasha exhaled slowly. The kid she’d accused of maybe needing “a lesson” might just be someone who’d been taking lessons his entire life — the kind you couldn’t get in any classroom.
And for the first time, she wondered if she hadn’t just underestimated him… but underestimated the entire family.
Warscared had a split lip, a wrapped shoulder, and an expression that didn’t belong on someone lying in a hospital bed.
Sasha lingered in the hallway, leaning on the cool plaster wall, pretending to scroll her phone while she watched through the sliver of the open door.
The boy — no, the
kid — had the nurse half-laughing, half-frowning. His voice was soft, apologetic, like
he was the one putting her out by needing painkillers.
“Just a little, ma’am… I’m not asking for much. I know the rules, I know budgets are tight, I just—” He winced right on cue, hand tightening over his ribs. “—I just can’t sleep when it feels like my bones are grinding against each other.”
The nurse hesitated. She’d already told him
no twice.
He tilted his head slightly, smile curling at the corner — that deliberate, practiced one that suggested he was letting her in on some secret sadness.
“I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t really matter. You look like someone who understands pain.”
Sasha watched the woman melt. Just a fraction. But enough.
She came back three minutes later with a small bottle. Methadone.
“Don’t make me regret this,” the nurse muttered.
He gave her the kind of grateful smile that could’ve been bottled and sold.
“You won’t. You’re saving my night — probably my life.”
When the nurse left, he didn’t down the pills right away. He rolled the bottle in his palm, studying it like a chess player staring at a pawn.
That was when Sasha stepped in.
“You don’t look like someone who needs saving,” she said, leaning against the frame.
He glanced at her, the puppy-eyed softness gone, replaced by a quick, amused spark — like he’d just been caught mid-trick but didn’t mind.
“You’d be surprised what I need.”
Sasha was already wondering how much of the scene she’d just witnessed was real… and how much was an
act worth an Oscar.
Sasha stepped inside, heels clicking against the tile, and shut the door behind her.
He didn’t move — just lay there with his arm over his ribs, bottle of methadone balanced between his fingers.
“That was… impressive,” she said. “The wince. The voice. Even the little
tilt of your head.”
He smirked faintly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do.” She came closer, until she was standing at the foot of his bed. “It was all deliberate. The way you made her feel like she’d be a bad person for saying no. The way you… what do they call it in acting? Hit your
beats.”
The warmth in his expression vanished in an instant. His eyes, that deep magnetic blue, locked on her like a predator sizing up whether to pounce or wait.
“That nurse will sleep better tonight thinking she did the right thing,” he said evenly. “And I’ll sleep better tonight because I got what I needed. Everybody wins.”
“That’s cold.”
“That’s survival.” His tone was flat now, calculated. “If I go in loud, aggressive — security shows up. If I go in like a victim — people want to help. I pick whichever gets me the result faster.”
Sasha tilted her head, studying him the way he’d studied the pill bottle earlier. “So… which one was I? Victim or threat?”
He let out a low chuckle, leaning back against the pillow. “You? You’re curiosity with legs. And curiosity… always gets close enough to the fire to get burned.”
Her pulse kicked a little faster at the way he said it — not loud, not harsh, but certain. Like he’d already decided something about her.
Sasha watched him toy with the pill bottle, the glint in his eyes equal parts calculation and amusement. She wanted to see what was under that mask, the part people like Nami guarded so fiercely.
She let the name roll off her tongue softly, deliberately.
“Eyckardt.”
The effect was instant — and chilling.
His smirk vanished. His eyes narrowed, the playful gleam gone like a light switch had been flipped. The air in the room shifted, sharp and heavy.
He sat up slowly, setting the bottle on the tray table with deliberate care. “That,” he said, voice low and precise, “is not a name you get to use.”
It wasn’t anger exactly — it was possession, control. A warning drawn in ink so black you could see it even in the dark.
“Only two people in this world can call me that,” he continued, “and you’re not one of them. You try again, and it stops being conversation.”
Sasha felt the edges of her curiosity sharpen into something else — interest mixed with caution.
“So what should I call you?” she asked, keeping her tone light, testing.
He leaned forward slightly, the predator’s focus now fully fixed on her.
“You already know,” he said. “And if you ever forget — I’ll remind you.”
There was no smile, no warmth — just that cold certainty that made her realize Nami and Nojiko hadn’t been exaggerating.
Sasha had kept her distance after the hospital scene, letting his warning settle. But when her official duties called for a charity visit to the same hospital, she found herself scanning the halls.
She didn’t expect to see him.
Yet there he was — walking out with a faint limp, arm in a sling, that wicked smile aimed at no one in particular. He passed by a man in a leather vest who was leaning casually against the wall. Without a word, Warscared dropped a small pharmacy bag into the man’s hand and kept walking like it meant nothing.
Sasha’s brows knit together.
So the pills weren’t for him?
Curiosity itched at her until she couldn’t ignore it. She asked the receptionist if she could view her “best friend’s younger brother’s” medical file — dropping Nami’s name with an air of casual entitlement. It wasn’t hard to get a peek.
The pattern was… unsettling. Twice a month, he came in. Always a different nurse. The injuries were real — lacerations, deep bruises, sometimes fractures. But the bloodwork told a different story: no opiates, no narcotics, nothing that even hinted at self-use.
She stared at the pages longer than she meant to.
So he just… endures it?
The question wouldn’t let her go. So she found one of the senior doctors in the break room and asked — hypothetically — if anyone could tolerate that sort of physical pain.
The doctor’s reply was flat, almost grim.
“Some can,” he said, sipping his coffee. “But they’re rare. And they’re not like the rest of us. People who take that kind of pain without medication…” He trailed off, giving her a knowing look. “…they’re usually psychopaths. Or at the very least, sociopaths. That’s pain that can break a normal mind.”
Sasha leaned back, the pieces shifting in her mind.
So which one are you, Eyckardt?
The little clinic tucked between the community center and the Honduran barrio looked nothing like Sasha’s world of marble floors and polished chrome. The walls here were sun-faded, the chairs mismatched, but the air carried a warmth money couldn’t buy.
Nojiko greeted her at the door, still in her white coat, stethoscope slung loosely around her neck.
“I heard about the work you do here,” Sasha said smoothly, offering a sleek envelope. “I’d like to make a charitable contribution. For the clinic.”
Nojiko’s expression softened — but only a little — as she accepted the envelope. “That’s generous of you.”
Sasha smiled, letting the conversation drift until she could slip in, “I… actually ran into your son recently. At the hospital.” She let her gaze linger meaningfully. “I couldn’t help but notice he left with a bag of medication he didn’t seem to need.”
The change in Nojiko was instant. Her shoulders squared, eyes sharpening. “Whatever you think you saw, leave it.”
Sasha tilted her head, feigning innocence. “I’m only curious—”
“No,” Nojiko cut her off, voice calm but laced with iron. “Curiosity is how good people get hurt.” She stepped closer, her tone almost maternal — but with the weight of someone who had weathered storms Sasha couldn’t name. “He’s my golden boy. He does what he needs to survive, but he is good. I taught him right.”
For the first time in a long while, Sasha felt the subtle sting of being dismissed.
Nojiko’s eyes held hers a moment longer before she added, softer now, “If you’re here to help, help. But don’t dig for what you don’t need to know.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
The college quad was alive with noise — students sprawled on the grass, others hurrying to class, the air thick with late-morning chatter. Sasha spotted Vidal leaning casually against a bench, Bella a few feet away rifling through her bag.
She strolled up with her signature slow confidence. “Vidal,” she said, like she was tasting the name. “Got a moment?”
Bella’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Stop trying to steal my dog.”
Sasha’s lips curved into an amused smirk. “Dog? I was just—”
But the rest was lost under Vidal’s dopey grin, the kind of glazed, schoolboy expression that screamed he’d follow Bella anywhere if she just crooked her finger.
Nami, sitting cross-legged on the grass with her laptop, didn’t even look up. “And with that smirk on his face,” she said dryly, “I think I can declare him brain-dead now.”
Vidal blinked. “Hey!”
Bella just rolled her eyes, shoving a notebook into her bag. “Proves my point. He’s a puppy. And he’s mine.”
Sasha tilted her head, filing away the dynamic — Bella’s possessiveness, Vidal’s hunger for attention, and Nami’s bluntness. In this family, everyone had a role. All she had to do was figure out which thread to pull first.
Sasha shifted her weight, letting the sunlight catch in her hair just enough to keep Vidal’s attention pinned. “You know,” she said lightly, “I was going to ask you about something… but maybe it’s better to get the
smart sibling’s opinion.”
Vidal bristled immediately. “Hey, I’m smart.”
Sasha leaned back in her chair, coffee cup cradled in both hands. Across from her, Vidal was trying very hard to look casual, which in practice made him look like a Labrador waiting for a treat.
“I saw your little brother the other day,” Sasha said smoothly. “At Tiffany’s. Three dollars in his pocket… walked out with a fifty-five thousand dollar voucher.”
Vidal blinked, then gave a short laugh. “Yeah… that sounds about right.”
“Right?” Bella snorted. “That’s not normal, Vidal.”
Vidal ignored her. “He’s… scary smart. Probably the smartest person I’ve ever met.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow. “You? Saying that? Don’t you have, like… Nobel Prize winners for teachers?”
“Two,” Vidal said without hesitation. “And yeah, they’re brilliant… but Warscared’s different. He doesn’t just know things—he
sees things. Reads people like they’re open books, and then writes the ending before they even know the first page.”
Bella gave him a look. “And you’re telling this to the girl sniffing around him? You want him to kill you?”
Vidal smirked. “Warscared’s my brother. He’s not gonna—”
“Why not?” Sasha asked sweetly.
Vidal froze.
“Because,” Nami said without looking up from her laptop, “you don’t feed wild animals. Especially ones you can’t put back in the cage once they’re out.”
The comment made Sasha smile faintly, because now she wasn’t just curious — she
needed to know what kind of animal Warscared really was.
“Vidal,” Nami’s voice cut through like cold steel.
He shut his mouth instantly.
Sasha’s gaze slid to Nami. “Since…?”
“Since nothing,” Nami said, setting down her phone. “Don’t go digging for stories, Miss Petrov. My little brother’s not a myth you can solve.”
Vidal was still wearing that smug grin when Sasha leaned forward, setting her coffee down with a soft clink.
“You know, Vidal… Bella here’s been saying you need to take her out somewhere nice if you want to stand a chance.”
Bella’s head snapped toward her. “I said
what—?”
But Sasha was already sliding a crisp envelope across the table. “Consider it… an investment. A gentleman should never be broke when he’s chasing a lady.”
Vidal’s eyes widened as he peeked inside. “This is—”
“Enough for dinner, drinks, and something to impress her,” Sasha finished smoothly. “You focus on Bella. Leave the… family questions to me.”
Vidal hesitated just long enough to make it obvious he’d already decided to take the deal. Bella looked ready to throw her coffee in Sasha’s face, but the heiress ignored her.
Instead, Sasha turned to Nami.
“You’ve been too quiet,” she said. “You know… you should come out with us sometime. Robin, Ayuha, me. A few street races, nothing crazy.”
Nami’s brows knit. “Street races?”
“Ayuha’s a friend of Bella’s. She drives. Fast. You’d like her. And Robin’s… well, Robin.” Sasha smiled faintly. “You spend too much time alone. A little air might do you good.”
Nami glanced between them, her shoulders shifting uncomfortably. She wasn’t part of any clique at school, never had been. The offer sounded casual — but it also had the weight of someone used to getting what they wanted.
Robin and Ayuha, already half in Bella’s orbit, were easy bridges. And Sasha… Sasha was already building the net.
Sasha watched Bella and Ayuha trade smirks about an upcoming street run and felt the old animal in her spine stir—anger, cold and precise. She hated it: the speed, the lawlessness, the way people cheered when someone pushed the limit. She’d made a point of cultivating an image of control; street racers were sloppy and unpredictable.
So she did the thing she always did when something irritated her — she hid what it actually was.
Later, when Vidal offered to help spread the word about a small charity gala (and happily accepted Sasha’s “gift”), she pulled him aside in a quiet corridor, voice low and flat.
“You two racers?” she said. “I don’t tolerate that nonsense. It’s reckless.”
Vidal blinked, tried to look offended for Bella, then shrugged it off.
Sasha’s jaw tightened. She let the corridor’s hush hold the secret for a beat, then let the confession slip like a gamble:
“I don’t hate it because it’s reckless. I hate it because once, it almost killed me.”
Vidal’s grin died. He took a step closer, suddenly serious. “What happened?”
She let him lean in. The story wasn’t for gossip; it was a small shard of the life she never put on public display.
“Kidnapped, a few years back.” Her voice didn’t rise. “They used a driver who used to race. He knew how to handle a car for one thing—how to run, how to vanish. That ride taught me how fragile everything looks when the world is running at two hundred.”
She watched the comprehension spread across Vidal’s face. This wasn’t glamour anymore; it was a bruise she’d learned to hide behind jokes and posture.
“So when I see them laugh about racing, I don’t see freedom. I see the steering wheel at my throat.”
Vidal swallowed. He looked at Bella in a new light—less amusement, more protectiveness—while Sasha folded the memory away with the same quiet precision she used to fold her gloves. It explained the coldness everyone noticed when she spoke of racers: not moral high ground, but a hard, private fear she’d learned to turn into control.
She didn’t tell him that the driver later drifted back into the shadows, working odd jobs — the same man who’d once grinned as he floored the accelerator. She didn’t need to. The implication was enough: racers weren’t faceless thrills for her. They were tools that had once been turned on her.
That vulnerability made her sharper around Warscared, too. If he treated the world like a negotiation, she recognized an echo of her own survival — but where she’d been forced into fear, he’d leaned into predation. The juxtaposition fascinated her: the girl who’d been carried through trauma by careful planning, and the boy who weaponised chaos into advantage.
She finished quietly. “I abominate the races. But I do not stop people who choose risk for pleasure. I stop people who forget what they did to others.” She straightened, smoothing a nonexistent crease. “Now help me make sure Vidal’s night goes well, and keep your friends away from the dangerous boys.”
Vidal, half-protected and half-thrilled to be useful, nodded. Bella looked smug. Nami, watching, folded her arms — not surprised, but measuring. Sasha left with her face calm and her insides keyed tight.
Ayuha and Robin exchange worried glances, then press Sasha for an explanation.
“Why are you rolling with the siblings? At a street race?” Robin asks, sharp and skeptical.
Ayuha’s voice is softer. “Sasha—this isn’t you. You hate this world.”
Sasha meets their looks, and for a moment her usual armor flickers. She lowers her voice, quieter than before.
“Ever since my father caught up with that racer,” she says, “I feel… different. Less fragile. I thought I couldn’t face it. Now I can. And I’m not alone.”
Ayuha reaches out and takes her hand, trusting. Robin gives a reluctant nod. They believe her—because they want to. Because they like her, and because she’s made them feel included.
But Sasha’s small, quiet truth is backed by something darker: two dozen Petrov muscles folded in the shadowline around the meeting spot—silent, watching, not part of the race crowd. They are the unadvertised guard. Not cheering, only ready. Not visible unless you know to look.
Sasha lets them be that shadow. She leans into Ayuha’s palm and allows herself that small warmth, while the Petrov presence makes the rest of the world safer and far more dangerous than anyone realizes.
The engines screamed against the night, each rev a challenge, each roar a promise. Ayuha’s heat came first—clean, precise, pushing hard on the last lap. She crossed the line
second out of six, her jaw tight but her eyes proud. Robin whooped and threw an arm around her like she’d just claimed victory anyway.
Then came Bella’s turn. She drove like a woman born for chaos—hard into the corners, greedy on the straights, taking every inch the other racers left unguarded. When she crossed the finish first, Vidal’s voice cracked the night as he screamed her name.
And then—right there in the swirl of smoke, noise, and adrenaline—they hugged. And kissed. Not coy, not cautious—like gravity had simply pulled them into each other.
Vidal lit up, all raw joy and wonder, like someone had just handed him the key to a kingdom he didn’t know existed. Bella’s hands hesitated only a fraction before holding him tighter.
From the sidelines, Sasha’s lips curled. Oh, this was delicious. A Van Hallen kissing a street rat. Yes, a street rat who could probably rewrite a Nobel lecture before breakfast, but still—no pedigree, no family crest to shield him.
And then the better part—the sharp little detail her mind had been storing away—Bella’s parents were divorced. Amber, Bella’s mother, was friends with Nojiko. This wasn’t just romance; this could be a lever.
