The rain fell in sheets—cold, relentless, and uncaring—as if the sky itself mourned what was about to happen.
Adrian Lancaster stood at the corner of Lockwood and Vine, the sleeves of his hoodie soaked through, breath turning to mist in the November air. The city around him buzzed with distant sirens, flickering neon signs, and shadows that moved too quickly for comfort. But his focus was only on one person—Lucas, his older brother, pacing under the awning of a closed convenience store, nervously checking his watch.
Adrian stayed hidden behind a rusted dumpster, half-sheltered by a broken fire escape. Lucas had insisted he stay home, but Adrian had followed anyway. Something about the way his brother had looked that evening—tense, distracted, paranoid—didn't sit right. And when Lucas had left without saying where he was going, Adrian's gut screamed louder than common sense.
Now, watching Lucas tap his foot, constantly glance around, and pull something from his coat—papers maybe? A flash drive?—Adrian knew. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Then the night cracked.
A car—sleek, black, unmarked—pulled up without sound. It didn't belong. It didn't even slow—it stopped as if summoned by fate.
Lucas froze.
Two men stepped out. Their suits were tailored, dry despite the storm. One was tall, bald, and moved with the confidence of someone who'd ended lives without blinking. The other, shorter and leaner, wore leather gloves and a cruel smile.
"Lucas Lancaster," the taller one said, voice like gravel and rust.
Lucas took a step back. "I… I did what you asked. I have everything. Just let me—"
The shorter man cut him off. "You were warned, Lucas. There are no second chances in our business. And you? You're a loose thread."
Lucas raised his hands. "No. No, listen to me. I didn't tell anyone. I kept my mouth shut. I swear—"
He didn't see it coming.
A flash. A thud.
The taller man drove his fist into Lucas's stomach like a sledgehammer, sending him crashing to the ground. Adrian gasped but clapped a hand over his own mouth. His heartbeat roared in his ears.
"No!" Lucas coughed, spitting blood, crawling backward on the soaked pavement. "Please, I have a brother. Just let me—"
The shorter man leaned down, almost gently. "That's the thing, Lucas. You should've worried more about him before you crossed us."
Then, without another word, he pulled out a silenced pistol and—
pop.
The sound was muffled, but the horror wasn't. Blood bloomed from Lucas's forehead. His body went still. Eyes wide open, staring straight at the dark sky.
Adrian couldn't breathe.
His vision tunneled. The alley warped. His knees buckled.
They killed Lucas.
They murdered his brother like he was trash.
The men didn't even check if anyone had seen. They turned, calm and methodical, stepped into the car, and vanished into the foggy streets as quickly as they'd come.
Adrian crawled out, legs shaking, hands numb.
"Lucas…" he whispered, falling to his knees.
He reached his brother's side. The warmth was already leaving his body. His open eyes looked at Adrian, but saw nothing. Rain mixed with blood on the cracked pavement.
"No… no, no, no…" Adrian gripped Lucas's coat, shaking him. "You said you'd be fine. You said it was over!"
But the only response was silence.
The kind of silence that makes your bones cold and your soul feel like it's cracking apart.
The kind of silence that changes you forever.
Adrian stayed there, holding the body until the rain washed everything away but the memory.
---
He didn't remember the cops arriving.
Didn't remember the questions or the cold fluorescent lights of the precinct. He didn't remember how he got home. Only fragments:
A detective with tired eyes saying "wrong place, wrong time."
Another muttering, "Could be a gang thing."
And a voice in the hall whispering, "Don't bother digging. That neighborhood eats its own."
No one cared.
Lucas had died for something—something—and no one wanted to find out what it was. No arrests. No suspects. No justice.
They filed the case. Closed it.
Just like that.
---
Adrian sat in his room days later, darkness pooling around him like smoke. The photos of him and Lucas from better days stared down at him from the shelves. Smiles. Laughter. All lies now.
He clutched a flash drive. The same one he found in Lucas's coat pocket, hidden beneath the lining.
He hadn't even looked at it yet.
He couldn't.
Not until he was ready.
Not until he decided who he was going to be from now on.
Adrian Lancaster—the high schooler, the daydreamer, the younger brother—died the night Lucas did.
What remained was something else.
Something cold.
Something that wanted answers.
And if the law wouldn't give them… the underworld would.
Even if it cost him everything.