The first place Ryan went to is the bar and you know the saying, enemy meet at a narrow place.
watched from across the street.
The bar was loud—music spilling into the night, laughter sharp and careless. Inside, his brother sat exactly as Ryan remembered him from years ago: relaxed, untouchable, surrounded by people who didn't know what kind of man he was.
Girls clung to his arms.
Ryan tilted his head.
A slow smile curved beneath the mask as he pulled it on.
It wasn't rage that moved him forward.
It was certainty.
Inside the bar, Ryan became noise—just another body, another presence. He brushed past his brother once, deliberately, murmuring something just loud enough to catch attention.
A lie.
A hook.
Minutes later, his brother stumbled outside, irritation sharp on his face.
"Hey—who the hell—"
Ryan didn't answer.
The first blow dropped him.
The alley swallowed the sound.
His brother tried to fight back at first—tried to demand answers, to shout names, to ask who had sent him.
Ryan said nothing.
That silence broke him faster than fists ever could.
By the time his brother's voice cracked into begging, Ryan was already done.
He crouched, close enough to whisper—but didn't.
Didn't give him that mercy.
When it was over, Ryan stepped back, breathing even, pulse steady.
He took the phone from trembling fingers.
His voice was calm when he made the call.
"There's a man bleeding," he said flatly. "He won't last long."
He sent the location.
Then he stood there for a moment longer, looking down at the broken thing that used to be family.
You don't die tonight, Ryan thought.
Living with it is the punishment.
He turned away.
And beneath the mask—
he smiled, get well soon brother, so we can play more, this was actually fun