She could already see Bella’s father’s face when he learned. The vein in his temple, the way he’d grind his teeth. The thought warmed her like fine cognac.
Sasha let out a low chuckle, the kind that turned heads, but her friends assumed it was just the race. They didn’t see the game board sliding into place in her mind.
Two dozen Petrov men lingered unseen around the edges, their silent presence a reminder: no one moved against her without paying dearly.
The
Fallen Angels didn’t roll in like street racers. They came like weather—three of them, black cuts gleaming under the overhead lamps, each move deliberate.
At the front was
Jeremiah, the Sergeant-at-Arms, his stare locking the ring masters into silence before they’d even finished stepping forward.
Ayuha drifted closer, Zane confidence pulling her into earshot—until one of the Angels on Jeremiah’s flank shifted his stance and gently pushed her back with one hand. Not rough, not personal. Just the kind of motion that said
you’re not invited.
Still, she caught pieces of the talk—words like
“Petrov payout” and
“no encroachment”—enough to raise suspicion.
The moment the Angels wrapped up and began walking their bikes back toward the edge of the circuit, Sasha’s eyes tracked one of them. Not Jeremiah. The tall one with a shaved head, worn leather gloves, and an easy smile that didn’t match the coldness in his eyes.
She leaned toward Ayuha. “Who’s that?”
Ayuha followed her gaze. “Obadiah.”
“And he is…?”
“A patched Angel.”
Sasha waited for more.
“That means,” Ayuha added, voice low and flat, “he’s a hell of a lot more dangerous than your average security detail.”
Sasha kept her expression calm, but the truth was, she’d seen that man before—collecting the hospital pills. And if a patched Angel was ws friend then the game was bigger than she’d been told.
The
Fallen Angels came in low and slow, engines rumbling like a warning. Only three, but they carried the weight of twenty. Jeremiah, the Sergeant-at-Arms, stopped first, flanked by two patched brothers.
Their boots crunched against the gravel as they closed the space between themselves and Sasha’s little group. Jeremiah’s eyes scanned her from head to toe, then flicked briefly to Robin.
“Well, well,” he said, voice rough with the gravel of too many cigarettes. “What’s the Ice Princess doing on
Angel turf?”
Sasha held her chin high. “Didn’t know it was yours.”
“You do now,” Jeremiah replied evenly. “And if the Petrovs are gonna be here, we’d appreciate a heads-up. Wouldn’t want misunderstandings.”
One of the other Angels chuckled. “You could’ve just had Robin call her uncle Ray.”
Sasha’s eyes shifted to Robin. “…Uncle Ray?”
Robin hesitated, then shrugged like it was no big deal. “My mom’s brother. He’s… president of the Angels.”
Sasha’s mind turned over the title, tasting the weight behind it. President. Not just local—if Robin’s tone was right,
the president. That explained why these three weren’t treating Robin like just another girl at the circuit.
Jeremiah gave Sasha a nod that was more warning than farewell, and the Angels moved on toward the ring masters, leaving her standing there with more questions than answers.
Sasha was still watching Jeremiah’s back when Ayuha slid in beside her. She kept her voice low, eyes following the patched men as they disappeared into the crowd.
“That thing you said earlier,” Ayuha murmured. “About being safe out here.”
Sasha’s gaze flicked to her, cool and unreadable. “What about it?”
Ayuha leaned a little closer, her tone sharpening. “Safe from what, exactly? Because I just watched three patched Angels walk up and talk to you like they already knew your name. And now I’m hearing Robin’s uncle runs the whole club.”
Sasha didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let her attention wander—to where two of her father’s men loitered in the shadows, hands in pockets but eyes on the crowd. “It means,” she said finally, “I don’t show up anywhere without someone making sure I leave in one piece.”
“That’s not safety,” Ayuha said flatly. “That’s… territory.”
For a moment, Sasha almost smiled. “You think too small, Ayuha. The Petrovs don’t share turf. If they’re here, it’s because they’ve decided it’s theirs—at least for tonight.”
Ayuha’s jaw tightened. “That’s Angel turf. You just painted a target on yourself.”
Sasha’s eyes softened just enough to hide the flicker of something darker. “Not on me, darling. On the people foolish enough to think they could touch me.”
Sasha’s eyes narrowed after the Angels walked away. She pulled her phone from her clutch.
“Vidal. Nami. We’re leaving.”
Nami didn’t argue, already sensing the change in her tone. But Vidal just grinned at Bella, who was still flushed from her win.
“You two go. I’ll stay with her,” he said, tipping his head toward Bella.
Sasha didn’t even waste breath arguing. She waved Ayuha over. “Drive Robin home.”
“Yeah,” Ayuha said, already steering Robin toward her car.
Once they were gone, Sasha called her security detail.
“Report.”
Only six Petrov men stepped out of the shadows. Six. Out of twenty-four.
Her fingers clenched around the phone. “Where are the others?”
No answer—just a faint rustle behind her.
“Calm down.”
She spun, heels digging into the dirt. A man stood there with his face half-covered by a dark scarf, eyes glinting in the low light. His voice was low, almost casual, but it carried weight that stilled her panic.
Then his gaze shifted past her—toward the oncoming figure of Nami. For the briefest heartbeat, something softened. Even through the mask, she saw the heat rise along his cheekbones, the faintest blush betraying him before his eyes iced over again.
He crouched, set a neat row of eighteen battered walkie-talkies on the ground at her feet.
“They’re still alive,” he said. “Just… taking a nap.”
Sasha’s breath hitched.
He didn’t linger on her reaction. He straightened and walked toward a broad-shouldered man leaning against a bike—Obadiah.
“Lost my trophies,” the masked man said, voice dry, almost apologetic. “So… sorry.”
Obadiah’s grin was slow, knowing, like he’d just been handed a story he couldn’t wait to tell.
Obadiah’s eyes flicked to the row of walkie-talkies, then back to the masked man.
“How the hell,” he said slowly, “did you take out eighteen Petrov bodyguards without anyone noticing?”
Warscared tilted his head, the faintest shrug in his shoulders.
“They were more worried about blending in. Keeping their eyes on the princess.” His gaze slid toward Sasha for half a beat, then back to Obadiah. “Never thought to look at what was showing up behind their backs.”
Obadiah’s grin widened. “And if I’d kept her talking longer?”
“You’d have given me the time to take them all,” Warscared replied without hesitation. “But…” he stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Obadiah could hear, “when they scatter like this, my movements are limited. I have to stay in the shadow. Can’t risk breaking the cover.”
Obadiah chuckled, low and approving. “Still the same old ghost.”
Warscared didn’t answer. His eyes were already back on the six men still standing—watching them the way a predator watches prey it hasn’t decided to chase yet.
One of the six still standing shifted uncomfortably under Warscared’s stare.
It took Sasha a moment to notice—then she remembered. The man had been there the day she met him. The one who’d thrown the first punch.
Warscared’s gaze locked on him. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand. Formed his fingers into the shape of a pistol.
Pointed.
Click.
No sound, no bullet—just the pantomime. But it was enough. The man’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting away. His posture faltered in a way no Petrov muscle was supposed to allow.
Warscared let the silence hang until it felt heavier than any blow. Then he dropped his hand, turning back to Obadiah without a word—message delivered.
Sasha didn’t flinch when it happened. She’d been around enough hard men to know when a gesture carried more weight than a weapon.
But this… this wasn’t standard intimidation. It wasn’t business. That
click was personal. The kind of message you give someone you’ve already marked in your head.
Her eyes flicked between the masked man and the Petrov guard who suddenly looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Why?
The question itched under her skin. What could her own bodyguard have in common with an Angel’s tag-along who moved in Obadiah’s shadow?
She didn’t have the answer, but she knew enough to feel the wrongness in it. And Sasha Petrov had survived this long by never ignoring wrongness.
The Petrov cars rolled in a loose convoy through the dim streets, six black silhouettes cutting the night. Inside the backseat, Sasha stared out at the passing streetlights, the silence thick enough to choke on.
Finally, she exhaled and glanced at Nami.
“I owe you an apology,” Sasha said quietly. “For tonight.”
Nami tilted her head, genuinely puzzled. “For what?”
“For… dragging you into all this.” Her voice was even, but her mind was somewhere else entirely. She hesitated, then added, “How tall is your brother?”
Nami blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “Uh… almost as tall as that weird tag-along with a scarf,” she said, thinking back to the man standing near the patched Angels. “You know, the one who never talks much.”
Sasha didn’t respond right away. She just hummed, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as the pieces began to slide toward each other in her mind.
Sasha kept her gaze on the blur of streetlights outside, her voice casual—too casual.
“Does he… always wear that scarf?”
Nami shrugged. “Pretty much. Sometimes he swaps it out for a mask if it’s cold, but yeah. Why?”
“No reason.” Sasha let the words drop like loose change, but her fingers tapped against her knee in a steady, deliberate rhythm.
Nami, still oblivious, went on. “He’s quiet, though. Only talks when he wants to. And if he looks at you like he’s sizing you up, it’s probably because he is.”
Sasha’s lips curved in the smallest, almost imperceptible smile.
“Interesting,” she murmured.
In her head, the scarfed shadow from tonight’s stand-off and the man Nami called her brother were starting to look less like two strangers and more like the same silhouette.
Sasha didn’t bother with pleasantries when Bella answered.
“What the hell happened? And how did the Angels know my security detail was there?”
Bella gave a lazy snort. “Because Ayuha asked her aunt, genius. Petrov bodyguards tend to stand like statues. Everyone with eyes figured the Petrovs were trying to muscle in on the street races that
pay the Angels for their right to run.”
Sasha let out an irritated breath. “Figures.”
“Oh, and by the way,” Bella added, her tone suddenly syrupy, “Nami’s brother is
way too enthusiastic.”
Sasha frowned. “The one who stayed with you when I left?”
“Mhm.” A sly rustle, then Bella’s voice came back. “Here—listen.”
On the line came the faint, steady rhythm of a snore.
Bella chuckled low. “Thirty-eight seconds. New record for me. Shame he’s not a car… ’cause he comes
fast.”
Sasha pinched the bridge of her nose, half annoyed, half fighting a smirk. “You’re impossible.”
Bella just laughed harder.
Sasha barely had time to hang up before Enessa’s voice came slicing through the room like a whip.
“Do you have any
idea what you just did?”
Sasha’s head snapped up. “It’s not what it looked like—”
“Oh really?” Enessa’s heels clicked across the marble, eyes locked on Sasha like a hawk eyeing prey. “Because to me, and to
everyone else with a brain, it looked like you dragged two dozen Petrov men into
Angels turf without warning them—or us. And
that created a situation.”
Sasha’s voice sharpened. “Who the hell are the Angels to tell me where I can go?”
Enessa stopped short, lips curling into something between a laugh and a threat. “They are the muscle that controls the muscle that controls the street. They’re your father’s favorite private contractors, your aunt’s shipment insurers… and probably the best bogeyman in this city. They’re not the Petrovs, but they’re damn close. And now—thanks to you—they’re paying attention.”
Sasha’s protest caught in her throat. She knew exactly how it had looked—Ayuha’s aunt asking questions, Petrov bodyguards standing stiff like chess pieces. Anyone could’ve mistaken it for a territory grab.
But the truth? The truth would sound worse. That an Angels tag-along in a scarf had dismantled her security detail without her even noticing… and that somewhere in her gut, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to explain it or keep it to herself.
Ayuha leaned back in her chair, smirking through the phone.
“He must be easy to find. An Angel tag-along with those eyes and that tall? Might even be taller than Vidal, but way better built… like a tank. All muscle and sinew.”
Sasha frowned. “How would you even know that? He was dressed.”
“Sometimes,” Ayuha said, voice low and amused, “you just know.”
The line went dead, but the remark stuck. Sasha immediately tapped Nami’s contact.
“Hey,” Nami answered after a beat.
“I just want to go over last night,” Sasha said, keeping her tone casual. “After we left the races.”
“
We left,” Nami reminded her. “You invited me, remember? My brother stayed behind.”
Sasha hesitated. “…How tall is your brother?”
“Almost as tall as that weird tag-along with the scarf,” Nami said without thinking. “The one hanging around with the patched Angels.” Then she paused, suspicion creeping in. “Wait… why are you asking me how tall Vidal is?”
Sasha froze. “…I wasn’t asking about Vidal.”
Sasha swirled the ice in her glass, studying Nami.
“How tall is your brother?” she asked casually.
Nami blinked. “Vidal? You saw him—”
“No,” Sasha cut in, “the younger one.”
Nami’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Why?”
Sasha gave the faintest shrug. “Just curious.”
“Curious about a kid?” Nami’s tone sharpened, the warmth in her voice gone. “He’s a minor, Sasha. A
minor. So whatever’s running through your head—forget it.”
Sasha leaned back, unfazed but clearly not getting the answer she wanted. “I didn’t mean—”
“Doesn’t matter what you meant,” Nami interrupted bluntly. “You want details? Not happening. He doesn’t need people poking into his life. End of story.”
The way she said it made it clear—this wasn’t just sisterly protectiveness, it was a warning.
Sasha had barely put in her second request on the Petrov info network when the first angry call came through.
Her father didn’t even say hello.
“What the hell are you doing asking questions about the Angels?”
“I just want to know—”
“No, you don’t ‘just’ want to know. You’re pulling on a thread all the families are trying to tie together. The Angels aren’t just any street crew — they’re the muscle that controls the muscle that controls the street.”
Enessa’s voice cut in from the background, sharper, colder.
“They’re also your father’s favorite private contractors, and your aunt’s shipment insurers. You’re not being a good daughter right now, Sasha. You piss them off, you piss off everyone.”
Sasha’s jaw tightened. “So I’m supposed to just ignore it?”
“You’re supposed to remember,” Enessa snapped,
“that the Zanes would love to have the Angels all to themselves. And the Reveras? They’re barely our allies as it is. If you sour things with the Angels, you hand our rivals the opening they’ve been waiting for.”
Sasha opened her mouth, but Enessa didn’t give her the chance.
“And don’t think this is just politics. Without the Angels, we lose our specialists in certain matters. That means people get hurt, or they go to jail, because no one else can do what the Angels do.”
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the encrypted line.
Sasha stared at the blank wall across from her, fingers still resting on the phone.
She hated the feeling — the mix of frustration, curiosity, and the heavy chain of family expectation coiling around her throat.
The man she’d hired wasn’t cheap, but he was good. He sent her a neatly organized folder after his second day — the kind of clean, methodical notes that screamed
professional.
Daily routine:
- 0600–0800: Home. No movement. Curtains drawn.
- 0900–1100: Workout. Heavy lifting, cardio, shadow boxing — two to three hours without a break.
- Rest of the day: Locked inside. No unusual internet activity except obsessive browsing of Wikipedia and Cambridge Dictionary.
- After sunset: Leaves the house. Walks straight to the Angels’ orbit.
That’s where every trail went cold. Not because he disappeared… but because
they made sure nobody followed.
The PI’s voice had started getting tight on the phone after that. The last call came a day later, late at night.
“Miss Petrov… you’re not paying me enough to die.”
She could hear street noise in the background, hurried footsteps.
“I had eyes on him. Then I had eyes on the clubhouse. Then I realized they had eyes on me. Everything was fine until then. After that? Every corner I turned, somebody was already there. I’m gone. This is my last report.”
The folder landed on her desk twenty minutes later — hand-delivered, no return address.
She flipped through the pages again, eyes narrowing.
Workouts. Sunset disappearances. The Angels closing ranks around him like he was one of their own.
It didn’t matter that her family told her to drop it.
If professionals couldn’t break through, she’d just have to find her own way in.
Sasha didn’t wait for an invitation.
The moment the prospect at the door hesitated, she pushed past him with the cool entitlement of someone who’d grown up in rooms where everyone knew her last name.
“I’m here to talk to the one in charge.”
That brought her straight to Ray — sitting at a corner table, leather cut open over a plain black tee, boots planted firm. He listened as she laid out her “misunderstanding” with the Angels, her voice smooth but edged with enough iron to remind him she wasn’t used to being told no.
Ray didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood, gave Jeremiah a quick glance, and walked out the back. Seconds later, the low growl of a bike rolled to life, then faded into the distance.
Sasha knew a message-run when she heard one. That was no casual ride — that was a counter-move.
Jeremiah slid into Ray’s place across from her, leaning his elbows on the table.
“So,” he said, “what exactly do you think you’ve stepped in?”
She kept her gaze steady. “I’m here to de-escalate.”
He smirked, motioning for a beer. “And yet you came looking for the
one in charge. Now you’ve got me.”
