The night draped itself like a heavy, unmoving velvet curtain over the countryside, disturbed only by the crackling roar of flames devouring an old wooden house. The fire raged with untrammeled fury, spewing out waves of heat and sending spiraling sparks into the pitch-black sky. Smoke twisted upwards, choking the stars. Out on the gravel road, six figures stood bathed in the violent orange glow-shadows stretching long, warped, distorted.
In their midst stood a man in a long black coat. It billowed behind him, caught between the taut peaks of his shoulders by the wind's insistent fingers, showing a black shirt tucked neatly into tailored trousers, every piece of clothing chosen with intention - sharp edges, crisp lines, the look of a man who managed chaos like it was a corporate asset.
His hair was long, dark, and unkempt in a way that looked deliberate, falling past his shoulders like a curtain of night. A scar - thick, pale, jagged - ran from his forehead across his left eye and down to his cheek, carving his face with the memory of old violence.
The reflection of the flames in his eyes as the house burned down, and on his lips lay a smile - murderous, entertained, almost indulgent. A man savoring the completion of a strategic initiative.
He drew a cigarette packet out from his coat, tapped it twice against his palm, then slid one cigarette between his lips before tucking away the packet. His silver lighter flickered to life with an audible click. The small flame danced in the wind before catching. He breathed in slow, deep, calm - as if the inferno infront him was nothing more than a quarterly report meeting he'd already predicted the outcome of.
He exhaled a stream of smoke, thin and lazy, curling upward toward the dark sky.
Behind him, one of the men - a bulky figure with a bat slung casually over his shoulder - cleared his throat. "Boss," he said, his voice shaking but trying to sound composed, "everything's done. Can we go now? People are gonna notice the fire. Firefighters'll show up."
The figure they called boss let the cigarette rest between his fingers as he gave the burning structure a final, appraising glance as if checking off the final item on a project checklist.
"Okay, okay," he said, voice deep, smooth, intimidating. "Let's go."
He flicked the cigarette onto the dirt road and crushed it under his heel. He turned away and started to walk, boots crunching on gravel. The men followed - until a thin cry pierced the roaring fire.
A baby's cry.
All six halted in unison. Heads turned. The boss paused mid-step.
The crying rose again - shrill, frantic, unmistakable.
One of the henchmen whispered, "Boss. I think there's a baby in there."
A long, drawn-out sigh left the boss's chest; he leaned his head back, as if a minor inconvenience was annoying him in an otherwise clean operation.
"So he had a child," the boss said finally, voice rumbling like thunder from afar, " and kept it from me all this time." He chuckled - a low, slashing sound. His smile contorted into something demonic. "Go there and fetch it."
The order struck the group like a stone cast onto water. The nearest man - thin, jittery, eyes darting everywhere - went pale. "B-boss… the building's on fire. I can't go in there. It's - it's too dangerous."
His voice quivered. Hands trembled. Fear radiated off him like heat.
The boss slowly turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto the man; an unspoken threat was layered beneath that calm gaze. His aura, cold and suffocating, weighed upon the trembling henchman like some crushing corporate deadline where no extensions would be allowed.
The man swallowed hard. "O-okay boss."
He ran.
Smoke engulfed him in an instant. Fire lashed at the windows like some enraged animals. The other men watched both with pity and anticipation; they knew what entering that house meant. The boss did nothing but stood watching the doorway, as if waiting for some routine deliverable.
Minutes passed - long, punishing minutes filled with the roar of flames and the faint, muffled cries of the child. Then the man stumbled out. His skin was blistered, patches of flesh charred and peeling. His hair smoldered. His breath came in ragged gasps. But in his arms, wrapped in a soot-stained white cloth, was a baby boy screaming at the top of his lungs.
The man staggered towards the boss and virtually thrust the baby into his arms before collapsing face-first onto the ground.
The boss looked at the baby - a small, helpless thing with red cheeks and frantic limbs. The child's cries softened into hiccups as the boss eyed him with a strange mixture of calculation and disdain.
He said in a quiet, chillingly calm voice, "You, little one… are going to pay for your father's wrongdoing."
He turned sharply. "Let's go."
But after two steps, he stopped again. He looked at the man who lay on the ground, the one who had pulled the baby out even though his life was at risk. The man was still breathing; shallow breaths that made his burnt skin contract with each one.
The boss didn't bat an eyelid. He looked across at another one of his men, one eyebrow cocked. A silent order. Efficient. Streamlined. Cruel.
The chosen henchman nodded. "Yes, boss."
He reached behind his back, drew out his handgun, and without ceremony, fired a single shot. The burned man's body jerked once, then went still. The night swallowed the sound as if it were routine business.
The boss didn't give the body another look. He shifted the baby in his arm and headed off toward the open road running into the darkness of the countryside. His four remaining men followed in single file after him, mute, compliant, their long shadows cast before them like supplicants in the erratic light of the fires.
Behind them, the house continued to burn, collapsing in on itself beam by beam, wall by wall, until it became no more than a pyre marking the end of a life, a family.
Ahead of them, the night yawned wide and open, carrying the faintest whiff of smoke and the soft, intermittent wails of the baby whose fate had just been sealed.
The boss strode forward, his boots grinding onto the graveled area, straight-backed, face impassive. His coat billowed behind him like a cloak of command. In his arms, the baby wriggled, small fists clenching the air.
The world around them was silent except for the distant crackling of the fire that was dying behind them.
Nobody said anything.
Nobody did.
They turned back into the darkness, leaving the smoldering ruins and the man who had given everything for the life of a child that would never know his name.
The open countryside swallowed them, boss, men, and the baby who was to rise one day upon the ashes of that one night.
-----------------
[A/N]
Your dream isn't a distant horizon; it's a live project in active development. Keep iterating, keep optimizing, keep moving.
----------------