They say the devil’s got a few faces. I’ve seen most of them. Hell, I’ve worn a few myself.

Not that I was born like this—sharp, mean, cold around the edges. No, that shit gets carved into you over time, like scars you don’t remember earning. I used to think people were good by default. That maybe, if you smiled right or tried hard enough, the world would play nice back.

But you grow up around wolves, and that hope gets ripped out of you quick.

Where I come from, showing your throat’s just an invitation to bleed. So I learned to bite. Learned to make them bleed first.

By the time I stepped out of that goddamn school building, the sky had already gone sour—clouds like bruises, air too thick to breathe without gagging on it. The new school’s got this fake-clean vibe, like they scrubbed the walls with bleach and still can’t wash out the rot underneath. Everything’s white: the walls, floors, and even smiles.

Everyone there looks at me like I’m something that crawled out of a story their parents told them to scare them straight. The new kid. The transfer. The freak with the black hoodie, boots that sound like gunshots on tile, and a reputation that trails behind me like smoke. I’ve been there what, two weeks? And already half the kids flinch when I pass by. The other half pretend they’re not staring.

It’s all so fucking fake. The grins. The shiny-ass lockers. The cutesy-ass posters in the halls telling you to “Be Kind. Work Hard. Dream Big.” Like that’ll save anyone.

Truth is, I don’t belong there. Never did. My place was with the crew—where the real shit lives. Where loyalty means something, and every glance means something else. The old school was different. Dirtier, louder, dangerous in the way I like. My kind of place.

But I fucked up. Just once.

Got into it with some prick who thought he could run his mouth about me. Split his lip open and shattered his nose against the lockers, and the next day, my ass was out. No warning. No mercy. The principal didn’t even blink when he signed the expulsion. Said I was a “bad influence.” Said I “brought chaos.” I wanted to laugh in his face. If he knew even a fraction of what I’ve done, he’d have called the damn cops.

Now I’m here—at this new school where the walls hum like a hospital and I feel like I’m being dissected every second I breathe.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there’s this group of girls who act like they own the fucking place. They trail me in packs, whisper when I walk by, like I don’t hear every word. Their queen bee, Madison fucking Jones, thinks she’s hot shit just because she’s got her daddy’s money and a laugh that sounds like glass breaking. She keeps trying to talk to me like I give a damn. I don’t. I see through people like her. Polished smiles and poison tongues.

Sometimes I swear I’d rather slam my head into a wall than hear her voice again. Shit’s like nails on a chalkboard dipped in glitter. They don’t know me. None of them do. They couldn’t survive an hour in my world.

My bike was still in the shop. The Harley had been wheezing like a dying beast, and Ace finally bullied me into letting his guy look at it. Which meant walking—like a goddamn peasant.

The shift from Halgrave’s prim campus to the cracked streets beyond was whiplash. One minute I was dodging hedge sculptures and marble fountains. The next, I was stepping over broken glass and old gum. The real world. Where smiles cost nothing—and meant even less.

The spot was twenty minutes away, tucked in an industrial wasteland no one rich dared glance at. It used to be a mechanic’s shop until the owner caught a bullet over a poker debt. Now? It was ours. A concrete fortress with steel doors and blacked-out windows.

I passed the corner store where they’ve still got that blurry photo of me taped behind the register: me flipping off the camera with a cigarette in my mouth and blood on my shirt. “Do Not Serve,” it says in red marker. Still makes me smile.

Lit a smoke the second I was out of sight. Let the nicotine burn a hole through my lungs—the kind that makes everything else feel just a little less sharp. The kind of drag that reminds you you’re still here, even when it feels like you shouldn’t be. The taste was bitter but comforting.

I heard them before I saw them.

The engines. The clatter of tools.

I pushed through the side door, and the smell hit me like a memory—gasoline, motor oil, cigarette smoke, maybe blood. The air hummed with danger and belonging.

Ace looked up first, grinning like the bastard he was. Bent over his bike, grease up to his elbows like some war-streaked king.