They talked — street races, her security detail, why she’d been sniffing around their turf. Then, as if just an afterthought, she asked,
“That tall blond tag-along… who is he?”
Jeremiah froze for a heartbeat, then laughed. Deep, chest-shaking laughter that had a few nearby Angels turning their heads.
When he finally stopped, he fished his phone from his pocket and hit a number.
“Ray… yeah, all good. Better than good. You’re not gonna believe this.”
Click.
Now he leaned back, grin curling like smoke.
“You’ve been chasing a tag-along? That explains the noise you’ve been making.”
“How long would it take him to be patched in?” she pressed.
Jeremiah’s smile dimmed into something more deliberate.
“Depends. Club’s got extra steps. Not everyone gets patched — some are more valuable right where they are.”
She scanned the room as he spoke. Prospects and hang-arounds moved with rigid deference, every glance and gesture shaped by fear of the patched men.
But the memory of Obadiah and the blond one burned bright — their easy stances, unflinching voices, as if this was their territory already. That contrast stuck with her.
He wasn’t
just a tag-along.
The clubhouse smelled like spilled beer, warm leather, and the faint sting of cigarette smoke. Music thumped from battered speakers, and laughter rolled like waves through the crowd. It was a proper Angels’ night — bottles on the bar, patched men posted up, hang-arounds and old ladies weaving through.
Warscared stood near the pool table, bottle in hand, leaning back just enough to look like he didn’t care who came up to him.
That didn’t save him.
Obadiah clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Look at you, Angel-boy — unfroze the
Ice Princess Petrov herself.”
Another biker barked out a laugh from the bar. “Glacial heart, my ass — bet she’s melting already.”
“Careful,” Jeremiah called across the room, grinning. “Kid’s got a thing for high-maintenance imports. You keep her smiling and her old man might put your name on a trust fund.”
Even a few prospects joined in, tossing lines about “ice picks” and “snow queens.” Every joke made the circle around him a little wider, the smirks a little bolder.
Warscared just took a slow drink, smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth — the kind that didn’t invite more teasing but didn’t shut it down either. He hated being the center of that kind of attention, but showing it would’ve been blood in the water.
“Must’ve been the eyes,” one hang-around giggled. “Bet she thawed right out.”
He didn’t answer. Just set his beer down, racked up the balls, and chalked his cue. The smirk was still there, but his gaze was fixed on the table — already making it clear the game mattered more than their noise.
The laughter didn’t stop, but it shifted — quieter, knowing. They could tease all they wanted, but he wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of rising to it.
The laughter at Warscared’s expense was still buzzing in the air when he set his beer down, shouldered his jacket, and headed for the door. He wasn’t in the mood for a crowd tonight — not when they’d all decided he was some kind of ice-queen whisperer.
The cool night air hit him as he swung a leg over his bike. He’d just kicked it to life when a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Jeremiah was there, Obadiah flanking him, and Ray a step behind — the kind of lineup that made everyone else in the lot suddenly find somewhere else to look.
“Hold up,” Jeremiah said, voice calm but heavy with that
don’t-argue weight.
Warscared’s hand stayed on the throttle, but his gaze lifted, searching their faces.
Ray stepped in. “What you owed for this bike?” He tapped the polished tank. “Consider it more than paid.”
Warscared’s brow furrowed.
Obadiah smirked. “We don’t patch in minors, kid. Club rule. But you’re gonna start getting a cut from the group.”
Jeremiah added, “You didn’t buy this whole thing on your own. You had half. The rest? We chipped in. ’Cause anyone ballsy enough to do what you’ve done… deserves to ride something worthy of the Angels.”
Warscared looked down at the bike — the chrome gleaming under the clubhouse lights, the kind of machine that turned heads at every stoplight. His hand trembled just slightly on the bars. A single tear traced down his cheek before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the gas tank, the steel cool against his lips.
Sacrifices were worth it.
“Guess you’re stuck with us,” Ray said, the faintest grin breaking his usual stone face.
Warscared straightened, thumbed the throttle, and the engine roared to life. He gave a single nod, not trusting himself to speak, then rolled out of the lot — now riding a bike that was finally his…
Two days later, Sasha sat in the back of her family’s town car, a leather folder open on her lap. The PI had skipped town, but not before mailing her the last scraps of his notes — probably his way of cashing out without coming back to collect.
Inside was a scribbled page. No photos this time, just hurried handwriting:
Clubhouse party. Subject attempted to leave early. Intercepted by three senior Angels. Brief, serious exchange. Subject emotional, kissed bike. Engineered machine described as high-end, likely custom. Mention of debt paid in full. Mention of “cut from the group” despite being a minor. Crowd seemed to approve.
Sasha’s brow furrowed. She ran her finger over the words “emotional” and “kissed bike,” trying to picture the cold, calculating tag-along she’d built in her head doing something so… sentimental.
The last page was even messier, like the PI had been writing while walking.
Half the bike paid by him, half by the Angels. Not patched in — too young. This one isn’t just tolerated — they’ve invested in him. Could mean protection beyond standard club loyalty.
She closed the folder slowly, leaning back against the leather seat.
So they’d given him a bike. No —
their bike. That wasn’t just a toy. That was a flag planted in the middle of the street saying
he’s one of ours.
Her driver glanced in the mirror. “Where to, Miss Petrov?”
Sasha’s lips curved slightly. “The races,” she said. “I think I need to see him for myself.”
The little bell over the bakery door chimed as Warscared stepped inside, the warm scent of bread and sugar wrapping around him. It was late afternoon, the street outside humming with traffic, but in here it was soft and slow.
He leaned on the counter, waiting. From the back, Nojiko appeared, still in her clinic scrubs. She gave him that knowing look.
“You want me to hear it first?” she asked.
“Do you?” he replied.
She sighed. “Alright. Go on.”
“They paid it off,” he said, voice low but steady. “My bike. Said what I owed was more than covered. I’m getting a cut now. Not patched in, but… they think I’m worth it.”
She saw it — the quick glint of moisture in his eyes before he looked away. “Sacrifices are worth it,” he murmured.
Before Nojiko could answer, movement caught his attention. From the kitchen, the baker’s daughter walked in carrying a tray. She was maybe his age — smooth brown skin, dark almond eyes that seemed to catch every flicker of light, and a smile so bright it felt like it warmed the room itself. She moved with the kind of grace that made every step seem deliberate without trying to be.
Warscared’s gaze lingered a little too long.
Nojiko noticed. Oh, she noticed. Her lips curved into the smallest smirk, the kind that said
I’ll remember this.
When she spoke again, her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. “So… you gonna tell me the rest of the story, or are you too busy making heart-eyes over there?”
Warscared blinked, snapping his eyes back to Nojiko like he’d been caught with his hand in the till.
“I wasn’t—”
“Uh-huh.” She was already halfway smiling, the kind of smile that said she’d seen this movie before. “You were lining up the words in your head already, weren’t you? I could hear the rhyme starting to form.”
His ears flushed red. “I wasn’t.”
“Sure,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Brown skin, dark eyes, the way she moves — you probably already picked the metaphor for her smile.”
He muttered, “I don’t write about people.”
That made her chuckle. “Right. And that notebook under your mattress is full of engine diagrams.”
The baker’s daughter came over with a polite smile for Nojiko, then turned her gaze on Warscared. He ordered without stumbling, but his grip on the counter was tight enough to whiten his knuckles.
When she went to fetch his bread, Nojiko leaned in.
“You want me to ask her name, or are you gonna keep pretending you’re here for the carbs?”
He gave her a slow glare. “Don’t.”
She grinned, holding up her hands. “Fine. But if you ever
do bring her around, I’m reading her the poem you’re going to write about her tonight.”
His jaw clenched — and maybe there was a flicker of a smile hiding in there — but he didn’t rise to the bait.
Warscared didn’t move for a second, just watching the baker’s daughter glide between tables, her hair swaying, her smile lighting the faces she passed. Then he straightened, rolled his shoulders, and when she came close enough, his voice dropped into that warm, deliberate register that made people lean in without realizing.
“Afternoon,” he said, like he had all the time in the world. “You look like you’ve been making people’s day since you opened the doors.”
She blinked, then smiled wider — not the polite customer-service smile, but something real. “We try.”
“You succeed.” He gave it just enough weight to sound sincere without being heavy-handed, blue eyes steady but never crossing the line into a stare. “Coffee for my mom, tea for me… and whatever you’d recommend that makes life better.”
The girl tilted her head, thinking, then tapped her chin. “I’ll bring you something sweet.”
“Perfect,” he said, letting the word hang there just long enough.
As she walked away, Nojiko let out a small, incredulous laugh. “You
polished that, didn’t you? Every syllable buffed until it shines.”
He smirked without looking at her. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass the family.”
“You’re gonna embarrass
me if you keep collecting hearts like trophies,” she muttered. “You even changed your breathing halfway through. Like you were auditioning for a perfume commercial.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he said, eyes tracking the girl in the reflection of the bakery’s glass case.
“You even changed your breathing halfway through,” Nojiko muttered, still watching the girl retreat behind the counter. “Like you were auditioning for a perfume commercial.”
Warscared’s smirk deepened. “That,” he said, turning his cup slowly in his hands, “is what
you drilled into me for years. I just learned to use it more effectively.”
She shot him a sidelong look, but there was no real heat in it. “I taught you to talk so people wouldn’t think you were some feral street kid. Not so you could weaponize it on unsuspecting waitresses.”
“Tools are only as dangerous as the one using them,” he countered lightly. “And besides—” his eyes slid toward the counter again, catching the way the girl’s smile brightened her whole face, “—I didn’t see you stopping me.”
Nojiko huffed and took a slow sip of her coffee, trying to mask the conflict twisting in her chest. Pride, because just two years ago he could barely start a conversation without crashing into it headfirst. Guilt, because he should have learned these things by the time he was four, not in the years she was scrambling to finish her degree and get her clinic running. And worry—because the charm she taught him out of necessity had become a weapon in his hands, sharp and precise.
The bell over the bakery door jingled as another customer left, and the girl at the counter glanced up. Warscared caught her eyes for a second—deep, warm brown—and his usual smirk softened into something else. Something slower.
Nojiko noticed. Oh, she noticed.
“She’s pretty,” she said.
“Mm.” His eyes didn’t leave the girl.
“You gonna tell me her name?”
“Haven’t asked yet,” he said, voice even but lacking that calculated charm he used on most people.
“That’s not like you,” she teased.
He shrugged. “This one… I’d rather learn her name after I’ve learned her laugh.”
Nojiko blinked, taken off guard. “That’s… oddly sincere.”
“Yeah, well…” He gave a short, almost embarrassed chuckle. “Two years ago I could barely talk without saying something stupid. You drilled the rest into me—manners, voice control, how to read a room. I just… want to use it for something good for once.”
Pride swelled in her chest, but she kept her tone cool. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’ve got a soul.”
He grinned at her sideways. “Don’t tell anyone.”
The girl walked over to their table to drop off a plate of fresh pastries. Warscared straightened—not posturing, not flexing—just… present. “Thanks,” he said, his voice warm, not polished. She smiled, the kind of smile that lingered even after she turned away.
Nojiko caught it instantly. This wasn’t a hunt. He wasn’t marking territory. He actually wanted to
know her.
And that, somehow, made her even more nervous.
Warscared didn’t take his eyes off the girl even as she moved back behind the counter. He wasn’t staring in the hungry way Nojiko had seen from him before — the way that said
you’re already mine, you just don’t know it yet.
No, this was different. Slower. Sharper.
“You’re thinking something,” Nojiko said.
“I’m thinking
everything,” he replied without hesitation. “Her walk. Her hands. The way her hair falls when she leans over. She’s left-handed. Probably reads a lot — there’s a small ink stain between her fingers. Brown sugar in her coffee.”
Nojiko frowned. “You got all that in five minutes?”
He smirked. “I didn’t get
all of it. Yet.”
“And you’re planning something.”
“Every day, just after sunset, I’ll stop by. Buy something small. Talk about something smaller. Let it build. Let her get curious.”
“That’s… oddly patient for you.”
“It’s not about the win this time,” he said, his voice low. “It’s about making it
right.”
Nojiko studied him for a moment, torn between pride and dread. When Warscared
wanted something, he almost always got it — not because he rushed, but because once he committed, there was no prying his focus away.
He didn’t notice her watching him. His eyes were already on tomorrow.
The next evening, just as the shadows began to stretch across the street, Warscared stepped into the bakery again. The warm smell of bread and cinnamon hit him first — and so did the eyes of the girl from yesterday.
He didn’t go straight to her. No, that would’ve been too obvious. Instead, he turned his attention to a man stacking fresh loaves into the display case — same skin tone as her, same shape to the jawline.
“Buenas tardes, señor,” Warscared said smoothly.
The man looked up, surprised, then smiled. “Buenas tardes. You speak Spanish?”
Warscared shrugged modestly. “A little. Enough to know you make the best conchas in the city.” He gestured toward the basket like it was a work of art.
The man chuckled, already warming to him. “You’ve tried them?”
“Yesterday. Almost came back for more before I’d even finished the first one.” He grinned, and the father laughed again, offering him a fresh pastry on the house.
Warscared didn’t miss the way the girl looked up from behind the counter, curious now.
He turned to greet an older woman wiping down a table — switched back to English for her, cracked a small joke about the sugar glaze, got a laugh. By the time he finally made his way to the counter, he’d already planted himself as someone who belonged there.
“Hey,” he said to the girl, leaning casually on the counter. “Guess I’ll have to start running in the mornings if I’m gonna keep coming here.”
She smiled — and it reached her eyes this time.
Perfect.
Nojiko, watching from the corner with a coffee in hand, saw exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t just charm. It was strategy. He wanted the girl to see him as part of her world — friendly, capable,
normal. And he was willing to put in the time to make it happen.
He leaned on the counter, that slow grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll be standing outside. If someone asks… I’m outstanding.”
The girl tilted her head, eyebrows knitting in that
I’m not sure if you’re serious way. Not a bad reaction — just not the laugh he was fishing for.
Without missing a beat, he switched to Spanish, voice smooth:
“Voy a estar afuera. Si alguien pregunta… estoy fuera de serie.”
(I’ll be outside. If someone asks… I’m exceptional.)
That got a real reaction — her hand went to her mouth to hide the sudden laugh, but her eyes sparkled.
Good. She appreciated wordplay. That told him more than she’d realize.
“Better?” he asked, pretending like it was a casual save.
“Much better,” she said, still smiling.
He leaned in just enough to lower his voice, keeping it playful but conspiratorial. “Then maybe next time I’ll start in Spanish.”
She shook her head, still grinning as she rang up his coffee.
From the corner, Nojiko watched the exchange, reading her son body language. He wasn’t just
flirting — he was mapping out the limits of her humor, testing if she liked clever, corny, or daring jokes. Each laugh, each pause, would be stored away in that calculating mind of his until he knew exactly how to make her laugh without trying.
He leaned on the counter, that slow grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll be standing outside. If someone asks… I’m outstanding.”
The girl tilted her head, eyebrows knitting in that
I’m not sure if you’re serious way. Not a bad reaction — just not the laugh he was fishing for.
Without missing a beat, he switched to Spanish, voice smooth:
“Voy a estar afuera. Si alguien pregunta… estoy fuera de serie.”
(I’ll be outside. If someone asks… I’m exceptional.)
That got a real reaction — her hand went to her mouth to hide the sudden laugh, but her eyes sparkled.
Good. She appreciated wordplay. That told him more than she’d realize.
“Better?” he asked, pretending like it was a casual save.
“Much better,” she said, still smiling.
He leaned in just enough to lower his voice, keeping it playful but conspiratorial. “Then maybe next time I’ll start in Spanish.”
She shook her head, still grinning as she rang up his coffee.
From the corner table, Nojiko’s gaze never left him. She wasn’t just seeing her son flirt — she was seeing the years of therapy, exercises, and social drills
paying off. Two years ago, he could barely hold a conversation without offending someone; now, he was reading micro-reactions and pivoting without breaking rhythm.
There was pride there, yes — but also guilt. If she’d been able to finish her degree and open her clinic earlier, he might’ve been socialized at four like other kids instead of thirteen. Still, watching him now, switching languages effortlessly, charming a stranger with calculated warmth…
…she realized she’d raised someone who could not only survive the world, but bend it toward him.
Nojiko waited until her son stepped outside with his coffee before making her move. She strolled to the counter, resting her hands casually on the glass case of pastries.
“You’re new here,” she said in flawless Spanish.
