While I was busy tending to Yuan's bruises, Lory whispered, "Why do they keep doing this to us?" Her voice trembled, and her eyes began to well up with tears. The sight of her pain stung worse than any blade. I pulled her into a firm, protective hug and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I don't know," I said, my voice steady and resolute, "but I promise you, as long as I'm still breathing, no one will ever touch this family again."
She clung to me, but as I looked up at the ceiling, my mind drifted. Is this truly the life I am meant to lead? I desperately craved a normal existence, yet it felt as if chaos was a predator tracking me through the dark, hunting me down. I couldn't just stand by while the people I cherished were treated like collateral damage. If Killan—the version of me that was built for war—had this strength, he wouldn't hesitate, and neither would I.
"Brother, I'm going to get a fresh cold compress," Lory said softly. I nodded, watching her walk away. Moments later, our father shuffled into the room. My blood turned to ice the second I saw the dark, swollen bruises across his face. "What happened to you?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. He remained silent, staring at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. "Answer me," I demanded, the authority in my tone making him flinch.
He let out a long, shaky sigh. "The Viper gang... they're looking for you," he muttered. He collapsed into a nearby chair, his hands trembling. "I don't know how strong you really are, but you cannot mess with the Vipers. They aren't just skilled fighters; they are snakes. Their tactics are filthy, and they have no lines they won't cross. Be careful. I can endure their beatings, so let me handle them—just please, protect Lory and Yuan."
Lory returned with the cold compress. "Lory," I said, keeping my composure, "Father and I need to step outside for a moment. Take care of Yuan." She nodded, sensing the tension in the room.
Once we were outside, the cool air didn't do much to dampen the heat of my anger. "You're a gambling addict," I said bluntly, "which means you know the underworld better than anyone. List the gangs for me, from the small fish to the top of the food chain. Start with these Vipers."
"Do you plan on attacking them?" he asked, his eyes wide with fear.
"Why not?" I replied coldly. "If they are a hindrance to my family's peace, I can wipe them all out tonight."
He cut me off sharply. "Stop! Before you even finish half of them, Lory and Yuan will be dead. You are a weapon, but you aren't invincible—not when they have hostages. Don't rush into this. I have a different suggestion."
His plan was simple: infiltrate their ranks, pretend to be a nobody, and work from the inside. I realized he was right; a direct assault would only put a target on my family's back. If the Vipers wanted to play a mind game, I would play along—but I would be the one to break them. I would crush their spirits, tear down their influence, and eventually, I would dismantle their boss piece by piece.
But just as I was readying my trap, it turned out the snake had already slithered into my garden.
"Okay class, everyone settle down," the teacher announced the next morning. "Please welcome our new transfer student."
My father had described him perfectly: a faint mole under his left eye and eyes that possessed a cold, reptilian focus. He stood at the front of the room, radiating a false, polished charm. "Hi, I'm Satee Conor," he said smoothly. "My father is the Mayor of District 3. It's a pleasure to be here."
The teacher beamed, clearly impressed by the status. "Oh, a pleasure indeed. Please, give our regards to your father."
"Of course," Satee replied, his smile widening. He leaned toward the teacher, whispering something that made her laugh, but because of my years of training in lip-reading, I caught every word. He wasn't being polite; he was marking his territory.
He walked down the aisle, his eyes locking onto mine before he sat directly behind me. He leaned forward, his breath hitting the back of my neck as he whispered, "Nice to meet you... Killan. I really hope you have a nice day."
His tone was mocking, dripping with calculated malice. My instincts screamed at me to break his neck right there, but I forced my muscles to relax. I decided to hold back, to let him believe he had the upper hand. Let's see what kind of pathetic tactics he tries to pull before I take everything from him.
*******
The midday hallway hummed with the usual chorus of slamming lockers and overlapping chatter, a mundane backdrop for the sudden, suffocating weight that dropped over me. I had barely taken a step toward the exit when a heavy arm hooked over my shoulder, pulling me close with an infuriatingly casual familiarity. Satee. I could smell his cheap cologne before I even caught sight of that permanent, mocking grin plastered across his face.
Without breaking stride, I shrugged him off, my hand shooting out to grip his wrist before violently unlatching his arm from my frame.
"Don't you dare land your arms on me again, or you'll be walking somewhere without them," I said, dropping my voice into an icy register, letting a genuine, suffocating menace seep into the atmosphere.
Satee merely chuckled, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of a predator who thought he was playing with a cornered cat. He clearly took it as a joke, a fun little game to pass the time before lunch.
"Oh, that mouth is really sharp," he purred, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a toxic whisper. "I wonder how much that tongue can hold if I cut it off."
The air between us grew thick, the tension in our locked stares tightening like a coiled spring. We stood there, two divergent storms waiting to crash, until the sharp, unmistakable clack of a teacher's loafers echoed down the linoleum. Satee backed off slowly, shooting me a parting, infuriated smirk as he melted into the dispersing crowd.
