CHAPTER THREE
The sun had dipped low, casting long amber streaks over the cracked concrete of an old basketball court in South London. Rusty hoops. Faded boundary lines. It wasn't much, but to Darrel, it was home. His sneakers squeaked lightly as he bounced the ball, laughing with his best friend, Tavie, who tried...unsuccessfully...to steal it.
"Bro, that's a travel!" Tavie shouted, grinning wide.
"Only if you're blind," Darrel smirked, spinning the ball effortlessly.
They were young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Bright-eyed, full of dreams. But even dreams get tested.
A whistle echoed from across the court. Three older boys approached... lean, cocky, and unmistakably out of place in their designer streetwear. London boys, but with the kind of arrogance that came from being feared.
"Yo," the one in the middle said, nodding at Darrel. "Heard you got heart."
The game stopped. Darrel tightened his grip on the ball.
"You wanna keep playin' out here," the boy continued, tossing a small packet onto the ground, "you start runnin' this. First drop's free. Don't need much. Just loyal ones."
Darrel stared at the packet. White powder. Small...but it felt heavy.
Tavie stepped forward, eyeing it. "It's just once, bruv. Easy cash. We could actually get outta here with this."
Darrel shot him a sharp glance. "You serious?"
Tavie hesitated. "I mean... I've thought about it."
"My dad said never to touch that," Darrel said, louder now. "Drugs ain't strength."
The smirking boy's face hardened. "Your dad don't run these courts. We do!"
Tavie shifted nervously, but said nothing.
"I said no," Darrel repeated, firm.
It happened fast. A shove to the chest. The ball rolled away. The second guy grabbed his collar, while the third held Tavie back.
"You think you better than us?" the leader spat.
Darrel didn't answer. His fists shook...not from fear, but defiance. Still, he was just a kid. No match for three.
...
Then the air changed.
A shadow moved at the edge of the court. Silent. Watchful. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped forward from under the dim streetlight. A gray hood veiled most of his face, casting it in shadow. But what was visible...his jawline, the scar running faintly across his left cheek, the eyes like winter...was more than enough to freeze the chaos.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The boys stepped back instinctively. One tried to square up...then blinked and missed the blow. A solid hit to the ribs dropped him. Another reached for something in his waistband, but the man twisted his wrist and flipped him like paper. The leader tried to run...too late. A grip on his shirt yanked him back, face-to-face with a presence that felt more myth than man.
The gang leader's lip trembled. Blood stained his collar.
"Who...who are you?" he whispered underneath his breath.
The man's gaze didn't falter. He didn't answer.
But the boy gasped, recognition flooding his face. With a shudder, he whispered one name-
"Muretto..."
And ran.
They all did. Tripping over their egos, falling into the dark, vanishing.
...
Silence returned. Only the sound of Darrel's breathing remained, uneven and shaken.
The man turned to him, lowering his hood slightly. Not enough to show everything. Just enough to let him see the truth in his expression.
"Don't ever let them choose your path for you," he said calmly. His voice was low, rough...but it didn't threaten. It grounded. "Drugs take more than they give. Every. Time."
Darrel nodded slowly. Swallowed hard.
Tavie stood beside him, ashamed, silent.
The man stepped back into the shadows. A ghost once more. Gone.
Darrel looked at Tavie.
"You still think it's worth it?"
Tavie didn't reply.
He didn't have to.
***
Deep into the late hours, Streetlights flickered lazily as Alycia Firestone pulled into the underground lot of her apartment complex. The engine's soft purr died, leaving a silence that felt too sharp. She glanced at the rearview mirror... nothing.
Still, the hair on her neck rose.
She walked with her keys tight in hand, her heels tapping steadily against concrete. Third floor. Apartment 3C. She'd memorized every corner of the hallway, every creak in the floorboards. But tonight, something felt... off.
She slid her key in, twisted, and stepped into the familiar warmth of her home...dimly lit, sleek and clean. A glass of untouched wine still sat on the table from the night before.
She locked the door behind her. Double-check.
Then froze.
That feeling again. Like eyes pressed against her skin. Watching. Waiting.
She moved slowly to the window and peered out.
Nothing.
Just city lights and lazy traffic below. A man walking his dog. A bus rolling past.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. She flinched, then cursed softly before checking the screen.
Mum.
She sighed and answered, leaning against the counter as she clicked the speaker button.
"Hey, Mum."
"You sound tired, sweetheart. Late shift again?" Her mother's voice was soft, tender and unaware.
"You know how it is," Alycia muttered.
"Still won't tell me what you actually do for work? You're twenty-five, you know. Most girls your age are dating...some married. Do I have to remind you again you were born in June?"
Alycia smiled faintly. "We've had this talk."
"Oh, I know, I know," her mother sighed. "Still stuck on that guy from years ago? The one who got murdered by a drug dealing gang?
A pause.
Her grip on the counter tightened.
"I'm not stuck. I just know what I want...and what I don't."
"Well, it's not healthy to hold on to trauma forever, love. You've got a big heart. Someone should own it."
"I'm fine, Mum," she said, too quickly. "How's Australia?"
Her mother launched into small talk about a neighbor's dog and the new grocery store downtown. Alycia only half-listened, nodding now and then, her eyes drifting back toward the window.
"I've gotta go. It's late," she finally said.
Her mother sighed again. "Promise me you'll try to open up, hmm?"
"I promise."
They both knew she was lying.
The Call ended.
She tossed the phone on the bed and began peeling off her clothes...first the boots, then the black leather jacket, revealing the thin scar along her shoulder. A reminder of her trying to save Damien,the man she loved so much. Even though she lost him,he was worth every scar.
She moved to the drawer and pulled out the thick black folder, its front stamped with a faint code: KM-001.
Kyle Muretto.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, scanning the documents again. Photos. A list of aliases. Known associates. Drug syndicates. Rumors. A man too elusive to pin, too skilled to predict. And somehow, he'd escaped one of the highest-security prisons in the UK.
No one escapes Greywall penitentiary .No one.
A sound.
She jolted.
It came from outside.
Alycia sprang to her feet, gun drawn from under the mattress, and padded silently to the window.
Still nothing.
Her pulse quickened. Breathing shallow. She pressed a hand to the glass and looked again, carefully.
...A shadow moved.
A flicker in the dark.
A figure retreated... menacingly into the dark. To this,she was oblivious.
She stepped away from the window slowly and finally drew the curtains.
He was watching.
Someone always was.