The girl looked up, surprised, then smiled politely. “You must be his mother.”
Nojiko raised an eyebrow. “You knew?”
“Yes,” the girl said without hesitation. “You are… clearly Asian mixed. Your son is perfect white. I see you together, I can tell.”
Nojiko blinked — she hadn’t expected that level of directness.
Then the girl’s eyes widened slightly and her cheeks warmed. “Sorry… my English is sometimes too direct. It’s… direct Spanish translation. Some things… they are lost in translation.”
Nojiko chuckled, easing her tone. “No offense taken.”
She studied the girl a little longer — the way she kept her chin high despite the embarrassment, the warmth in her eyes when she spoke about him without even realizing it. This wasn’t someone looking for a quick thrill; there was genuine curiosity there.
“Well,” Nojiko said, shifting to English again, “thank you for… tolerating his jokes.”
The girl grinned. “They are bad jokes… but they are good bad jokes.”
Outside, Warscared leaned against his bike, pretending not to watch them through the glass. But the small, satisfied smirk on his face betrayed him — he’d noticed the two most important women in the room hadn’t torn each other apart.
Nojiko stepped out of the bakery a few minutes later, brushing crumbs from her coat. Warscared was still leaning against his bike, sipping what was left of his coffee.
“You like this place,” she said.
“It’s alright,” he replied with a smirk. “But you’re spending too much time in there. You’ve got patients, Mom. And if you keep hovering, she’s gonna think I need a babysitter.”
Her lips twitched in that way they did when she knew he had a point but didn’t want to admit it. “Fine. But if you get in trouble—”
“I’ll tell you,” he cut in. “You know I don’t lie to you.”
And it was true. If she asked, he’d tell her. Always had. But she’d stopped asking lately — not since the biker stories had started making her uncomfortable. Now she only wanted details when he made it clear there was something worth sharing.
Which suited him perfectly.
Because without her inside, watching, he didn’t have to think about what she’d think of him. He could focus on the girl — on creating the right moment.
It wouldn’t be today. Not yet. He wanted the kiss to look natural, like it just happened. A lingering brush of hands over the counter, a laugh that kept them leaning toward each other, a pause where their eyes met for a little too long.
And when that happened, he’d go for it.
For now, he pushed off the bike, gave Nojiko a two-finger salute, and headed back inside with the easy confidence of someone who already knew how this story was going to end.
Warscared stepped back inside the bakery, the little bell over the door jingling. The girl was restocking pastries in the display case, her dark hair falling over her cheek as she worked.
He slowed his stride, letting his eyes take her in before sliding casually to the counter. “Careful,” he said, voice warm and teasing. “One more tray like that and you’re gonna put the gym out of business.”
She laughed softly, brushing the hair from her face. “And you’re back already?”
“I forgot to pay you in compliments earlier.” He leaned an elbow on the counter, lowering his voice. “Wouldn’t want to break my streak.”
She tilted her head, clearly amused, and reached for a clean cloth to wipe the glass. “You talk like someone older,” she said.
“Older than what?” he asked, still smiling.
Her gaze flicked over him — broad shoulders, the easy confidence, the bike parked out front. Then she caught it. Something in the way his smile pushed boyish dimples into his cheeks, the barely-there softness around his jawline.
“You’re… younger,” she said slowly, the words sounding almost accidental. Her brow furrowed like she was working out a math problem. “A lot younger than I thought.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t correct her — just let the moment hang with a half-smile.
“I get that a lot,” he said finally, shrugging like it wasn’t important. “Guess I was built ahead of schedule.”
She laughed again, but this time her eyes stayed on him a beat too long, like she was re-evaluating everything she thought she knew.
And in that pause, he felt it — the opening he’d been waiting for. Not for the kiss, not yet. But the moment where curiosity took root, and curiosity was something he knew how to feed.
The street outside was quiet, the late-summer dusk painting everything in warm gold.
Warscared had been leaning on the wall, waiting for her to finish locking up.
When she stepped out, balancing the keys and the last bag of trash, he moved in without hesitation — hand brushing her wrist as he took the bag from her, setting it aside.
She looked up to thank him, but he was already close. Close enough that the scent of flour and cinnamon clung to her hair.
And then, without overthinking, he leaned in.
The kiss was unhurried but deliberate — not a boy’s clumsy grab, but the measured intent of someone who knew exactly how much to give before pulling away.
When they finally parted, she let out a breathless little laugh.
“We’re both twenty-two,” she said, her dark eyes bright, “my father would approve.”
He smirked at first — then the smirk faltered just enough to betray the truth.
“Fifteen,” he corrected, tone casual but not joking. “Three more months and I’ll be sixteen.”
Her expression froze. “Wait… what?”
“Yeah,” he said with a small shrug, looking almost amused at her reaction.
Being this tall, with this voice, people filled in the blanks however they wanted — and he’d learned not to correct them unless it mattered.
She stepped back half a pace, eyes scanning him like she was seeing him for the first time.
All those little details she’d overlooked — the unlined skin, the occasional flicker of boyish awkwardness under all that polish — suddenly fell into place.
At first, Warscared kept his distance.
The tension between the Salvadorans and the Hondurans was thick enough to taste in the air, but it wasn’t his business.
Not with Angels ink on him — even unofficial.
Club rules were clear:
street beef stays street beef. You get involved, you drag the club’s name into it, and that’s a problem.
So he kept riding past, eyes sharp, pretending not to notice the slow push of Salvadoran boys into the Honduran barrio.
That changed the afternoon he saw them outside the bakery.
Three of them, leaning on the wall, their laughter loud and ugly as they cornered a couple of girls — including
her.
The girl who made the room feel full just by smiling.
He pulled up slow, killing the engine, and swung off the bike.
No colors today. No patch. Just jeans, boots, and a shirt that could belong to anybody.
His hand never quite
pointed the pistol, but he made damn sure the metal caught the sunlight.
The Salvadorans’ laughter died.
One muttered something under his breath; another spat on the ground. But they backed off, walking slow like they still owned the street — just not
this corner, not today.
She looked at him differently this time. There was gratitude there… and maybe something else.
But Warscared wasn’t looking for thanks.
On the ride home, he made a decision:
No more colors when he came here. No more visible ties to the Angels.
The club didn’t need this kind of heat.
And if trouble came knocking?
It would come for him, not for the patch.
The change was subtle at first.
One day, his cut stayed draped over a chair in the clubhouse instead of riding with him.
A few days later, the colors didn’t leave the building at all.
Jeremiah noticed. So did Obadiah.
But neither said a word.
Maybe the kid’s family didn’t approve. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Most of their own blood had long since cut ties — ex-wives who wouldn’t answer calls, kids who didn’t know them anymore except as names on court papers. That was “family” to most Angels.
Warscared’s was different.
He still had a mother who gave a damn, siblings who called, people who wanted him home in one piece.
They didn’t know how to help with that. Didn’t even know if he
wanted help.
So they left it alone.
To them, it wasn’t a warning sign.
Just a kid trying to keep peace at home.
The smell hit him before the sight did — piss, acrid and sharp in the afternoon heat.
Then he saw the paint. Red and black scrawls tearing across the bakery’s white wall.
Ana’s father was on his knees, blood on his cheek, two Salvadorans laughing while they shoved him around like it was sport.
Warscared’s jaw locked.
One thought burned in his head —
what if Mom had been here, like every damn day at this hour?
He didn’t think. He
moved.
The first man barely had time to register him before Warscared’s forearm crushed into his throat, sending him into the wall. The second went for a knife — Warscared slammed his wrist against the brick until the blade clattered on the sidewalk. A kick to the knee put him down screaming.
By the time the third one realized it wasn’t going his way, Warscared had the stolen gun in his hand, pressed against the man’s temple.
“Pick up your trash,” he said, voice low and cold. “And walk.”
They stumbled away, spitting curses in Spanish.
That’s when Marco appeared, stepping out from across the street, face tight.
“You got stones, kid,” Marco said. “But this? It’s just the start. They’re moving on all the Honduran blocks. We’re gonna get wiped unless someone steps in.”
Warscared’s breathing slowed. He looked at Ana’s father, still on the ground, chest heaving. He looked at the wall, dripping paint.
And he looked at Marco.
“Then you better tell me everything,” he said.
Warscared stepped back, breathing through his teeth, the gun still warm in his hand. He looked at Marco, then at Ana’s father — shaken but alive.
“My world here?” he said, voice even. “It’s the bakery. That’s it. I can’t save everybody, Marco. You know that.”
Marco’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t argue.
Warscared flipped the gun in his hand, offering it grip-first.
“Then at least take this,” he said.
Marco took it like it was a live snake.
Warscared reached into his pocket, pulled out a couple of loose rounds, and pressed them into Marco’s palm.
“You keep it loaded, one in the chamber. You pull only when you’re sure, and when you pull, you don’t wave it around like you’re in a movie — you aim, you shoot, you finish.” His voice was calm, almost like he was teaching a trick, not a weapon.
Marco swallowed hard. “And if I miss?”
“Don’t.”
Warscared’s eyes flicked back to the bakery’s door where Ana stood frozen, her dark eyes locked on him. He gave Marco a final nod and walked away, leaving the smell of gunpowder and piss behind.
Ana caught up to him half a block from the bakery, her steps sharp on the pavement.
“Warscared—”
He turned, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
She hesitated, her voice shaking but firm. “You’re fifteen. I should be protecting you, not…” She trailed off, glancing toward the bakery where her father was still nursing his ribs. “It’s shameful. I’m the adult. You’re the child. The child shouldn’t be protecting the adult.”
Warscared’s smirk was faint, almost tired. “Then maybe the adults around here should start acting like it.”
Her jaw tightened, guilt painting her face. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” he said, stepping closer so she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. “You think I did it to impress you? Or because I don’t know what I’m risking? I did it because I didn’t want to see your dad on the floor. Or you.”
She searched his face like she might find something else there — fear, hesitation, anything that would make him smaller in her eyes. But all she saw was the calm, cold certainty of someone who’d decided his rules for himself.
“You’re still a kid,” she whispered.
“And you still smiled when you saw me walk in.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. He turned and walked away before she could decide whether that was a confession or an accusation.
Ana didn’t let him walk away this time. She caught his wrist, the grip firm, almost trembling.
“Come with me,” she said.
Her father was in the kitchen nursing his ribs, muttering about gangs, but she didn’t stop to explain. She led him through the narrow hallway, past the smell of sugar and bread, until they were in the small, neat bedroom at the back.
Warscared’s heartbeat wasn’t racing — not like she thought it would be. He just looked at her, eyes steady, taking in every movement, every shift of her breathing.
“You’re too young for this,” she said again, but her voice lacked conviction.
“Then tell me to leave,” he replied.
She didn’t. Instead, she stepped closer and kissed him. It was slower this time, less about heat and more about intent — a deliberate peeling back of his last boyish ignorance.
What followed wasn’t about speed or clumsiness; it was about her showing him, guiding his hands, telling him where to look, how to listen, and what mattered when the door was shut and no one else was watching.
For Warscared, it was less about the act itself and more about the
information. His mother had forbidden porn, and without that outlet his mind had been wired toward aggression, control, and relentless learning. Now, here was another subject to master — one that would, in time, become another weapon in his arsenal.
Later, years down the road, he’d know a hundred ways to take a woman — in cars, on bikes, under bridges, on boats, in motels — but this? This was where it began. The quiet of a small room above a bakery, the scent of flour and sugar clinging to the sheets, and the first woman who’d ever decided to teach him.
When it was over, Ana lay there staring at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling. Her fingers twisted in the bedsheet, her mind not on him anymore but on the math.
Three years. Three years until he’d be eighteen.
She sat up abruptly, as if waking from a trance, and reached for her shirt.
“Get dressed,” she said, too quickly, too flat.
Warscared blinked at her, calm as ever. “Why?”
“Because—” Her voice faltered. “Because this can’t happen again. Not until you’re… legal.”
He tilted his head, the word clearly meaning nothing to him in the way it meant something to her.
“You’re lucky you’re a boy,” she added bitterly, standing and straightening her clothes. “If it were the other way around, I’d already be in jail. My cousin was nineteen and he—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.
Warscared sat up, pulling on his shirt without hurry. “You think I’d let that happen?”
“It’s not about you letting anything happen,” she snapped. “It’s about the law.”
He almost smirked —
the law had never stopped him from doing anything before. But the look in her eyes told him this wasn’t about rules; it was about fear.
She opened the door, not meeting his gaze. “Go. Please.”
And he did — walking out past the counter where her father was still muttering in Spanish about the gangs, past the smell of fresh bread, past the corner where he’d kissed her for the first time.
Out on the street, he rolled his shoulders back, feeling the odd weight of the moment settle into his bones. She’d taught him something tonight — not just about bodies, but about limits. And limits, Warscared had already decided, were just things you learned how to bend until they broke.
He stayed away for three days. Long enough, he thought, for Ana to cool down. Long enough for things to go back to normal.
When he finally turned the corner, the bakery’s windows were dark. The paint on the walls was fresh and vulgar — ugly streaks of red and black spray, a piss stain glistening in the sun.
On the street, men in blue bandanas prowled, laughing too loud, voices cutting through the air like broken glass.
“
Todas las chicas son nuestras…” one shouted. “
Y vamos a sacarles provecho.”
Warscared didn’t need a translation.
He found an old woman sitting on the curb, eyes darting, rosary tangled in her fingers. “What happened?” he asked, switching to Spanish.
Her lips trembled. “Marco is dead. Salvador and Julio are hiding. They had a shootout… too many of them.”
Before he could answer, three more men drifted closer — MS tattoos crawling up their necks like barbed wire. The leader’s eyes slid over him, sharp and measuring.
Warscared didn’t speak. He just let his jacket fall open enough for the ink on his ribs to show — black and precise, the kind you didn’t get in a kitchen chair. Not MS, not 18th Street, not barrio. But dangerous.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make them hesitate. They kept walking, muttering.
He turned away, the old woman crossing herself behind him.
The church was only two blocks away. The casket was closed, the smell of cheap flowers mixing with candle wax. Marco’s mother sat in the front row, face blank from crying too much.
Warscared stood in the back, hands in his pockets.
Marco had asked for a friend. He’d given him a gun and a quick lesson instead. The same tool that had gotten him killed.
He didn’t pray — but he stayed until the last hymn faded, the guilt sitting in his chest heavier than the pistol under his shirt.
He didn’t expect to see her there.
Ana’s hair was loose, her eyes red from crying, cheeks blotched. She was standing near the side of the church, half-hidden behind one of the pillars. When their eyes met, it wasn’t the smile he’d been hoping for — just a tear rolling down her cheek before she crossed the aisle, took his hand, and pulled him outside without a word.
They moved fast through side streets, keeping low, heads down. Salvadoran voices echoed from somewhere close, boots scraping concrete, but she never slowed until they reached the bakery’s rear door.
The lights were out. She guided him through the dark kitchen and down a narrow set of stairs to the basement.
The air was damp, heavy with the smell of flour and fear.
Julio was there, pressed against the far wall with his arm in a makeshift sling. Two other young men sat on overturned crates, clutching pistols like lifelines.
It took a second for Warscared to realize they were all that was left of Marco’s crew.
Ana’s voice cracked as she spoke. “They’re everywhere. We can’t even step outside. If they find us…” She didn’t finish.
One of the men looked up at Warscared like he might have an answer.
He didn’t speak right away. He just looked around at the cramped space, the shadows moving with each flicker of the bare bulb, the eyes staring back at him.
He’d told Marco this wasn’t his world. He’d stayed out of it. But now? This was Ana’s world — and they’d brought him into it whether he liked it or not.
The basement felt smaller the longer he stayed down there. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Salvador keep glancing toward the stairs like every creak might be the last thing he’d hear. Julio sat beside him, face pale, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol between his knees.
Ana crouched in front of Warscared, her voice low.
“They still remember your warning. No one steps inside the bakery. But the walls? The walls don’t keep anything out. They just walk around them. Watch from across the street. Whistle to each other.”
“Cops?” he asked.
Salvador’s laugh was short, bitter. “Raúl’s got some sick shit on enough of them to keep them blind. They come to the projects — show off, throw kids against the wall — but here?” He gestured toward the ceiling. “They drive right past. MS has over five cliques in town already. Sixth isn’t far off. Girls on drugs, kids on drugs… they rake in the dividends of misery.”
Ana’s father had been silent until now. His voice was steady, old, the kind that carries weight because it’s lived through too much.
“You know why this barrio’s all Honduran?”
Warscared shook his head.
