Chapter 3
The night in San-Jamb City was restless.
Wind tore through the narrow alleys, rattling broken shutters and carrying with it the smell of salt and rust from the docks.
The city had always been dangerous, but tonight it felt like the streets themselves were warning anyone foolish enough to wander: stay away, blood will spill here.
Melin pressed himself against the crumbling wall of an abandoned pawn shop, his chest heaving.
The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, giving him cover, but also suffocating the world in pitch blackness.
His hand trembled as he checked the magazine of the handgun he had stolen days ago.
Only a few bullets left. It would have to be enough.
Every sound gnawed at his nerves—the squeak of a rat in the garbage, the distant creak of a boat rocking against the pier, the metallic hum of a broken streetlight.
But it wasn't fear that drove his heart into a frenzy. It was urgency. His father, Felin, and his mother were inside that warehouse by the docks.
The Ballas Gang had them. No—worse. They were in the hands of the Red Cult.
Melin's jaw tightened. He couldn't stop seeing his father's face the last time they spoke, bloodied from the last ambush, whispering: "Stay hidden, son.
Don't let them take you." But Melin had not listened. He wouldn't let them die in chains.
The warehouse loomed before him, a monstrous skeleton of rusted steel and shattered windows.
Its once-busy cranes stood motionless, now nothing more than shadows pointing at the sky.
Two guards loitered by the main entrance, smoking and laughing carelessly. Melin didn't risk that way.
Instead, he circled the building and found a rusted side door half-buried behind stacks of abandoned crates.
His breathing slowed as he forced it open, the hinges groaning softly.
He slipped inside. Darkness engulfed him, only broken by dim lamps swinging from the rafters.
The smell of oil, sweat, and mold was thick in the air. He crouched low, weaving through crates stacked like crooked towers, each step measured, each breath shallow.
Then he froze.
There they were.
His parents were bound to wooden chairs at the center of the warehouse floor, surrounded by armed men.
Felin looked barely conscious, his head lolling forward, blood soaking his torn shirt. His mother was worse—her face pale, lips cracked, one arm limp at an unnatural angle.
Yet despite their state, both of them turned their eyes upward when they heard footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
At the center of it all stood Fedrick.
Fedrick, with his pressed black coat and smug grin, watching the scene like a king admiring his collection of trophies.
His gold ring gleamed under the dim light as he twirled it, and his sharp eyes flickered over the captives with cold amusement.
Melin's blood boiled. He remembered this man—how once Fedrick had clasped his shoulder, smiling like a brother, swearing loyalty to their family.
It was Fedrick who betrayed them, handing the Felins to the Red Cult for his own rise. And now he stood there, alive and free, while Melin's family suffered.
The gun felt heavy in Melin's hand. His throat was dry, but he forced himself to stand tall.
> "Let them go!" Melin shouted, stepping from the shadows and raising his weapon.
The warehouse erupted.
Guards shouted, guns drawn. One fired immediately, but Melin dove aside, the bullet sparking against a crate.
He fired back, his aim shaky but desperate. A guard cried out as a bullet tore through his leg, collapsing to the floor.
Melin sprinted, weaving between cover, until he reached his parents. His hands shook as he cut their ropes with a stolen knife, whispering frantically:
"Get up we don't have time! Please, you have to move!"
Felin coughed, struggling to rise, but there was still a fire in his eyes. His mother tried, too, though her strength was fading fast. Together, they staggered to their feet.
And then
Bang.
The sound tore the air.
Melin gasped. A burning shock spread across his chest as he stumbled.
He looked down in disbelief. Blood poured from the wound, staining his shirt in dark crimson.
His legs gave out, and he collapsed into his father's arms.
> "Melin!" Felin screamed, cradling his son.
Melin's lips trembled, words caught in his throat. He tried to say I'm sorry, but only blood bubbled out.
His eyes dimmed, fading like dying embers.
Another shot rang out. Felin's body jerked as the bullet pierced him.
He slumped over his son, his last act to shield the boy even in death.
His mother, with what little strength she had left, threw herself forward, trying to cover them both.
A third shot split the air, and she, too, fell.
The warehouse fell silent, save for the echo of gunfire ringing in Melin's ears as his vision went black.
Fedrick stood unmoved. His expression was not of triumph, nor of grief. Only disdain.
> "Fools," he muttered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Outside, another figure had been lurking.
Celin. The youngest brother.
He had followed Melin against orders, his heart pounding as he trailed through the city.
And when the gunfire started, he ran in. The stench of blood hit him first. Then the sight. His entire family, collapsed on the floor. Dead.
> "No…" Celin whispered, his voice breaking.
He fell to his knees beside their bodies, his chest heaving with grief.
The sight carved itself into his soul—the lifeless stare in Melin's eyes, the stillness of his father's chest, his mother's hand reaching out as though she had tried to protect them to the very end.
Tears blurred his vision, but another fire ignited within him: rage.
His shaking hand closed around Melin's fallen handgun. He rose, the weapon trembling in his grip as he faced Fedrick.
> "You… you monster," Celin growled, voice cracking. "I'll kill you!"
Fedrick only smirked.
But before Celin could pull the trigger, the air outside filled with wailing sirens.
Red and blue lights flashed through the broken windows. In seconds, the warehouse was flooded with armed officers.
> "DROP YOUR WEAPON! HANDS IN THE AIR!" they barked, guns aimed directly at Celin.
The boy froze. He tried to lower the gun, to scream the truth, but Fedrick stepped forward, clutching his arm as if wounded, his voice breaking into a perfect imitation of horror.
> "He snapped! He killed them!" Fedrick cried, pointing at Celin. "His own family! I tried to stop him!"
Celin's eyes widened.
> "No! That's a lie! He killed them!" Celin screamed, his voice raw. "It was Fedrick! He did this!"
But the officers saw only a teenager standing over three dead bodies, a gun in his hand, and a powerful man claiming to be the victim.
They rushed him, slamming him to the floor, ripping the weapon from his hands. Boots struck his ribs as he struggled, voices screaming at him to stop resisting.
By the time they dragged him out, his face was bloodied, his wrists shackled.
He screamed until his throat gave out, but his words were swallowed by the night.
The trial was swift.
Fedrick's testimony carried weight. The guards' silence ensured it.
There was no camera footage, no evidence to save Celin. The weapon, smeared with his fingerprints, was proof enough.
Celin stood in chains as the judge's gavel slammed down.
> "Celin Felin," the judge declared coldly, "for the murders of your parents and brother, and for unlawful possession of a firearm, you are hereby sentenced to fifteen years in San-Jamb Maximum Security Prison."
The words echoed in his skull. Fifteen years.
Celin didn't cry. He didn't beg. He didn't even look at Fedrick, who smirked from the corner of the courtroom.
He only stared straight ahead, eyes hollow, as the storm inside him solidified into something darker.
They took my family… they framed me for it. But I will survive. And when I walk out of that prison… I will finish what Melin started.
To be continued…