"Be thankful, bastard," I muttered under my breath, watching his retreating back. Let's see how long that arrogance lasts.
I've always operated on a singular, unyielding philosophy: strike first, eliminate the variable. If someone even smells like a potential threat, waiting around to see if they'll bite is a fool's errand. I refuse to play the role of the prey.
By the time the afternoon bell dragged the final hours to a close, the sky outside had turned the bruised, heavy purple of an impending storm. The nerd—my accidental shadow for the day—fell into step beside me as we navigated the emptying corridors. He cast a sideways glance at me, a mixture of anxiety and calculated curiosity written across his face.
"It's like Satee has a massive beef with you," he murmured, dodging a group of lingering seniors. "Do you even know him?"
"Yes, of course," I replied flatly, staring ahead at the double doors leading to the courtyard. "He's just another piece of trash auditioning for an early grave."
"Whatever it is, I don't plan to back down if they want trouble," the nerd muttered, adjusting his glasses. Then, his expression shifted, a knowing glint flashing in his eyes. "But wait... didn't you promise Yohan you'd stay out of trouble?"
My blood ran cold. The step I was about to take hitched.
"What? How do you even know that?" I snapped, whirling around to face him.
"Well, he asked me to look out for you," the nerd replied defensively, holding up his hands.
God. Of all the people Yohan could have enlisted as a babysitter, he had to pick this walking encyclopedia. "Okay, fine. But can you do me a massive favor and not tell him about this?" I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. I couldn't handle being lectured by Yohan today—not when my mind was already stretched thin, buried under family weights I couldn't even begin to explain to these kids.
The nerd hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Fine. But—look."
We pushed through the glass doors into the open air of the school's front drop-off zone. Parked right by the curb, gleaming under the harsh afternoon sun like an expensive obsidian scar, sat a McLaren P1. Satee stood beside it, leaning against the carbon-fiber frame with the smug, untouchable posture of someone whose bank account could sweep away any consequence. It was painfully clear: fighting someone with that kind of unchecked financial firepower required more than just brute strength; it required absolute, surgical precision.
Satee spotted us and raised a hand, offering a mock-friendly wave, practically beckoning us over to his territory.
"Hold my bag," I told the nerd, handing over my canvas satchel without breaking my gaze from the target.
The moment my boot hit the pavement, the trap sprang. Out from behind the flanking pillars, three bulky figures detached themselves, charging straight at my position with unmasked hostility. Up ahead, Satee offered one last lazy wave before sliding into the driver's seat of the supercar, sealing himself inside the cabin.
The confidence radiating from that closing door made my blood boil. I couldn't wait to turn that million-dollar machine into scrap metal.
There was no hesitation. The first thug lunged, aiming a clumsy, wide hook at my jaw. I ducked inside his guard with ruthless economy, snapping a vicious front kick straight into his windpipe. Before he could even gasp, I pivoted, driving a devastating, heavy-force roundhouse straight into the stomach of the second assailant. The impact echoed across the courtyard—a sickening, visceral crack of bone giving way under sheer kinetic pressure.
I moved like a machine built for demolition. I didn't plan on ending their lives, but I was fully committed to sending them into early retirement. Snapping an arm outward, I caught the third enforcer's limb, applying sharp, calculated leverage until it folded backward with a sharp pop, dropping him to his knees like a felled tree.
"What the hell are you?!"
A frantic shout broke my focus. I whipped my head around to find a fourth figure—one I hadn't mapped out—lunging from my blind spot, a jagged switchblade flashing dully in the sunlight, aimed straight for my ribs.
Adrenaline spiked, turning the world into a sharp, hyper-focused slow motion.
Before the blade could even break the plane of my jacket, my hand shot out, clamping down around his wrist with a vise-like grip. With a sudden, brutal twist of my forearm, I forced the joint past its natural limit. A sharp cry tore from his throat as the knife clattered uselessly against the concrete. A follow-up palm strike to his temple sent his eyes rolling back, knocking him out cold before his body even hit the ground.
Silence descended on the courtyard, save for the heavy, ragged sound of my own breathing.
Beside me, the nerd stood frozen, clutching my bag to his chest like a shield, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared down at the groaning figures scattered across the pavement. Slowly, he turned his head to look at me, a strange, breathless awe in his expression.
"You... you never fail to amaze me," he whispered, swallowing hard.
Across the asphalt, the engine of the McLaren roared to life, a deep, predatory growl that cut through the afternoon air. I watched the sleek hypercar begin to roll forward, leaving a trail of exhaust in its wake.
I cracked my knuckles, a cold, dangerous smile touching the corners of my lips.
That Satee. I really can't wait to see his reaction when I finally catch up to him.