“We all used to live on the border. Back when the soccer war happened — sixty-nine — the soldiers left, and the gangs came in. At first it was small crews, then bigger. Salvador against Honduras, always. Killings over nothing. If you had the wrong accent, they cut your throat. We ran because we thought America would be different.” He spat into the dust. “Now El Salvador is here too.”
Julio muttered, “Only difference is, now they got better guns.”
Warscared glanced toward Ana. She didn’t meet his eyes — maybe because she already knew the question forming in his mind.
Warscared leaned back against the basement wall, eyes half-lidded like he was bored — but his mind was already mapping out the chessboard.
Five clicks. MS wasn’t a gang anymore; it was an occupying army. Even the club would have to pull other chapters to take a bite out of that — maybe even chapels from across state lines. That was a whole new layer of risk. State borders alone were enough to make the Feds perk up. And RICO? If you so much as breathed on a plan with two different jurisdictions, you might as well be mailing the indictment to yourself.
No, the club couldn’t move on this. Too heavy, not enough profit. And truth was, MS also
paid the club. Drugs, guns — every gutter-level hustler in town fed the Angels’ pipeline in some way. Not because of their numbers, but because of the weight they carried. In this city, a patched Angel was worth twenty gangsters. People said it like a proverb. Maybe it was true. Smaller teams moved faster. Hit harder.
He glanced at Julio. “What about Calle 18? They still breathing around here?”
Julio’s laugh was dry. “Mexicans got their own walls. Not against gringos, though — against the savages in the south.” He meant Salvadorans. And Hondurans too.
Night hit the barrio like a heavy curtain, swallowing the noise until all that was left was the hiss of tires on wet pavement and the far-off barking of some chained-up dog.
Warscared moved in that darkness the way other men moved through their own living rooms — knowing where the steps creaked, where the shadows were deepest. His cut was locked away in the clubhouse; tonight, he wasn’t an Angel. Tonight, he was just a ghost with a pistol.
The target wasn’t hard to find. MS didn’t exactly believe in subtlety — loud music, louder mouths, and the smell of beer spilling out onto the street. He didn’t overthink it. He waited until the one he wanted drifted away from the pack, pissing in an alley with his back half-turned. One step, two steps, hand on the back of the man’s neck, the cold muzzle pressed under the jaw. A twitch of the finger.
It was over before the echo faded.
He stood there for a moment, listening to the dead man crumple, expecting to feel something heavy, something ugly. Every philosopher, every poet who’d written about killing talked about the burden — the way it hollowed you out, marked you forever.
But all he felt was a quiet surge of pride. The bakery girl would be safe tonight. So would Ana’s father. And that old lady with the shaking hands who sold oranges on the corner.
For the first time, he wondered: was he a monster… or a protector? Maybe both. Maybe the truth didn’t matter as long as the right people got to wake up tomorrow.
Whatever he was, it was good enough for him. Maybe not for the law. Maybe not for church or the philosophers. But it fit his conscience. It fit his own code. And in the end, that was all that counted.
It didn’t take long for that first kill to turn into something more.
At first, it was just necessity — the next guy who came too close to the bakery, the one who followed Ana home, the pair that cornered Julio in an alley. Each time, the blade or the bullet came easier. The rush wasn’t just pride anymore; it was a heat in his chest, a clean, cold clarity that made the world make sense in ways nothing else ever had.
He stopped waiting for trouble to come to him. He went hunting.
The kids in the barrio without fathers, without jobs, without a way out — they started trailing him, watching. At first they wanted protection. Then they wanted to be
like him. Warscared didn’t tell them no. He fed them stories, not about survival, but about power. How a small crew moving fast could cut down a giant. How the MS were just men, and men bled the same in the dark.
They learned to steal guns from drunks, to strip rifles from the dead, to stash ammunition in hollow walls and under false floors. They learned where to plant themselves so the first shot counted, where to fade into the night so no one could follow.
Guerrilla tactics in their purest form — hit, fade, vanish.
Bodies began to pile. Twenty-six Salvadorans fell in the weeks that followed. Eighteen by Warscared’s own hand. Word on the street shifted — the MS stopped walking alone. They stopped drinking in the open. They whispered about
los fantasmas, the ghosts that came out of nowhere and disappeared just as fast.
By the time the last of them pulled out of the barrio, fear was doing most of the work. They weren’t running from a gang anymore. They were running from a story that had gotten teeth.
And in the shadows, Warscared felt it — not guilt, not doubt. Just the hunger for the next time, and the certainty that there would always be a next time.
When the last Salvadoran click abandoned the barrio, there should have been celebration — bread in the ovens again, kids back on the streets, music drifting from the open windows.
Instead, Ana saw it in his eyes.
It wasn’t relief.
It wasn’t peace.
It was
anticipation.
The boy who’d first come into her bakery with that quiet, stubborn protectiveness — the one who would blush at a kiss, who still smelled faintly of laundry soap and engine grease — was gone.
In his place was someone she couldn’t read, someone who carried death like other men carried pocketknives.
When she heard him laugh with Julio about a clean kill, something inside her twisted. It wasn’t the killing itself — she’d grown up with enough violence to know the world sometimes left you no choice. It was that he liked it. More than liked it.
She told him one night in the back of the bakery, hands trembling, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
“I was supposed to protect the child,” she said, eyes wet. “But I lost him. Now you’re just… a murderer. And I can’t love a murderer.”
Her words landed like buckshot — not because they broke him, but because they confirmed what he already suspected: the part of him that felt pride after a kill wasn’t going away.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t plead. Just stood there, jaw tight, letting her walk away.
In his mind, it wasn’t that she couldn’t love him.
It was that she couldn’t love
what he was becoming.
And by then, neither could he — but he could use it.
That’s when Salvador’s name started carrying weight.
Not because he’d been the loudest or the toughest before — he hadn’t — but because Warscared put him there.
They took over a burned-out billiards joint on the corner and turned it into
Salvador Bar — a safe house in daylight, an operations post at night. The cracked pool tables became maps, the beer crates became supply storage, and the flickering lights were replaced with bare bulbs that cast long shadows over the faces of boys with nothing to lose.
Warscared stayed in the background, at least on paper.
Publicly, Salvador was the face.
Privately, Warscared was the architect.
- Salvador got his lessons in leadership from the Warlord without the patch — how to control fear in your men, how to negotiate with enemies you couldn’t kill yet, how to make loyalty something you didn’t have to buy twice.
- Julio learned the books — how to count cash without attracting cops, how to launder small amounts through local businesses, how to keep enough missing that no outsider could figure the real totals. Warscared made him rewrite the ledgers until the numbers sang in three languages — English for the bikers, Spanish for the locals, and code for everyone else.
The bar wasn’t much — cracked concrete floor, mismatched chairs, the smell of fried plantains and gasoline always in the air — but from there, the barrio’s new structure took root.
Warscared didn’t sit at the head table. He sat in the shadows, watching, teaching, making sure the faces the world saw weren’t his.
It wasn’t his name on the front of the war.
But it was his fingerprints on every move.
Juan wasn’t just some recruit; he was one of the three who had been there when the bakery was still a sanctuary, when Warscared first got pulled into their world. His name carried weight in that room because it meant he’d survived the first days — the beatings, the threats, the funeral.
And that’s why it hit harder when Warscared shut him down.
Juan’s mistake wasn’t just carelessness — it was betrayal of the discipline that had kept them alive. He got reckless, bringing heat right into the barrio. Maybe it was greed, maybe ego, maybe thinking the rules didn’t apply to one of the “originals.”
Warscared didn’t flinch. He took Juan’s gun in a single motion, turned his back to the crowd, and said the words like a verdict:
“Eight years. Don’t come back before then. And if you do—make sure I’m dead.”
It wasn’t just exile. It was erasure. For a Honduran in the barrio, being cut off like that was worse than death — no family, no work, no safe bed, no name on anyone’s lips.
For the next eight years, the legend of the “original three” became the legend of two.
The basement was heavy with the stink of sweat, bread flour, and fear. Juan stood in the center, shoulders squared like he was ready to argue his way out instead of fight. Salvador and Julio were at the table, silent, eyes fixed on the gun in Warscared’s hand.
Warscared didn’t shout. Didn’t pace. Didn’t even look angry. He just let the weight of the silence work before he spoke.
“Plato wrote, in The Republic, that justice is doing right by your friends and harm to your enemies… but Socrates asked — how can you know who your friends are if you don’t know what’s good for them?”
He stepped forward, pressing the cold steel into Juan’s palm — and then took it right back again. Smooth, deliberate, like taking a toy from a child.
“Juan… you’ve been here since the bakery walls still smelled like paint. You knew the rules. You knew the discipline that kept you breathing. And still you broke it — not out of necessity, but out of want. That makes you dangerous to the barrio, not to the Salvadorans.”
He looked at Salvador now.
“Socrates also said — if a man cannot govern himself, he has no place governing others. That’s the line between a protector and a tyrant. Juan crossed it.”
He turned to the room, voice flat, final:
“Eight years of exile. If you come back sooner, may the gods judge you before I do.”
Salvador swallowed hard. Julio stared at the table. And Ana… Ana’s face said it all — the mix of fear and recognition that this boy, this fifteen-year-old, could speak like a philosopher and sentence like an executioner.
As Juan was led out into the night, the others expecting some grand moral aftershock, Warscared just leaned against the table and lit a cigarette.
The smoke curled in the dim light while he thought it through. Ruling? No. Ruling was standing in the open, taking every shot meant for the throne. Ruling was answering for every petty grievance, every scrap of bread, every broken bottle.
Let Salvador have that. Let Julio keep the books. Let them argue about walls and markets and who owed who three pesos.
Warscared’s place was somewhere else — in the shadows, where power was moved with a word, where kings and presidents swore they’d made their own decisions while unknowingly following his hand.
People chase crowns because they think it’s gold. It’s just a heavier chain. I’d rather hold the key than wear it.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the single bare bulb overhead. The barrio would have a leader. It just wouldn’t be him. And that, to him, was the only way it could ever work.
He laid it out for them in the basement, leaning over the table where the map of the barrio sat under beer rings and cigarette ash.
"Listen," he began, voice low but sharp, "me standing at the front makes us weaker, not stronger. I’m white. That’s enough for every other Latin crew in this city to start whispering
traitor. First it’s just words, then it’s insults, then fists, then knives. And they won’t just come for me — they’ll come for
you because you stood with me. From inside, from outside… we’d split right down the middle."
He pointed at the map, tracing a finger along the lines of streets they’d fought to hold.
"Everything we bled for — everything Marco bled for — gone. The bakery? Gone. The safety your kids have right now? Gone."
The room went quiet at his name. Marco’s absence still hung like a shadow in every corner. For a moment, Warscared let it hang there, let them feel it.
But inside his own head, another current was moving. Marco… yeah, that was still unfinished business. Or maybe it was just a neat excuse to feel that rush again — the kind of rush you don’t get from women, booze, or anything else. The clean click of a safety, the hot roar of adrenaline, the moment the lights go out in someone’s eyes.
He did the math without a blink.
One woman in bed.
Nineteen men in the streets.
The choice was obvious.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the map.
"Salvador leads. Julio keeps the books. I’ll handle what needs to be handled… in the dark."
Warscared moved at night, quiet as a shadow but heavy as a hammer.
The first stop was a known MS-13 drug den — one of the small ones, the kind of place where corner soldiers slept between shifts and stashed bricks in the floorboards. He didn’t walk in guns blazing; that wasn’t the point. The point was fear. Information didn’t come from corpses — at least, not useful information.
The balaclava hid everything but his eyes, those deep, magnetic blues that caught the light like steel under water. To the street-level soldiers, he was just a ghost, a monster in the dark. But his size — broad shoulders, heavy hands, the way he moved — made him impossible to mistake for anyone else if you’d ever stood near him before.
He broke one dealer’s arm without a word. Another took a boot to the ribs hard enough to keep him coughing for a week. A third got the barrel of a pistol pressed under his jaw until his nerve broke and the names started coming — drop spots, stash houses, runners, and the captains who pulled the strings.
Only the captains would know who he really was. To everyone else, he was
something else, an urban myth the soldiers started whispering about between clenched teeth. They called him
El Fantasma de Ojos Azules.
Each raid was the same — quick, brutal, and gone before the cops even heard the noise.
And each time he walked away, he felt the line blur further. Was this revenge for Marco… or was Marco just a convenient mask for what he was becoming?
Warscared didn’t care how many it took. Every time he hit a den, every time he left bodies cooling on the floor, the same question left his mouth like a mantra:
"Who killed Marco? Who ordered it?"
Most soldiers didn’t know, and those who
did died before they could say much. But eventually, pressure breaks everything. Another Latin crew — smaller, hungrier, and tired of MS-13 bleeding into their turf — cracked. Their leader, Raúl, wasn’t stupid. He was ambitious, but ambition without resources turns into desperation.
In the basement of an abandoned bodega, Raúl laid it out.
Marco’s death wasn’t a random drive-by. It wasn’t some personal beef gone too far. It was business. Raúl had been the one who cut the deal — MS-13 would get
police invisibility in exchange for cash. He had dirt on enough cops to make it stick. MS paid, the cops looked the other way, and Raúl’s little empire stayed safe.
But MS didn’t pay in loyalty. They paid until it suited them, then started swallowing territory he couldn’t protect. So Raúl gave them a target to chew on — Marco’s crew. It bought him time and bought them space, and Marco’s blood was just the price of the contract.
Raúl admitted it like he was reading off an old receipt, expecting that would save him. He wanted to walk out alive, said it was all
just business.
Warscared let him.
He wasn’t showing mercy. Letting Raúl live was worse than killing him — he left that basement knowing
everyone in the game would hear how he’d betrayed MS to save his own skin. Raúl had just been marked for death by the very men he sold out for.
Warscared didn’t kill Raúl because dead bait doesn’t work.
Two nights later, the plan was set. The Hondurans — what was left of Marco’s people and the young blood Warscared had sharpened into street soldiers — were ready. Raúl walked out into the open like he owned the block, loud enough and slow enough for word to travel. It didn’t take long. MS-13 couldn’t ignore him after what they’d heard: that Raúl had cut a deal behind their backs. Pride is a leash, and they chased it hard.
They came heavy — not the street kids or hang-arounds, but the
real muscle. The best killers they had in the city. This was supposed to be the night they sent a message, the night they erased the problem at its root.
Instead, it was the night they walked straight into Warscared’s hands.
The alley was perfect — narrow enough to funnel them, with high windows for shooters and choke points already sealed off. The Hondurans didn’t fight clean. Molotovs first, then gunfire from the dark, and when the survivors tried to push through, they met machetes and steel pipes at arm’s length. Raúl kept walking, never breaking stride, and the MS hitmen behind him dropped one by one until there was no one left to cover his back.
By the time it was over, the best warriors the local MS had were cooling in the gutter. What was left of them was muscle-bound pride and a bunch of untested kids calling themselves soldiers.
That’s when the
true click-building started — the MS leaders pooling what little they had left, pulling in every recruit they could find, and making one desperate push to take over the Honduran barrio before they bled out completely.
And Warscared? He was already moving pieces for when they came.
The MS-13 click house smelled of sweat, smoke, and the kind of cheap liquor you drink to forget you’re not going to make it past 25. Warscared moved through it like a shadow — the kind you don’t notice until the cold hits your spine.
The Hondurans had the place surrounded, sealing every exit. Inside, he went room to room, silent and methodical, steel and lead doing the talking. The older soldiers died first; the young ones tried to fight, but panic made them sloppy. And then came the worst part — the kids.
They’d been called in by their so-called leaders, thrown into the middle of a war they didn’t start and didn’t understand. Some barely had hair on their faces, a few were probably his age when he’d first started learning what the world really was. He killed them anyway. Not because he wanted to, but because if he hesitated, he’d die.
By the time the sun came up, every Salvadoran inside was gone. Outside, the cops had scooped up the rest — almost a third of all Salvadoran gangsters in the city, either dead or behind bars. Twenty Hondurans were arrested too. The bodies and the charges made headlines, and headlines brought politicians sniffing around like vultures.
The only thing that kept the hammer from dropping was loyalty — the new Honduran leadership stayed solid, refusing to break under police pressure. And when the dust settled, the war had left something unexpected in its wake: opportunity.
The property values tanked, scaring off anyone who didn’t belong. The MS assets, seized in blood, became seed money. Piso — the “voluntary” tax local businesses paid after the MS attack — filled the war chest.
From there, they built:
- Chop shops for stolen cars.
- Strip clubs for steady cash.
- Whorehouses for the rescued MS girls who chose to stay in the life.
