CHAPTER ONE
The crowd was deafening.
Cheers erupted like thunder across the sun-baked court as the basketball flew through the net, ending the game with a clean shot. Evermist High had claimed another victory. The sound of whistles, clapping, and chanting filled the air, a living tide of noise that made the players' hearts race even faster than the game itself.
"Yayyy! We won again!" Velora squealed, darting across the court toward Kyrian Veydan.
He caught her in his arms, laughing as he lifted her and spun her around. Her laughter rang like silver bells in his ears, sweet and warm, a comfort that had steadied him for nearly two years.
Their teammates were still hugging each other, the air thick with the smell of sweat and triumph. Across the court, the team from Westbrook High stalked away in bitter silence. The rivalry between Evermist and Westbrook was an old wound that never closed—whether in sports or in reputation, they were always trying to outdo each other.
"Great job, guys!" their coach praised. His voice carried with pride, though he kept his composure. They bowed slightly in respect, a habit drilled into them through years of discipline.
"Barbecue?" Miguel suggested the second the coach left, his grin sharp with excitement.
"You'll never get tired of barbecue," Velora teased, still clutching Kyrian's hand.
"And you'll never get tired of Kyrian," Miguel shot back, earning laughter from the rest of the team.
Velora only stuck her tongue out, her cheeks flushed. "He's my boyfriend. What do you expect?"
Kyrian didn't add much to the banter. He never did. Instead, he smiled faintly, keeping his grip on Velora's hand firm as if it anchored him.
---
Later that evening, the rooftop of Kyrian's penthouse was filled with the smell of grilled meat, the hiss of sizzling fat, and the heady tang of alcohol. Strings of warm lights hung across the edges, and the city skyline glimmered beyond them.
"To victory!" Joel shouted, raising his glass.
"Cheers!" they all echoed in unison. The clink of glasses rang into the night.
Music played faintly in the background as they devoured skewers of barbecue and drank. Velora leaned into Kyrian's side, laughing at Dylan's dramatic retelling of a single missed shot during the game.
"You know," Dylan said after his third glass of wine, his grin lazy, "I love your place."
Kyrian's golden-brown eyes slid toward him, sharp as a blade. "Don't even think about moving in."
The group laughed, though Dylan feigned a pout, Velora gagging playfully at his expression.
"Stop being possessive," Dylan muttered with mock annoyance. "Not like I'd ever touch your girl."
"You should probably go find your own boyfriend," Miguel teased, and Dylan nodded dramatically, setting them all laughing again.
It was moments like this—warmth, laughter, friends—that should have been enough. But under Kyrian's cool exterior, something was always twisted, restless, and aching.
When the rooftop cleared and Velora had fallen asleep in his bed, Kyrian slipped out to the balcony.
The night air was sharp and cool. He leaned against the railing, his phone cold in his palm. The screen was still blank.
Two years.
Not a single message. Not a single call.
The world believed Kaelen Veydan was dead. Kyrian refused to. His brother wasn't the kind of man who died quietly. If Kaelen was gone, it was because he wanted to be. Because he was hiding.
Kyrian's grip on the railing tightened until his knuckles whitened. He wouldn't believe in his brother's death. Not now. Not ever.
---
Elsewhere
The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and smoke.
Screams rattled the walls of the underground chamber before choking into silence.
Three men knelt in chains, their naked bodies broken, arms spread wide as iron links dug into their flesh. Blood dripped steadily, pooling beneath them.
"What should we do with them, boss?" one of the guards asked, bowing his head.
Kaelen Veydan stepped forward, his black shirt open at the collar, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His smirk was the kind that could make men sweat more than the heat of the chamber ever could.
Beside him walked Ravian Theron, tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair slicked back, his expression carved from stone. His blade gleamed wetly in the light, crimson still sliding from the steel.
Kaelen exhaled smoke lazily, his sharp eyes flickering over the trembling captives. "What else? We've already gotten what we need."
Ravian moved without hesitation. Steel flashed, and heads rolled across the floor like discarded toys. Blood splattered across his cheek, but his face never shifted. Cold. Controlled. Efficient.
The chamber fell into silence except for the drip of lifeless bodies.
Kaelen chuckled, taking a final drag before flicking the cigarette away. "Think Mr. Greg would enjoy receiving their heads as a gift?"
Ravian wiped the blade with a towel, his voice low and steady, the sound like distant thunder. "That would be nice."
Kaelen's grin widened. Together, they walked out of the chamber, leaving behind corpses and terror as if it were nothing more than dust.