Chapter 1.

CHAPTER 1.

Sirens shrieked like wounded beasts as the patrol cars swerved sharply around the corner of Kingwell Street, tires screeching against the slick asphalt.

“Stop right there!” a voice barked through the megaphone.

But Bryce didn’t stop.

He ran.

He ran like his entire life depended on it.

Small-framed and pale, his messy hair whipping in the wind, he darted through the rain-drenched alley like a shadow too fast for the light to catch. His breath came out in sharp puffs, fogging the chilled night air, but he didn’t slow down, not even when his lungs began to burn.

The leather briefcase in his hand was heavy. Not just in weight, but in consequence. Inside it? No one knew yet, but whatever it was, it had the owner almost lose his life cause he refused to let it go, and now, it had the police chasing him through downtown like he was a ghost turned criminal.

A flashlight beam caught the edge of his soaked hoodie as one of the officers shouted, “That’s him! He knocked the guy out and grabbed the case!”

“He looks like a damn high schooler,” another hissed, hesitation dragging on his voice. “We can’t shoot. We’ll get ripped apart in the media.”

“He dropped a grown man like it was nothing,” the first officer snapped back. “That ain't no kid.”

Bryce didn’t look back. He never did.

His legs moved like they’d been built for this,short strides, silent and swift. One jump over a broken crate, a sharp twist past a wired fence. He knew this city better than they did. Better than anyone.

Behind him, the police car skidded, trying to follow through the tight back lane, but Bryce had already melted through the alley’s underbelly like water slipping through cracked stone.

He didn’t run because he was scared.

He ran because he had to.

The sound of shouting, the blinding red-and-blue lights, the chaos, it faded behind him, drowned beneath the thud of his heartbeat and the slick sound of his soles slapping pavement.

He clutched the briefcase tighter, eyes locked ahead.

The rain hadn't stopped. It came harder now, like the sky was in mourning.

His legs gave out just as he turned onto a narrow loading dock behind an abandoned storehouse. His feet slipped against the moss-slick pavement, and with a soft gasp, he fell, elbows scraping across wet concrete, the briefcase tumbling from his grip with a metallic thud.

That was all the time they needed.

Tires screeched.

Boots hit the ground.

The air was suddenly thick with the presence of three cops, drenched and panting, their guns still holstered but their eyes wild with the thrill of capture.

“There he is!”

“On your knees!” one of them barked, weapon raised but finger twitching just above the trigger.

But Bryce didn’t move.

Slowly, he lifted his head. Wet strands of pale hair clung to his cheeks. His hoodie, now soaked, clung to his small frame like second skin. He looked no older than sixteen, but his eyes… Those eyes didn’t belong to a boy. He was fucking twenty one!

They were too calm, and too steady.

“Don’t come close,” he said softly, gasping.

His voice was almost fragile, so light it barely rose above the rain.

But something about it made one of the younger officers blink.

The older one scoffed. “The kid thinks he’s in a movie.”

Bryce slowly stood, tiny against the looming figures surrounding him. He looked like he should be trembling. But he wasn’t.

“I mean it,” he said again, softer this time. “If you want to live… don’t…don't touch me.”

A beat passed.

Then the one holding the cuffs stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered, taller than the rest, with a hardened look like he’d been through worse. His boots sloshed across puddles as he muttered under his breath, “He’s high. Or crazy.”

The moment his hand reached out to grab Bryce’s wrist..

BOOM.

A blast of invisible force erupted from the boy like a silent pulse of wind. The officer was thrown back, his body sailing several feet through the air before crashing into a tall stack of wooden crates.

There was a crash, and then cracking of bones.

The crates split like glass, splinters flying in every direction. A puff of dust and rain mist filled the space. The officer slumped in the wreckage, unconscious, blood trailing from his temple.

The other two froze.

“What the—”

“He didn’t touch him..did you see that?!”

But Bryce was already bending to pick up the briefcase. His small fingers gripped the handle gently, almost thoughtfully.

“I warned you,” he murmured, then fled immediately.

***

The hall was silent. The atmosphere, thick and tense.

Dom sat at the center of it all, his throne a towering sculpture of obsidian and gold, carved with symbols no one dared question. He leaned back lazily, legs parted, one hand on the gilded armrest, the other loosely gripping a dagger that gleamed under the low light.

His eyes, icy blue, deadly, and unreadable, swept the room like a blade, stopping briefly on every bowed head.

On his right sat Marcia, his girlfriend, draped across the throne’s side like a spoiled cat. Her bra, black and transparent, did little to cover the swell of her breasts. One leg crossed over the other, she looked half-dressed and wholly entertained. Her red-painted nails trailed lazily down the length of Dom’s thigh, stopping just where power throbbed beneath the surface of his leather pants.

All around them, young men and women dressed in black knelt or sat on the cold stone floor, their bodies stiff with fear, heads bowed low. A few dared to peek, but quickly lowered their gaze when Dom shifted.

A heavy door groaned open.

Two guards entered, dragging a young man between them. Blood stained his clothes, dripping from the corner of his mouth. He could barely stand, his feet dragging behind as if they no longer remembered how to move.

Dom watched in silence.

The guards dropped the man like discarded meat, and he crumpled at the base of the throne, groaning softly. His breath rattled. One eye was swollen shut. His ribs barely moved beneath his torn shirt.

Still, Dom said nothing.

Instead, his gaze shifted to the dagger in his hand.

It rose slowly, not by his touch, but by command. The weapon hovered midair, humming faintly, its edge gleaming silver.

Gasps echoed, and someone whispered a prayer.

Dom's eyes narrowed.

The dagger flew, swift as vengeance, slicing through the space between them before sinking deep into the man’s neck. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make him scream, though he didn’t. He gurgled instead, trembling like a leaf in storm winds, but still alive.

Marcia licked her lips, watching him bleed.

Dom finally spoke, his voice low, regal, and cruelly calm.

“Start off with his toes, let his pains teach him obedience,”

The words slid through the air like silk-coated steel.

The guards didn’t hesitate. One unsheathed a sword, the other held the man down by his back. His limbs kicked weakly, then stilled when the blade pressed to his foot.

No one looked away.

No one dare begged.

Not even the man losing parts of himself. He was aware begging was useless as Dom would rather kill a million lives than go back in his words.

The blade met the man's bone, then blood gushed out to the cold floor. The hall remained as silent as a cemetery.

When it was done, Dom leaned back, uncaring of the red droplets of blood now staining the hem of his black coat.

His voice came again, this time directed at the trembling souls surrounding him.

“Let this be a reminder.”

He paused, letting his gaze sear into them one by one.

“In my court, betrayal is not punished with death. That would be too merciful.”

Marcia chuckled, brushing a finger under Dom’s chin before sipping from a glass of blood-red wine.

The hall remained still. Breaths were quiet. Hearts beating faster.

The young man at Dom’s feet twitched once. Then twice, and stilled completely, unconscious or dead, it didn’t matter.

Dom snapped his fingers.

Two more guards stepped forward, dragging the limp body away.

This wasn't crime, it was tradition.

***

A man sat in his chambers. A dimly lit penthouse far from the reach of the normal world. Fingers tapping against a high-end tablet.

“Finally,” he muttered. He then unlocked a secured channel, revealing a live footage.

There, crouched Bryce trying so hard to unlock the briefcase. His delicate fingers trembled as they kept on trying different codes, but the briefcase wouldn't still open.

“Curious little thing. Huh?” He turned to a guard. “He even killed one of my best dispatcher, that explains he's one of our kind…get him, Dead or Alive,”