But the real prize wasn’t any of that. It was geography. The barrio sat right next to the docks — a perfect artery for smuggling. Warscared could already see the new pipeline forming in his head, stretching from the Honduran coast straight into the city. Mescal, peyote, weed… all flowing in under the noses of anyone who thought the war had left them too weak to matter.
The war had been hell. But from hell, he’d built something unshakable.
The clubhouse smelled of oil, leather, and old smoke — the scent of the Angels. Warscared stepped into the war room, the heavy wooden table surrounded by patched men who had seen and done more than most could imagine. He didn’t bow his head, but his tone was sharp with respect.
He laid it all out — the MS war, the killings, the docks. He didn’t hide the blood or the risks. And he apologized, in his own way, for dragging the club’s name so close to the fire.
“I didn’t wear the patch when it went down,” he said.
“But I know shadows can fall on the club, even when I’m moving alone.”
They let him talk. When he reached the part about becoming the Hondurans’ warlord, a quiet voice from the far end of the table slipped a single word into the room:
“Azrael.”
It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. It slid under his skin like a cold blade, confusing him. He kept going, though his mind kept circling back to the name.
When he finished, the president leaned back in his chair.
“Nothing happened to the club,” he said.
“Lost a few thousand in business, that’s all. We’d spend ten times that to get someone with your… abilities.”
That was the end of it. Warscared, feeling the surge of victory in his chest, claimed the Honduran barrio outright.
“It’s mine now. Nobody steps into it without my permission — not even an Angel.”
That drew some looks — a few sharp, a few amused — but no immediate objections. The president just nodded once and said,
“War room’s closed. Out.”
He was kicked out while they debated, the heavy door shutting behind him. Inside, the voices would rise and fall, weighing the danger against the profit. Outside, Warscared stood in the dim hallway, the word
Azrael still echoing in his head like a prophecy he hadn’t asked for.
The war room was quiet when the debate finally burned itself out.
Cigarette smoke hung low, the air heavy with the kind of silence that meant the decision was already made — it just hadn’t been said yet.
Ray leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. His eyes flicked toward Malachi first — the old man gave the faintest nod.
"Bring him in," Ray said.
The door creaked, and Warscared stepped inside, blue eyes catching the low light. He didn’t speak — didn’t have to.
Obadiah was the first to break the silence. He looked tired, but there was no mistaking the steel in his voice.
"You’ve got balls, kid. Too much, maybe. You ever pull a stunt like that without talking to us first, I’ll be the one to put you down. And I’ll do it fast."
Warscared didn’t flinch.
Jeremiah smirked from his chair.
"That’s Oba’s way of saying you impressed him. Don’t get used to it."
Ray spoke next, slow and deliberate.
"The barrio’s yours — under our flag. You run it how you see fit. But it’s part of us now. That means our rules, our cuts, our enemies."
Malachi leaned forward, voice softer than the rest.
"And it means our protection. Don’t forget, boy — the leash is there to keep you from hanging yourself."
Obadiah snorted.
"Or from strangling the wrong man."
Ray’s eyes locked on Warscared’s.
"You understand what I’m saying?"
Warscared let the silence stretch just long enough to make them wonder if he’d speak. Then he gave a slow nod.
"Loud and clear."
Ray smiled faintly.
"Good. Now get the hell out. Grown men have business to discuss."
As Warscared turned for the door, Jeremiah called after him, half-grinning.
"Careful, Azrael. They’re keepin’ you around ’cause you’re useful. But even useful blades get dull."
Warscared didn’t answer — but as the door closed behind him, he caught Malachi’s eyes one last time. There was pride there. And worry.
[War Room – Fallen Angels’ Clubhouse]
The air is thick with smoke and spilled whiskey. Warscared sits at the end of the table, leaning forward, elbows planted, voice low but steady.
He’s just finished walking them through the war in the barrio — the ambushes, the pipeline at the docks, the MS-13 massacre. He hasn’t glorified it, but he hasn’t flinched either. Every detail lands heavy.
Warscared:
“I know I risked the club’s name. I should’ve cleared it. Won’t happen again.”
For a beat, there’s just the faint hum of the ice machine behind the bar. Then a chair creaks, and someone at the far end mutters, almost to himself:
Voice (barely audible):
It’s not shouted. Not even addressed to the table. But it cuts through the room like a blade. Every man freezes — hands mid-motion, smokes halfway to lips.
Nobody
reacts outright, but the shift is there: a long silence, eyes flicking toward Warscared without meeting his.
Jeremiah leans back in his chair, arms crossed. Obadiah drums his fingers on the table, watching. Malachi sits still as stone, the lines in his face unreadable.
Ray — Gabriel — keeps his gaze on Warscared for a long moment before finally speaking.
Ray:
“We lost a few thousand in club money while you were down there. Could’ve been ten times that — still would’ve been worth it.”
He says it like he’s closing a ledger, not offering praise. Warscared just nods, but the air hasn’t loosened. The whisper’s still hanging there.
Malachi breaks the tension with that gravelly voice:
Malachi:
It’s not an opinion. It’s a verdict. The kind that ends a discussion before it starts.
Chairs scrape. Men stand. No further questions. The war room clears except for the officers.
Warscared catches Jeremiah’s eye on his way out. There’s something there — respect, maybe fear — but no words.
Behind the closed doors, the debate begins without him.
Outside, in the hallway, the rest of the club knows better than to ask what was said inside.
And nobody —
nobody — repeats the word they heard whispered.
[War Room – Door Closed]
The latch clicks shut behind Warscared. The rest of the clubhouse noise fades.
Inside, it’s just
Ray (Gabriel),
Obadiah,
Jeremiah, and
Malachi.
Ray leans forward, forearms on the table.
Ray:
“Let’s just get this straight — no one says it again.”
Obadiah shifts in his seat, frowning.
Obadiah:
“You heard it same as I did.”
Ray shoots him a look.
Ray:
“I heard a man come back with more control over an entire barrio than most chapters have over their own streets. That’s all I heard.”
Jeremiah exhales slow, shaking his head.
Jeremiah:
“Nah. That wasn’t just muscle. You saw the way he walked us through it? No wasted moves. No hesitation. No second guessing. I’ve been in this chair a long time — I’ve never seen anything like that in someone that young.”
Malachi finally speaks, voice quiet but carrying.
Malachi:
“You’re thinkin’ about what he is. I’m thinkin’ about what happens if he believes it.”
Silence. Even Ray doesn’t answer that right away.
Obadiah:
“If a patched man’s worth twenty soldiers… what’s an archangel worth?”
Jeremiah doesn’t blink.
Jeremiah:
“A hundred. Minimum. And that’s without the four he keeps tight around him.”
Malachi drums his fingers once on the wood.
Malachi:
“He’s not old enough. Not patched. And not ready to carry that weight — whether he can or not.”
Ray looks between them, his voice sharp but calm.
Ray:
“Then we keep it locked down. If the world thinks we’ve got an archangel, they’ll push. If the wrong people hear it inside, they’ll expect him to lead. And he’s not leadin’. Not yet.”
Jeremiah smirks faintly.
Jeremiah:
Ray doesn’t answer. He just reaches for his cigarette, lights it, and exhales.
Ray:
“Meeting’s over. This dies in here.”
No one nods. No one agrees out loud. But no one says the word again.
[Clubhouse – Later That Night]
Warscared is at the bar, still chewing on the whisper he heard in the war room. The word
Azrael had been dropped like a stone in a still pond, and the ripples haven’t stopped in his head.
Jeremiah slides onto the stool beside him, nods to the bartender.
Two beers land on the bar.
Warscared:
“What’s the deal with that… ‘Azrael’ thing?”
Jeremiah doesn’t even look at him. He takes a long pull from his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Jeremiah:
Warscared narrows his eyes.
Warscared:
Jeremiah smirks faintly, shaking his head.
Jeremiah:
“Not my place. Ask Malachi. He’s got the stories. I just make sure people live long enough to hear ‘em.”
Warscared leans back, studying him.
Warscared:
Jeremiah slides the second beer toward him, lifting his own in a small toast.
Jeremiah:
“That’s me buying you a drink and keeping my mouth shut.”
They clink bottles. Jeremiah changes the subject immediately, asking about the Honduran pipeline, the docks, anything but the question.
Warscared doesn’t push — but he knows damn well a door just closed in his face.
[Malachi’s Hill Farm – Late Afternoon]
Warscared shows up with a bottle of decent wine tucked under his arm, boots dusty from the long climb up the switchback path that barely qualifies as a road.
The hill is steep enough that he had to park his bike at the bottom — the kind of terrain that makes you wonder if Malachi picked it just to keep uninvited guests away.
Malachi is waiting by the fence, leaning on a shovel like it’s a cane. His skin is leathered from the sun, hair pure silver.
Malachi:
“You bring what I asked?”
Warscared holds up the wine.
Warscared:
“You planning to drink it, or baptize the ground with it?”
Malachi grins, takes it without looking at the label.
Malachi:
“Drinkin’. But you don’t get it easy. Hand me that rake. We got work to do first.”
Instead of talking about
Azrael right away, Malachi puts him to work — hauling hay, fixing a fence, stacking wood. Every time Warscared tries to steer the conversation toward club lore, Malachi changes the subject or points to another chore.
Halfway through, a little girl with a tangled ponytail appears from behind the barn, carrying a basket of eggs. She’s maybe ten years old, barefoot, and fearless enough to walk straight up to Warscared like he’s just another farmhand.
Warscared:
“Didn’t know you had a daughter.”
Malachi wipes sweat from his brow, squints toward her.
Malachi:
Warscared:
Malachi shrugs, looking out over the hills.
Malachi:
“Sixty-two… maybe seventy-two. Can’t remember much these days.”
Warscared blinks.
Warscared:
Malachi just chuckles and tosses him another fence post.
Malachi:
“So’s the dog, if you ask him. Time’s slippery up here.”
Warscared gets the sense that every word is deliberate — Malachi’s way of making sure he works for the answers, and maybe even questioning whether he deserves them.
[On the Hilltop – Sunset]
Warscared sets down the last fence post, chest rising and falling from the climb and the labor. Malachi is leaning against the rail, sipping from the wine straight out of the bottle, eyes fixed on the horizon where the light is burning red.
The little girl is chasing a chicken around the yard, laughing in that wild, unselfconscious way only kids can.
Warscared:
“That your great-granddaughter?”
Malachi doesn’t even glance at him.
Malachi:
Warscared raises an eyebrow.
Warscared:
Malachi cuts him off with a sharp look.
Malachi:
“Wife overdosed when she was three. Last old lady I ever took. Last one I ever wanted.”
He takes another pull from the wine, gaze still on the horizon.
Malachi:
“I’ve outlived three of my five kids. Buried two grandkids too. As for great-grandchildren…”
He trails off, finally looking down at the dirt.
Malachi:
“…I stopped counting long after I stopped caring.”
The little girl runs up to show him an egg she found, her hands still small enough to cradle it without crushing it. Malachi takes it, turns it over in his calloused fingers like it’s something rare.
Malachi:
“Now? I just want to live long enough to get this one to adulthood. After that… don’t matter.”
Warscared watches him for a long moment, feeling the weight behind those words — not pity, not weakness, but the raw math of a man who’s buried too much to fear anything anymore.
Malachi takes the egg inside, motioning for Warscared to follow. Inside the cabin, the place smells of woodsmoke, coffee grounds, and old leather. A map of the Midwest, yellowed with age, hangs above the table.
He pours them both some wine into mismatched mugs.
Malachi:
“You keep asking about Azrael… You don’t get it unless you know where we came from.”
He sits down slowly, knees creaking.
Malachi:
“Club started in the Midwest. Plains so long and flat you could see a man coming for a full day before he got there. Wasn’t about crime back then. Was about finding men who understood what you’d been through.”
Warscared stays quiet, letting him talk.
Malachi:
“World War Two vets came home to towns that didn’t know what to do with ’em. People wanted victory parades, but the boys who’d seen the inside of war… they didn’t want parades. They wanted someone who spoke the same language. Someone who’d seen what they’d seen, and wouldn’t flinch when they talked about it.”
He taps a spot on the map.
Malachi:
“Started with a handful here. Spread like prairie fire. Didn’t matter what town you rode into, if you saw the patch, you knew you were among your own.”
He takes a sip, the mug trembling slightly in his hand.
Malachi:
“That was the root of it. The patch wasn’t about fear, it was about trust. Men who knew you’d stand your ground when the shooting started.”
Warscared leans forward.
Warscared:
Malachi smiles faintly, but it’s the kind of smile that hides more than it shows.
Malachi:
“That’s a different story. One that don’t get told easy.”
Malachi takes a long sip of wine, then sets the mug down, fingers drumming on the wood.
Malachi:
“Archangel ain’t a title you can earn by patching in, son. It’s not a vote. It’s not a gift. It’s a thing that just… happens. Men recognise it. Doesn’t matter the chapter, doesn’t matter the coast. When you’ve seen enough war, you can feel when that kind of man walks in the room.”
He looks off toward the window, the wind howling outside the hilltop cabin.
Malachi:
“First one the club ever saw was Gabriel. Alabama chapter. Patched member. This was back when our brothers were scattered — white chapters, black chapters… we had both, though the world didn’t like that much. We didn’t care. Brotherhood’s brotherhood.”
His voice lowers, as if the memory itself demands respect.
Malachi:
“Gabriel… he saved hundreds. Not just his own, not just the white boys — he saved black chapters too. Pulled ’em out of bloodbaths, patched over their broken riders, got ’em home alive. Even with the prejudice out there, no one in the club could deny what he was.”
Malachi leans back, watching Warscared.
Malachi:
“Thing is… we still got those divides. Always will, I reckon. But you ride with a man who’s been in hell for you, you stop seein’ skin first. Nowadays, mixed-race kids can ride in white chapters. A few white boys even patch in with the black ones. Rare, but it happens.”
He lifts the mug again, hand steady now.
Malachi:
“When Ray rebuilt the Fallen Angels here in this town… patched over dead chapters, pulled men off the streets, kept ’em from eatin’ their own gun barrels… he gave ’em something to live for again. Didn’t take long before they started callin’ him Gabriel too. Not ’cause anyone said so… but ’cause every man he saved knew exactly what he was.”
Malachi lets the words hang in the air for a long moment before finishing, almost in a whisper:
Malachi:
“We only ever seen two Gabriels. And no man alive can make an Archangel. We can only recognise one when we see ’em.”
Malachi shifted in his chair, rolling the wine in his mug before speaking again.
Malachi:
“Back in the old days — I mean before even Gabriel — the first national president was a man named Michael. And yeah, that was his real name, but it fit him in every other way too.”
He gave Warscared a pointed look.
Malachi:
“Michael didn’t just ride hard, he thought harder. He’s the reason this club never got treated like some street gang in the eyes of the law. If an Angel pulled a job, it was an Angel’s crime. Not just ‘some gang hit.’ That mattered. Kept the feds from wiping us off the map.”
The old man leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Malachi:
“See, a man who can think when bullets are flying — who can organise, direct, and keep the brothers alive — that man’s irreplaceable. You can find a thousand hotheads, but you’ll only get a handful of men like that in a lifetime.”
He chuckled, though there was no real humour in it.
Malachi:
“Michael didn’t look for glory. Didn’t need to be the one kicking in doors. He made sure the right men kicked in the right doors at the right time. That’s why the name stuck. Now… any man they call ‘Michael’ in this club, it’s more than a name. It means the brothers trust your mind under fire.”
Malachi swirled the last of the wine before finishing.
Malachi:
“We’ve had plenty of warriors, boy. But a Michael? A true one? That’s rarer than gold.”
Malachi set his mug down, staring at it for a long time before speaking.
Malachi:
“You wanna know why I whispered it? Why Jeremiah kept his mouth shut? ’Cause Azrael… he was my brother. Blood, not patch.”
He leaned back, eyes going somewhere far beyond the farm, far beyond the hill they were sitting on.
Malachi:
“Fifty years ago, maybe more, we were up in the northwest. Cold country. Pines thick as walls. Me, my brother, and a few others… we got caught in an ambush. Thought we were done. But him… he just moved. Slipped through those trees like smoke. Before any of us knew what was happening, the ambushers were the ones bleeding out on the ground.”
Malachi’s voice dropped, quieter now.
Malachi:
“Three of ours were wounded. He came back with eyes so cold it made you forget he was your kin. That’s when the brothers started calling him Azrael — the Angel of Death.”
He shook his head slowly.