— Well, well, he drawled, wiping his hands on a rag. Look what the fancy school dragged in.

— Fuck off, I muttered, but there was no bite in it.

Axel emerged from under another bike, his twin’s face but with harder edges... meaner. Like life carved one of them with a blade and the other with a sledgehammer.

— How’s life with the silver spoon set? Axel asked. Learn how to properly enunciate while snorting coke off gold toilets?

— Learned how to rearrange a jaw in under three seconds, I shot back, tossing my bag onto a nearby bench.

Set was in the corner, cleaning a gun—of course. Blonde hair tied back, tattoos like a war journal up both arms. This man never stopped running his mouth unless he had a weapon in his hands.

— Please tell me you didn’t actually hit someone again, Set said, smirking. Boss is still bitching about last time.

— The last time was self-defense.

— You broke the guy’s nose.

— He called my jacket trashy.

— Because it is, said Jace, emerging from the shadows like the grim reaper of common sense.

His head was shaved and his face was covered in clean, precise ink—geometry and war gods.

— Yeah, and I was merciful, I said. I could’ve gone for the ribs.

— “Merciful,” Set echoed, grinning. You’re a goddamn humanitarian, Kane.

Dan looked up from his laptop, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was the only one of us who looked like he might actually belong in a classroom, but I’d seen him hack into government databases while eating a sandwich. Looks were deceiving.

— Just once, Dan said, pushing his frames up with one finger, I’d like to hear about your day without the words ‘hospital,’ ‘incident,’ or ‘Kane, you absolute psychopath.’

— You forgot ‘Kane, why are you bleeding again,’ Ace added.

— Or ‘Kane, this isn’t Fight Club, you can’t just—’

—I was provoked, I snapped, pulling off my jacket. Do you know how much trouble I went through to get it ? That’s provocation enough.

The room cracked up.

—I still don’t know why the hell Boss wants me at that school, I muttered, exhaling a trail of smoke toward the flickering ceiling bulb.

Ace snorted.

— Maybe he thought you needed a little culture. Politeness, manners, and social grooming.

— Yeah? Then he should’ve sent me to a fuckin’ pet spa. Not some prep school circus with kids who think real problems come with Wi-Fi outages.

— He probably wants eyes inside, Jace said, already flipping through files on his phone like he was downloading someone’s criminal record with his thumb. You know how he is. Always five steps ahead and never says shit about four of them.

— Well, he can keep his fifth step. That place is hell. I can’t tell if it’s a punishment or a setup.

Axel shrugged, tossing a wrench into a crate.

— Could be both. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Dan swiveled in his chair.

— Speaking of setups—

He tapped the keyboard, and the wall screen lit up with grainy surveillance photos. Buildings. Vehicles. A face or two blurred just enough to scream classified.

— Got the drop from the wiretap near Crescent. Shipment moved earlier than expected. Boss wants us locked in by tonight—no screw-ups, no loose ends.

I sat up straighter.

— What kind of shipment?

— Weapons. High-grade. Not street garbage, either—military surplus, drone-activated trigger systems, shit that shouldn’t even be on this continent. The usual supplier didn’t show. Someone else did. Someone new.

Set leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

— Let me guess… you want us to knock politely and ask where it’s from?

Dan gave him the finger without looking.

— You, Kane, Jace and Axel are going to intercept. Ace and I will keep the second line open in case it goes sideways.

— When it goes sideways, I corrected.

Dan clicked through more slides—maps, license plates, timestamps.

— Our guy was spotted near the docks last night. Unmarked trucks. No plates. They’re moving the shipment again at midnight. We intercept at the warehouse near 4th and Ravel.

Jace added, almost absently:

— We get in. Get eyes. Get control. If it looks too hot, we pull. Boss doesn’t want bodies unless it’s necessary.

Axel cracked his knuckles.

— Necessary’s my middle name.

Ace raised a brow.

— Thought it was “Felony.”

— Close enough.

Dan cut back in.

— Gear up. We roll out at 10. Prep now. I want us gone before midnight, and I want that place clean.

