John's knife draws blood for the first time.
The night smelled of gasoline and rain. John crouched in the back of a black SUV, his pulse steady though his stomach churned. Beside him, Victor loaded a silencer onto his pistol with calm efficiency.
"This isn't training," Victor said, his voice low, gravelly. "Tonight, you stop being a student. Tonight, you prove you're not a man who takes orders—you're a man who gives fear."
John clenched his fists. "What's the job?"
Victor handed him a dossier. Inside was a single photo—a man in a sleek suit, smirking beside a luxury car.
"Daniel Okafor," Victor explained. "Mid-level enforcer for your uncle. Handles laundering, smuggling, and… other dirty work. He's useful but sloppy. Alex says it's time to cut him loose."
John stared at the photo. His first target. A man tied to the very family that had betrayed him.
"Why me?" he asked.
Victor shrugged. "Because you know what betrayal tastes like. That makes you dangerous. If you can't stomach blood, you're useless."
Hours later, John stood in the shadows outside an upscale nightclub. Music thumped from within, muffled by walls, while Daniel Okafor laughed with his entourage as he stepped out into the night.
John's heart pounded, but he remembered Alex's words: Patience. Every move matters.
Instead of rushing, he watched. Daniel's men split into two groups—one heading for the cars, the other lingering with their boss. That left a small window.
John slipped into the alley, circling behind. His hand tightened around the knife Victor had given him. His palms were damp. He had fought men before, but this was different. This was taking a life.
When Daniel's bodyguard moved aside to take a phone call, John stepped forward.
One clean motion. The knife slid across the guard's throat, silencing him before he could cry out. John's breath came hard, but he didn't stop—he couldn't.
He dragged the body into the shadows, then moved closer to Daniel.
Daniel lit a cigar, his laughter filling the air. He didn't notice John until it was too late.
"Wha—?"
The blade pierced his ribs, sliding into his heart. Daniel gasped, choking on his own blood, eyes wide with shock. John twisted, then yanked the blade free.
For a moment, everything was silent. John's chest heaved. His hand trembled, blood dripping onto the pavement. He had done it. He had killed.
When he returned to the SUV, Victor studied him carefully. "How do you feel?"
John's jaw tightened. "…Like I can never go back."
Victor smirked. "Good. That means you're ready."
Across town, Sophia stumbled upon a confidential file buried deep in the prosecutor's database. It detailed unexplained deaths tied to the Mark family's enemies—accidents, disappearances, sudden heart attacks. But the most recent report chilled her. Daniel Okafor—deceased. Cause of death: unknown.
Sophia sat back, her mind racing. This isn't coincidence. Someone is moving against the Marks. Someone ruthless. Her pulse quickened. Could it be… John?
Back at Alex's compound, John scrubbed Daniel's blood from his hands in the bathroom sink. The water ran red, swirling down the drain. He stared at his reflection again. The man in the mirror wasn't hesitant anymore. He wasn't broken.
He was dangerous.
And he had just taken his first step down a road with no return.