Malachi:
“But that’s not how he earned it. See… he didn’t stop there. He hunted down the Riders who set up that ambush. One by one. Chapter by chapter. Those patches don’t exist anymore. He erased them.”
Malachi took a long pull from his mug, staring at Warscared over the rim.
Malachi:
“It wasn’t about money back then. Hell, there wasn’t much of it to fight over. That ambush? Just to scare us. We’d grown too big in chapters, but not in numbers. Never more than twenty patched in one place. We weren’t like those outfits with fifty men calling themselves brothers. That ain’t a brotherhood. That’s a herd looking for safety.”
The wind rattled the leaves outside, but Malachi didn’t look away from Warscared.
Malachi:
“An Azrael don’t just kill. He wipes things from the map. And boy…” — he let the words hang — “…you got that look in your eyes now.”
Warscared swirled the last of his wine in the glass, watching the way Malachi’s gaze seemed to dig through him.
Warscared:
“So… was it just him? Any other Arch Angels out there?”
Malachi let out a laugh — not loud, but the kind that said he’d just been asked if ghosts paid taxes.
Malachi:
“Boy… there’s always whispers. Some say there’s been four in the whole history of the Fallen Angels. I only know three. Gabriel — that’s Ray. Everyone knows him. The first Michael, back when the club was just war-torn boys trying not to drink themselves into an early grave. And my brother… Azrael.”
He leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees.
Malachi:
“Thing is, it ain’t a rank. Ain’t a patch. Ain’t somethin’ you earn by kissing ass or following orders. An Arch Angel’s just seen… recognised… the way wolves recognise another wolf. If enough of the right men believe it, the name sticks. And once it sticks, it never comes off.”
Malachi looked out over the hill, the farm spread below like a little pocket of peace that had somehow escaped the world.
Malachi:
“So when someone whispers that name… it means they saw something in you that most men never see in their whole lives. And it scares ’em. Even the patched ones.”
Warscared:
Malachi’s jaw shifted, the kind of slow grind that comes before a man says something he doesn’t like remembering.
Malachi:
“Yeah. There was one more.”
He took his time, poured himself another glass of wine, and stared at the dark liquid as if he could see fifty years back through it.
Malachi:
“They called him the Arch Angel of Light. Not ‘cause he was holy or pure — nah… ’cause wherever he went, the money followed. Brightened up everything. He was the kind who could turn a busted gas station into a gold mine just by smilin’ at the right bastard. Michael hated that. Thought it’d rot the club from the inside. Said the Angels stood for brothers, not profit.”
Malachi’s voice went low.
Malachi:
“Light didn’t agree. Took a third of the patched members with him. Started the Riders. That’s why the club’s split today — not ’cause of a war, not ’cause of cops — but ’cause two Arch Angels couldn’t live under the same roof.”
He finally looked Warscared dead in the eye.
Malachi:
“Remember this — Arch Angels change the course of the club. For better or worse. And you don’t get to pick which one you’ll be.”
The climb up to Malachi’s hill left Warscared breathing heavier than he wanted to show. The old man was already sitting on the porch, boots on the rail, rolling himself a smoke. His little girl was somewhere inside, humming over a jigsaw puzzle.
Warscared set the bottle of wine on the table and took a seat. The farm stretched in every direction, the town just a grey smudge far below.
“You asked me last time if there were other Arch Angels,” Malachi said without looking at him. “There’s one I knew. One that’s still out there.”
Warscared tilted his head. “The Arch Angel of Light?”
Malachi nodded slowly, licking the paper on his cigarette. “That’s what they called him. Brought money, hope, numbers. Back when the club was starving for breath, he made the money flow like water. We thought he was saving us.”
He struck a match. The smoke curled between them.
“What happened?”
Malachi’s eyes didn’t move from the horizon. “He wanted more than what Michael would allow. Michael kept the club clean of certain dirt. Light wanted all the dirt. He wanted the right to make money in every way possible. Michael said no.”
“So he left?”
The old man finally looked at him. His eyes were sharper than the knife on his belt. “He didn’t just leave, boy. He took brothers with him. Split us clean down the spine. That’s how the Riders were born.”
Warscared leaned forward. “So Light’s still out there?”
Malachi gave a dry laugh and tapped ash onto the porch boards. “That’s the name the hopeful called him. The rest of us…” He took a long drag, then exhaled through his nose. “We knew him by his other name.”
“What was it?”
Malachi’s gaze was heavy now, like he was weighing if Warscared was ready for the weight of the word. Finally, he said it, low and flat:
The name seemed to hang in the air between them, darker than the shadows of the barn.
“You don’t call a man that unless you’re ready to die in the next five seconds,” Malachi added. “And you don’t go looking for him unless you’re ready to burn.”
Malachi didn’t speak for a while after dropping the name. He just sat there smoking, eyes on the dying sun. Finally, he started again, voice low and tired.
“Lucifer… he was the best of us once. Smart, handsome, always smiling. The kind of man who could make an enemy forget they were holding a grudge. But the real danger was the way he talked to women.”
Warscared stayed quiet, letting the old man talk.
“He’d take a girl who thought she was just hanging around a party… and by the end of the week she was turning tricks for the club, smiling like it was her idea. He made it sound like a gift — ‘You’re helping the brotherhood, baby.’ And they believed him.”
Malachi’s lip curled, more in disgust than anger.
“Money started coming in. More than we’d ever seen. And with it came greed. At first, he skimmed from other crews. Then from strangers. Then…” — Malachi’s eyes narrowed — “he sold out one of his own.”
Warscared frowned. “Sold out?”
“Closest brother he had. They rode side-by-side since they were kids. Cops had a price on a phantom. Lucifer gave them a name, an address, and a time to look.” Malachi shook his head. “Brother didn’t make it to sunrise.”
The wind picked up, rattling the porch boards.
“After that, Michael stripped his patch. Told every chapter he was no longer an Angel. But Lucifer didn’t crawl away. He walked into a bar in another state, pulled out his wallet, and bought himself loyalty. That was the birth of the Riders.”
Warscared leaned back, staring up at the ridge line. “And you think he’s still alive?”
“Alive?” Malachi chuckled without humor. “Boy, he ain’t just alive. Men like him don’t die easy. They rot the world from the inside, and they smile while doing it. But if you’re smart…” — Malachi fixed him with a look — “you never go looking for the devil, even if you think you might be one yourself.”
Malachi tapped ash off his cigarette, eyes squinting like he was peering into a memory so old it hurt to touch.
“Lucifer… he was something else. Tall, broad-shouldered, all lean muscle like it was cut out of rawhide. Same kind of presence you’ve got — when he walked into a room, everyone looked up whether they wanted to or not. And those eyes…”
He glanced at Warscared, really looked at him.
“Yours are blue, boy. His were green — sharp, bright, like they could slice through your soul and see the rot underneath. Same shine, though. Same way of lookin’ at a man like you’d already read every line in his book.”
Warscared smirked faintly. “Sounds charming.”
“Charming?” Malachi gave a dry laugh. “That bastard could make a cop buy him a drink and thank him for the privilege. Could turn a woman’s head with two words and make her think she came up with the idea to give him everything she had. He didn’t take — people just… gave.”
The old man’s voice dropped lower.
“Only difference between you and him is the hunger. You’ve got teeth, boy, but you don’t bite unless you’ve got reason. Lucifer? He bit just to taste the blood.”
Malachi stared out at the hills again, voice turning cold.
“You could’ve been his son, Warscared. That’s the truth. And if you ain’t careful, you’ll end up his reflection.”
Warscared leaned forward, curiosity laced with that quiet, sharp edge in his voice.
“Was Lucifer always like that? Nobody just sells out their best friend for pocket change. Something must’ve happened. What — his brother tapping his girl?”
Malachi’s weathered face didn’t change much, but his eyes did — they went flat, like shutters closing. He exhaled slow.
“No. It wasn’t his brother with her. It was him with his brother’s sister.”
The words hung there a beat too long.
“She was young… and he was too scared to own up to it. So he took care of it his way.”
Warscared tilted his head. “Meaning?”
Malachi’s voice didn’t get louder, but it got heavier.
“Meaning she didn’t walk out of that chapter house. And nobody outside a few of us ever knew why.”
A muscle jumped in Warscared’s jaw. “And his brother?”
“Didn’t know at first. Then he found her journal, months later. Learned what happened… learned how she died. And that was the end of it. End of them. End of trust. Lucifer stopped seeing brothers — only saw tools and enemies after that. That’s when the hunger started. Once you cross that line, boy… you don’t come back.”
Malachi looked at him then, real slow, like weighing whether to say the next thing.
“And before you ask — no. I don’t know if she loved him, or if he made her think she did. Either way, he buried more than a girl that day.”
Warscared stayed quiet, letting the weight of it settle.
Malachi took a pull from his glass, set it down, and stared off toward the far tree line.
“See… when a man like Lucifer breaks, he don’t shatter. He sharpens. Gets colder. Learns to cut deeper. That’s why you don’t hunt him unless you’re ready to die tryin’.”
He shifted his gaze back to Warscared, those old eyes narrowing.
“It’s not just the way he fights — though God knows he’s killed more men than I can count. It’s how he moves through people. How he gets inside their heads. You’d think you were actin’ on your own… and by the time you realize it’s his hand on the wheel, you’ve already done the thing that ruins you.”
He leaned back, joints popping, the chair creaking under his weight.
“We could’ve sent whole chapters after him. Would’ve been a waste. For every man you send, he’ll turn two. And if he can’t turn ‘em, he’ll make ‘em vanish. That’s what an Archangel is worth when they go bad — not a hundred men… but a hundred men’s fate. And that’s worse.”
Warscared’s eyes narrowed. “So why let him walk?”
Malachi’s mouth curved — not into a smile, but into something bitter.
“’Cause boys who go lookin’ for Lucifer don’t come back. And if by some miracle they do… they don’t come back the same. That’s the truth. He’s not just out there. He’s waiting. And deep down, I think he wants the day someone’s finally worthy enough to put him down.”
He poured himself another drink, hand steady despite the story.
“Until then, we keep his name out of our mouths. And we remember what happens when a brother stops being a brother.”
Warscared sat there, letting the silence drag. The green hills around Malachi’s farm seemed too peaceful for the kind of story he’d just been told.
Malachi’s eyes locked on him — not judging, but weighing.
“You got some of him in you, boy. Don’t argue — I’ve seen it. Those eyes… the way you read a man before he even speaks. That’s a gift. But gifts can turn on you.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“If you need to ground yourself, do it. And if you can’t… if you start slippin’ into the same dark hole Lucifer fell into…”
Malachi jabbed a finger toward his own chest.
“…you fall into me. I’ll take the weight. I’ll pull you back. I don’t care if it damn near kills me — I ain’t watchin’ another brother drown in his own shadow.”
He sat back, the wind catching the brim of his old cap.
“We’re not measured by how many we can take down, Angel. We’re measured by how many we can keep standin’.”
The words hung there, heavy but solid — the kind of truth Warscared knew he’d carry long after he left that hill.
Malachi didn’t answer right away. He reached down, pulled a weed from the dirt, and tossed it aside like it had been in the wrong place too long.
“If you’re Gabriel or Michael, your worth is how many you keep standin’. You build, you protect. You hold the line.”
He looked back at Warscared, the wind tugging at his white hair.
“But if you’re Azrael… or Lucifer… it twists. Your worth gets measured by how clean you can end a fight. How many you can send packin’ — or bury — before they even know death’s walkin’ beside ’em.”
Malachi’s gaze narrowed, not in judgment but in memory.
“Problem is… that kind of worth comes with a toll. The club don’t talk about it, but we all know — the killin’ changes a man. Makes it harder to come back to the livin’.”
He tapped his chest again.
“That’s why I told you — if you feel it twistin’ too far, fall into me. ’Cause if you don’t, one day you’ll wake up and realize the only thing you know how to do is cut people outta the world.”
Before Warscared could answer, the screen door creaked open and a little girl came running out with a jar of fireflies, her laughter cutting the heaviness clean in two. Malachi turned toward her, face softening instantly — proof he still lived in the world he fought to protect.
The girl’s bare feet padded over the grass, jar clutched to her chest, golden light flickering against her cheeks.
Warscared watched her slow as she came near, shy now that she saw a stranger. She stood half behind Malachi’s leg, peeking up at him with wide eyes.
Malachi crouched, rough hands settling gently on her shoulders.
“Go on, darlin’. Say hello to my friend.”
She gave the smallest wave. The jar shifted in her grip, fireflies swirling like little souls trapped in glass.
Warscared’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than he expected. It wasn’t just her innocence — it was the way Malachi looked at her, like she was the last light worth guarding in a dark world.
Malachi glanced at him and spoke low, almost too low for the girl to hear.
“That’s what I mean, boy. You start takin’ too much, you stop seein’ this. You stop rememberin’ why the takin’ had to be done in the first place.”
The girl tugged at Malachi’s sleeve.
“Can we let them go now?”
Malachi smiled faintly and nodded. They knelt together, unscrewed the lid, and the little lights rose into the evening sky.
“Sometimes, Azrael,” Malachi said without looking at him, “the trick ain’t in knowin’ when to end a life. It’s knowin’ when to let it go.”
For a long time after the fireflies disappeared, Warscared sat in silence, the weight of that lesson settling deep — not in his head, but in the place where his instincts lived.
The back room of
Cantina La Última Copa felt smaller than usual, the air thick with the smell of old wood and mezcal. Warscared took the head seat, his chair angled so he could see both the door and the small, grimy window.
Around the table sat:
- Padre Santiago — the priest, robe worn, crucifix heavy on his chest.
- Don Ernesto — the businessman, gold watch gleaming in the low light.
- Ana — barely speaking, her eyes flicking between Warscared and her father.
- Santiago the Elder — the bar owner, thick hands still stained from cleaning glasses.
- Julio — leaned back, legs apart, that mix of boredom and readiness only a street soldier has.
Warscared didn’t waste time.
“This is the table now. What we decide here doesn’t leave these walls. Anyone breaks that, we’re not talking about forgiveness — we’re talking about burial.”
Padre Santiago gave him a slow nod, like he’d heard the same tone from combat veterans turned penitents.
Don Ernesto just raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly.
Santiago the Elder crossed his arms, his jaw tight. Ana shifted in her chair, glancing at her father like she wasn’t sure she should even be in the room. Julio lit a cigarette.
Warscared continued:
“There’s too many small wars in the barrio. I’m not here to make peace — I’m here to make order. From now on, nothing moves without this table knowing. Not product. Not money. Not even rumors.”
Julio gave a dry laugh.
“And if someone don’t like it?”
Warscared didn’t look at him when he answered.
“Then they can find out why some people call me Azrael.”
The silence after that was heavy — the kind that changes men’s breathing.
Padre Santiago cleared his throat, voice calm but cutting.
“Order without justice is just another kind of chaos, hijo. If you want God to bless this table, make sure your hand isn’t heavier than it needs to be.”
Don Ernesto smiled faintly.
“And if God doesn’t bless it, perhaps money will. I can make sure the city looks the other way — but I’ll expect the same courtesy when my interests are involved.”
Santiago the Elder finally spoke, his voice gravelly.
“Just keep the blood off my floors.”
Warscared looked at Ana for a moment before answering, almost like he was warning her more than anyone else.
The air in the back room shifted the second Warscared mentioned the ten percent.
Julio’s eyebrows went up, Santiago the Elder’s jaw tightened, and Don Ernesto’s smile didn’t change — but his eyes sharpened, like a man calculating numbers in his head.
Warscared didn’t give them a chance to argue.
“Ten percent from everything. That’s the price of order. No debates. No discounts.”
He turned to Padre Santiago before anyone else could speak.
“And it’s not going to my pocket. I want a place for the kids — the last war gave us thirty-five orphans, most of their fathers still rotting in jail. Families are drowning in mouths they can’t feed, no room to sleep, no way out. I want an orphanage, and I want a school next to it. You run the orphanage.”
The priest blinked, caught off guard.
Warscared glanced at Ana.
“She’s almost done with her English degree. She can handle the school. Teach the kids something more than how to count coins and dodge bullets.”
Ana’s mouth parted in surprise. She looked at her father, but Santiago the Elder said nothing, his eyes fixed on Warscared like he was trying to read an angle that wasn’t there.
Padre Santiago crossed his arms, thinking.
“There’s a plot of land behind San Miguel’s chapel. It’s been empty for years — too rocky for most builders, too far from the main road for anyone to bother. But for a school and an orphanage? It could work. The land belongs to the diocese… I’d have to pull strings, call in favors.”
Don Ernesto chuckled softly.