Set grinned like a kid on Christmas.

— Finally. Something fun.

I didn’t say much after that. Just nodded and let the rest blur. We went over floor plans, escape routes, the usual paranoid checklists. But my mind wasn’t really in the room.

Not all of it, anyway.

The mission was quick.

Clean, even.

In and out in under two hours. The kind of job that usually smells like a setup but somehow… didn’t.

We hit the warehouse right as the trucks rolled in—timing so perfect it felt like fate or dumb luck, and I don’t believe in either.

A few bruises, nothing big. Axel took a punch that loosened a molar. I got clipped in the ribs hard enough to make breathing feel like swallowing glass for a few hours. But we got the shipment. Locked. Moved out before the cops even blinked in our direction.

Boss’ll be happy.

Not that he ever shows it.

We got back just before two.

The others stuck around—cleaning gear, counting payload, trading war stories like they were badges. I didn’t stay. Didn’t have the patience. The high from the mission had already curdled into that hollow hum in my chest.

I was tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.

The kind that feels like something’s clawing at your insides.

So I left.

Walked the few blocks back to my place with the streets hissing under flickering lamps, and everything feeling just a little too quiet.

I kicked the door shut behind me. Dropped my jacket. Peeled off the sweat-stuck shirt. Collapsed onto the mattress like it owed me something.

But I didn’t sleep.

Couldn’t.

Every time I closed my eyes, the dark didn’t come empty. It came full—flashing, cracking, breathing with things I couldn’t name out loud.

Memories, maybe.

Visions.

Echoes of something worse.

I don’t remember when they started. Just that they don’t stop. Not anymore.

So I stared at the ceiling.

For what felt like hours.

Then, like a switch flipping somewhere deep in my gut, I sat up.

No hesitation. No reason. Just that sudden pull that said move.

I got up, crossed the room, and pulled open the second drawer of the metal cabinet wedged between the dresser and the wall. The thing jammed like always—I had to yank it twice before it slid open with that rusty groan.

Inside: papers, clippings, maps, old IDs, burner phones with cracked screens, folders marked in red ink I didn’t write.

And the file.

This wasn’t gang shit. Not Boss’s work. Not crew-related.

This was mine.

Something even they didn’t know about.

Inside the folder were journal scraps, cutouts from old newspapers, red-thread level lunacy taped into patterns only I understood. Receipts. Dates. Coordinates. Photos with faces scratched out.

One name circled over and over, angry and bold:

VEX BROWN.

The man who started it all. The ghost who burned my past and vanished before I could watch him choke on the ashes.

Two years. That’s how long I’d been chasing whispers. Rumors. Lies wrapped in truths. Long enough that even I started to wonder if he was real, or just something my hate invented to stay warm at night.

But this time?

I had a lead.

A man reached out. Said he knew something. Said he had a name. A location. A thread I could pull.

But it stank like a setup. Everything about it did.

The guy didn’t give a name. Just said to meet him in some abandoned office complex off 9th and Carrow, tomorrow. Middle of nowhere. No streetlights. No people. The kind of place you go when you want to disappear and never get found.

And yet…

The next day, I was already walking toward it, hoodie pulled tight, hands buried deep in my pockets where the knife waited. Just in case.

The city was different at night. Meaner. Just shadows and alleyways, the sound of your own boots hitting pavement, the occasional scream muffled by brick walls and indifference.

When I got to the building, it looked worse than I expected.

Windows busted out like broken teeth. Graffiti sprawling across the walls in a dozen dead languages. The front door hung open like a mouth that had forgotten how to scream.

My hand tightened around the blade.

I hope it’s not a trap, I thought, but I didn’t believe myself.

Because if it was, maybe that was fine.

Maybe I was ready. Maybe I wanted it.

Maybe the only way to get to him… was through hell first.

And I’ve never been scared of fire.

The place stank of mold and piss, broken ceiling tiles leaking the last light of day through jagged gaps. My boots scraped the tile with every step, echoing like a warning.