“And I assume the ten percent will also pull strings with cement, lumber, and permits?”
Warscared met his gaze, unblinking.
Julio exhaled smoke through his nose, shaking his head but saying nothing. He’d seen this before — how Warscared could take tribute like a gangster but sell it like a blessing.
After the meeting broke up, Santiago the Elder caught Warscared just outside the back door, where the smell of spilled beer and old cigarettes hung heavy in the alley.
The old man’s voice was low but edged.
“My daughter’s name came out of your mouth in there. That puts her in your shadow, whether you meant it or not.”
Warscared didn’t flinch. He leaned against the brick wall, hands in his pockets.
“This isn’t a gangster thing, viejo. It’s a community pulling itself back together. That’s why the priest was there, that’s why Ernesto was there. You think I like calling the table and mixing them with church and business? No. But if we don’t, this place keeps bleeding.”
Santiago narrowed his eyes.
“You’re asking for ten percent of everyone’s earnings. You know how that sounds.”
Warscared’s tone stayed even, but there was iron under it.
“It sounds like the price for roofs that don’t leak, kids who don’t starve, and streets where you can walk without looking over your shoulder every two seconds. The orphanage and school aren’t mine. They’ll belong to the people. But someone has to take the first step — and I’m taking it.”
The old man studied him for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw working.
“You say it like you’re not one of the wolves.”
Warscared’s eyes, deep and magnetic, didn’t move from his.
“Sometimes it takes a wolf to keep the other wolves from eating the flock.”
From the doorway behind them, Ana appeared, holding her bag. She didn’t say a word, but her gaze shifted between the two men — suspicion in her father’s, something unreadable in Warscared’s.
Salvador was in the back of the auto shop, shirtless under the sweltering heat, hands black with oil as he leaned over the open hood of an old Ford. Warscared stepped in, the smell of grease and gasoline clinging to the air.
Salvador didn’t even look up at first.
“You came to get your hands dirty, or just to talk?”
Warscared leaned against the workbench.
“I just came from the table. Priest was there. Ernesto was there. Santiago too.”
That made Salvador straighten, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Funny. Nobody told me there was a meeting.”
Warscared kept his tone flat.
“That’s why I’m here. You’re the one with the muscle. You should’ve been there.”
Salvador shrugged, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes.
“I heard about it. Figured if it was important, someone would come knock on my door. Besides, I’m not the one you need to convince when it comes to priests and business suits.”
Warscared tilted his head.
“The plan’s simple. Ten percent of the profits from everyone in the barrio. Not for me — for an orphanage and a school. Priest runs the orphanage. Ana runs the school. Keeps the kids off the corners, gives the families breathing room.”
Salvador tossed the rag onto the bench, his voice dry.
“Sounds noble. But noble doesn’t scare people into paying. And without fear, the money doesn’t flow.”
Warscared’s eyes locked on him.
“I’m not replacing fear. I’m redirecting it. If the people see we’re building something real — something that feeds their kids instead of bleeding them — they’ll protect it. And us. But I need my muscle there next time. Without that, it’s just words.”
Salvador smirked faintly, almost testing him.
“So… you want me in on the ‘community’ project.”
Warscared didn’t blink.
“I want you to make sure nobody forgets why they’re paying. But I also want you to see why it’s worth protecting.”
Salvador’s smirk faded, replaced by a slow nod.
“Fine. Next time, I’ll be there. But you better make sure this isn’t just talk, Angel. Or they’ll start thinking you’re soft.”
When Warscared left Salvador’s shop, he didn’t go straight home — he cut across the barrio toward Santiago’s bar.
It was still early, the place half-empty, sunlight cutting through the dusty windows. Santiago was behind the counter, wiping down glasses with his usual slow, methodical motions. The old man’s face carried the same deep lines as the wood of his bar — each one telling a story Warscared didn’t have time to hear today.
Santiago looked up, reading Warscared before he even spoke.
“You want a drink, or you want to talk?”
Warscared slid onto a stool.
Santiago poured him a gin without asking.
“I heard you had the priest and the suit in here last night. Talking about ten percent, orphanage, school… sounds like something the mayor should be doing, not you.”
Warscared took a slow sip before answering.
“Mayor doesn’t care. And when the wrong people step up, they do it for control. I’m doing it so the barrio survives. I called you because you’re the first place people come when they’re celebrating… or hiding from trouble.”
Santiago chuckled dryly.
“So you figure I’ve got my ear to the ground.”
“No,” Warscared said. “I figure you’ve got your hands on the heartbeat. The bar’s neutral ground. The priest can bless the kids, the businessman can shuffle the papers — but if the word doesn’t pass through you, it doesn’t stick.”
Santiago’s eyes narrowed.
“Neutral ground works because I keep it that way. You start turning this place into a collection office, we lose that.”
Warscared leaned in slightly.
“I’m not asking you to collect. I’m asking you to remind people that this isn’t about tribute — it’s about survival. You see someone trying to duck the ten percent, you let me know. I’ll handle it. But if we can build that school and orphanage, the barrio owes you a piece of the credit.”
Santiago studied him for a long moment, then finally nodded.
“Alright, Angel. But you remember this — you start turning into another bastard skimming for himself, I’ll be the first to pour the gin over your head instead of in your glass.”
Warscared smirked faintly.
Warscared found the priest still in the small chapel, candles flickering in the dim light. The air smelled of incense and old wood. Padre looked up from arranging the altar cloth as Warscared walked in, the door creaking shut behind him.
Padre: “You don’t usually come here without someone dragging you.”
Warscared: “I’m here because this is important.”
They stood in the aisle, stained glass painting faint colors on their faces. Warscared’s tone was low, but there was iron in it.
Warscared: “The ten percent I asked for? Every peso, every dollar… it’s for the kids. Orphanage. School. Not to keep anyone’s bar stocked. Not to cover gambling debts. Not to buy… other things.”
The priest straightened, clearly taking the words as a personal shot.
Padre: “You think I’d steal from the children? That I’d put my own vices before their needs?”
Warscared stepped closer, his blue eyes fixed on him like he was nailing him to the spot.
Warscared: “I think temptation’s a bitch. I’ve seen saints turn into thieves when the pile of money’s big enough. I’m not saying you will — I’m saying if one cent goes missing, I’ll make sure you meet God as soon as possible. And you can explain it to Him yourself.”
The priest’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down.
Padre: “Threatening a man of God in his own church…”
Warscared: “Protecting the barrio in the only way it understands — clear rules, and consequences for breaking them. I’m not here to scare you, Padre. I’m here to make sure we don’t build something for the kids just to watch it rot from the inside.”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the silence heavy. Finally, the priest exhaled slowly.
Padre: “…Fine. But if we do this, we do it my way — proper records, proper oversight. I won’t have your reputation dragging down what we’re trying to build.”
Warscared’s mouth curved in the faintest grin.
Warscared: “Deal. But if anyone tries to play you… or me… we make an example.”
The priest didn’t nod, but he didn’t argue either.
The priest was already turning away toward the altar when Warscared added,
Warscared: “And one more thing — keep my name and face out of any records. Official or otherwise. I don’t want or need the attention… or the heat it brings.”
The priest looked back over his shoulder, the candlelight catching the lines in his face.
Padre: “So you want to be the invisible hand in all this?”
Warscared’s voice was calm, but final.
Warscared: “I want the kids to have a roof and food. I don’t care if they know who put it there. But I’m not painting a target on my back so some jealous punk or bored cop decides to burn it all down just to get to me.”
The priest studied him for a long beat. There was something almost begrudging in the way his expression softened.
Padre: “…Alright. No name. No face. Just results.”
Warscared gave a small nod, already turning toward the door.
Warscared: “Results are the only thing that matter.”
The old wood groaned as he pushed the church door open. Behind him, the candles flickered again, and the priest muttered something under his breath — maybe a prayer, maybe a warning.
Warscared didn’t go straight to Salvador’s house — that would have been too easy.
Instead, he sent word for
all the captains to meet in the back of Santiago’s bar. The same dark, smoke-stained room where plans got made and lives got ruined.
By the time Warscared stepped in, Salvador was already there, arms folded, leaning against the wall. The other captains were scattered around the long table, each with their own little empire — businesses Warscared had helped them acquire, laundromats, repair shops, a strip of food stands. Julio sat at the far end, quiet, watching.
Warscared didn’t bother sitting.
Warscared: “Alright. Let’s get one thing straight. I just came from a meeting with the priest, Santiago, Julio… We’re building something real in this barrio — orphanage, school, roofs over heads. Ten percent from everything you run is going into that.”
A few captains exchanged looks, but no one spoke yet. Salvador raised his chin slightly, eyes locked on Warscared.
Warscared: “Now, I notice you weren’t at the table earlier, Salvador. That bother me. I expect my muscle there when the future of this place is being discussed.”
Salvador: “I didn’t think a priest and some shop owners was my business.”
Warscared stepped closer, voice dropping low enough to force the room silent.
Warscared: “When the streets are clean and the kids aren’t starving, your job gets easier. Less desperate kids with knives, less mothers crying over their dead boys. You think this is charity? No. This is control. The right kind. And it works better than fear alone.”
He let the silence stretch before looking to all of them.
Warscared: “From today on, every business we bought for you to run and wash money through — laundromats, bars, shops — pays in. No exceptions. Ten percent, clean and counted. Missing money, and I’ll know who skimmed it. And if that happens…” he let his eyes move slowly across the table “…you’ll wish the cops got you first.”
Julio finally spoke, almost lazily.
Julio: “Sounds fair to me.”
One by one, the captains nodded — not happily, but they knew better than to push back when Warscared’s tone had that steel edge.
Salvador didn’t nod. He just met Warscared’s stare, and after a long pause said,
Salvador: “…Fine. But you’d better make sure the priest keeps his hands clean too.”
Warscared: “Already handled. This isn’t a request, Salvador. It’s the new order.”
The meeting broke up with the kind of tension you could slice, but Warscared didn’t mind. It meant they understood.
Warscared didn’t leave the bar right away.
He waited. Smoked. Let the captains disperse one by one into the night.
Salvador left last, heading down the alley, shoulders tight. Warscared slipped out the back, keeping just enough distance. He knew Salvador wasn’t heading home — the man walked like he had somewhere to be, and it wasn’t good.
Two blocks over, Warscared saw him stop in the dim orange glow of a busted streetlamp. Juan was there. The ostracized one. The one who’d already been told to stay away until his time was up.
Warscared didn’t need to hear their words to know what was happening — the way Salvador’s voice lowered, the way Juan kept glancing around like a rat sniffing for a trap.
Warscared stepped forward from the dark.
Warscared: “You shouldn’t be here, Juan.”
Juan froze. Salvador turned, eyes flashing anger — or maybe fear.
Salvador: “He’s my friend.”
Warscared: “Your friend broke the rules. Rules that keep us all alive.”
Juan’s mouth opened, but whatever excuse he had died in his throat when Warscared’s pistol came up. The crack of the shot echoed off the walls, and Juan’s body hit the pavement with a hollow thud.
Salvador dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing the limp shoulders. His voice cracked — the sound of a man whose pride wouldn’t let him sob, but couldn’t stop the grief.
Salvador: “You didn’t have to—”
He looked down at Juan’s slack face, then back at Salvador. His voice softened, but only slightly.
Warscared: “This is on me too. I let you bring him back before his time was up. Thought maybe you knew better. I was wrong.”
Warscared holstered the gun, the weight of it still pressing against him like the moment wasn’t done yet.
Warscared: “Bury him. Quiet. And don’t make me clean up another mess like this, Salvador. We’re building something, and there’s no room for ghosts who refuse to stay dead.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Salvador kneeling in the pool of lamplight, his hands stained red.
Salvador & the Priest – The Weight of Azrael
By nightfall, Salvador’s in the quiet back pew of the barrio church. The old padre is locking away the chalice when he notices him.
Padre: “You look troubled, hijo.”
Salvador hesitates. Then he says it.
Salvador: “What does the name Azrael mean?”
The priest freezes, head tilting like he’s weighing something unseen. Slowly, he walks over, sits beside him.
Padre: “Azrael… is the Angel of Death. God’s will, as much as Gabriel or Michael. His hand is not his own — it delivers judgment. Without hesitation.”
Salvador swallows hard.
Salvador: “So… he’s evil?”
The padre shakes his head.
Padre: “No. Azrael is neither good nor evil. He is necessary. But those who carry that name… they walk a path few survive without losing themselves.”
Salvador doesn’t answer. His eyes drift toward the side door of the church, where the sound of children’s laughter spills in from the yard. He steps outside.
The orphans are there — chasing a battered soccer ball through the dust, wearing mismatched clothes and shoes that barely fit. One little boy’s smile is missing two teeth, another girl’s hair is tied up with a strip of cloth torn from an old shirt.
Salvador watches them.
These kids laugh because someone
else did the ugly work to make their street safe enough for them to play. Work most people would call evil. Work that people like him… like Azrael… take on so the rest can sleep at night.
He exhales, jaw tightening.
Maybe the padre’s right. Maybe Azrael isn’t evil.
Maybe sometimes, evil is just the name the world gives to those willing to get their hands dirty.
– Salvador with the Orphans
The barrio’s heat clung to the skin, thick as diesel fumes. Salvador stood in the middle of the cracked basketball court, his crew fanned out behind him. Kids — orphans, strays, the half-forgotten — hovered at the edges, their eyes darting between him and the unfamiliar detectives.
He looked at them for a long time, the smallest one clutching a plastic bag like it was worth more than gold.
Salvador (thinking): Sometimes evil isn’t a choice — it’s the only language anyone listens to.
When the detectives stepped forward, Salvador didn’t move. His men shifted, a wall of muscle and ink, but he held up a hand.
Scene 2 – The Confrontation
Detective: “We’re looking for someone. Goes by Azrael.”
Salvador smirked, shaking his head slowly.
Salvador: “Don’t know no Azrael.”
They slid a photo across to him — Warscared, alone.
Salvador: “Never seen that snow-white motherfucker in my life.”
Another photo. This time, Warscared beside Ana, mid-laugh.
Salvador’s smirk faltered just a fraction.
Salvador: “Oh… Ana’s boyfriend.”
He shut up after that. His crew stayed still, but the tension in the air was iron-thick. Everyone knew Salvador could crush the detectives if he wanted — but this was different. Petrov operatives weren’t something you “messed with.” Not even here.
Scene 3 – Robin Warns Sasha
Robin leaned back on the worn couch, crossing her arms.
Robin: “You know if she’s his old lady, you’re poking at Angel turf, right? Even if he’s not patched in, Uncle Ray won’t let that slide. Best case? They make you pay compensation. Worst case? Blood.”
Sasha looked unconvinced.
Robin: “Get a grip, girl. It’s just a dude.”
Scene 4 – Nami Gets the News
Sasha: “He’s dating a Latina.”
Sasha: “No. The taller one.”
Nami’s tone cooled instantly.
Nami: “You mean the one who’s a minor? I raised him. Changed his diapers. Back then his willy was the size of my little finger.”
Sasha: “And back then he was how tall?”
Nami held her hand at chest height. Sasha’s eyes followed, then flicked upward, mentally scaling him to now. Her posture faltered — just for a second — as a faint blush betrayed the thought running through her head.
Nami caught it and her look turned ice-cold.
Nami: “That’s my little brother, not a piece of meat.”
Sasha didn’t flinch.
She leaned in close, voice a whisper meant to sting.
Sasha: “…it’s a sausage.”
Scene 5 – The Phone Call
Nami stepped outside, dialing her mother.
Nami: “I just got confirmation from Sasha. Warscared’s dating Ana.”
Nojiko: “They broke up two months ago.”
Nami blinked.
Nami: “So Sasha’s operating on old intel?”
Nojiko: “Very old. And dangerous.”
Scene 6 – Sasha’s Frustration
Sasha slammed her phone shut.
Sasha: “Second-rate operatives. I can’t even use my best — they answer to my father or Enessa. And you bring me this?”
The operatives shouted back, tension breaking through their discipline.
Operative: “We risked our lives going against Enessa to get this for you! And it’s two months old because nobody pokes the Angels without bleeding for it. Leave them the fuck alone!”
The words landed like a slap, and for the first time that day, Sasha’s resolve wavered.
Scene 7 – Robin’s Final Word
Robin lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the open window.
Robin: “You’re really thinking about going up against Enessa and the Angels… over a boy you’ve spoken to twice in your life?”
Sasha didn’t answer.
Robin: “That’s your crack showing, girl. The moment you start breaking your own rules, you’re already losing.”