He stood at the end of the hallway, half-shrouded in grimy yellow from the sickly stairwell bulb—a skinny guy with a twitch to his jaw and a scar carved through his left eyebrow. The supposed informant. He looked jittery, already regretting whatever deal he’d made.

I kept my voice calm, low.

— You’re late.

He scoffed, bouncing a battered phone in his palm, eyes flickering to my pockets.

— I was here. You’re the one crawling in like some damn ghost.

We stared at each other across the cracked tiles. My fists tingled, buzzing from the adrenaline still running loose after the day.

— Got a name or not? I asked, stepping closer.

His lips curled.

— You really want to drag him out, huh? Don’t know when to quit?

My jaw tightened.

— I’m not asking twice.

He shook his head and laughed, nerves dancing wild in the sound.

— I shouldn’t have taken this. He’s not to be found. You keep digging and you’re gonna end up with a mouthful of teeth and no tongue to tell tales.

I saw the swing before he finished the sentence—a switchblade glinting from his jacket, an arc for my gut. I moved instinct, sidestepping, catching his wrist in an iron grip. He kicked at my knee, caught me off balance for half a second, but I yanked his arm overhead and slammed him against the peeling wall.

— You wanna do this? I spat, teeth bared.

— Oh, I’m counting on it, he hissed, driving a headbutt into my jaw that made my teeth ring.

Red flashed in my eyes. He slashed at my ribs; I blocked with my left, pain biting deep. We grappled—an ugly, scraping tangle—elbows, fists, his boot stomped my foot. My knuckles jammed into his nose, a crunch satisfying and wet, blood streaming down his mouth. He shrieked, going wild, swinging the blade at my throat.

I caught his arm, twisted until he screamed, the knife clattering to the floor. He hit my ribs, hard, made my breath stutter. I drove my knee into his gut. He doubled over; I landed a hook across his temple. He staggered, spitting blood.

— This is your last shot, I growled, shoving him into a busted cabinet, drawers spilling trash on the floor.

He lunged again—desperate, slashing nails at my face, trying to bite. My fist collided with his cheek so hard the skin split beneath my knuckles. He crashed to the ground, moaning, clutching his face. Blood splattered onto the tile, glossy and thick.

— For good, I snarled, standing over him, chest heaving. Tell your boss he’s still on my list. Next time, it’s more than a broken nose.

He whimpered but didn’t move—just watched me, hate and panic mingling in his eyes.

I wiped sweat and blood off my brow, listening to the empty silence, letting my fists unclench and the tremor fade.

That’s when I heard it.

A voice, muffled, sharp and cruel, echoing out from somewhere lower down—the squeal of mattress springs, a man’s angry grunt. Laughter.

Curiosity, or maybe a warning, flared along my nerves. I headed for the basement stairs, every instinct on alert. I caught a thread of words—

— You want that money, you bitch? Moan louder! C’mon!

I froze. I should’ve walked out, just left it. But I kept going, heart pounding. At the bottom of the stairs, peeling wallpaper and the stink of beer, I pressed myself tight to the crumbling wall and risked a glance inside.

What I saw turned my gut to ice.

A girl, hair a mess, skirt bunched around her thighs, cinched beneath a red-faced man in his forties, grabbing at her wrists, riding her into the couch.

He slapped her.

— C’mon. Louder! Make it worth it.

Her head lolled, and that’s when I saw her face. Recognition sliced through the filth and the noise.

Nancy.

Nancy Wright was a whore. A whore for fun.

Straight-A student, calm and whole, never a hair out of place. I stared for one long beat, disgust boiling up, a hot, reckless hatred churning in my gut. So the good girl wasn’t so good, after all.

All that time busting ass in class, acting holier than hell—she was just as dirty as the rest of us. Worse, because she lied. I pulled out my phone. Framed her face, made sure I had proof. Just in case.

The joke was on all of us. Beneath the polish, the world’s the same everywhere—dirty, broken, ugly as a scar. And anyone can bleed. Even the ones who spent their whole lives pretending to be clean.

To be continued...