CHAPTER 2

The gravel bit into John Mark’s palms, grinding against the meat of his hands. Without the "beast" to thicken his skin, he bled like a normal man—fast and messy. He stared at the red smears on the grey stones.

Besides the kids at the orphanage, one reason fueled his drive toward the ledge.

His brothers. His family.

He remembered the day they hauled him out of the gutter in the Rogue districts. How Marcus Jr. had wiped the grime from his face. How they’d given him a name that didn't taste like trash and called him one of their own.

If he didn't go into the Abyss, the Tithe would demand another Hale. That was the price of the crown. He couldn't let it be them.

“You’re our treasure, John,” Ethan had said once, years ago. “We’ll always have your back,” Marcus Jr. had promised.

They’d held his hand until they realized he was a "blank." Until the animal they expected to see in his eyes never woke up.

Now, Marcus Jr. stood over him, his lip curled in a sneer that looked like a scar. "You make me f**king sick. Why did we waste a name on you? You’re selfish. You’re small."

"I didn't push him." John’s voice was a dry rasp. "He grabbed my crate. I tripped. That’s it."

He looked up at the two massive silhouettes. He searched for the boys who used to protect him. He found only ice. The sting in his palms was a joke compared to the raw, tearing ache behind his ribs.

"Still lying?" Marcus Jr. stepped forward. His shadow swallowed John whole. "We saw him fall. We heard the scream. You think we’re f**king blind, John?"

Beside him, Carl Cole let out a wet, soft sob. He tucked his face into Ethan’s tailored blazer. "It’s okay, Marcus. He’s just bitter. I get it. It’s hard... being what he is."

What he is. Carl made "blank" sound like a rotting infection. John shut his mouth. There was no point in arguing with jurors who had already built the gallows.

He opened his mouth to tell them. To tell them he was the sacrifice. To tell them he was dying so they could keep their throne.

A heavy thud of boots on the porch killed the words. The air changed—sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and the sharp, ozone tang of the Hale power. The Don. And then, a scent that made John’s lungs seize. Cold steel and winter air.

Caleb Card.

The lead enforcer knelt, his hand brushing John’s elbow. The touch was a lightning strike—warm, familiar, and devastating. For a heartbeat, Caleb looked at him with that old, hungry intensity. John’s heart gave a pathetic, hopeful kick.

"Are you hurt?" Caleb whispered.

But the Don didn't even glance at the dirt-stained man on the ground. Marcus Hale and his husband, Brooks Step, stood there like they’d just inherited the city. They were vibrating with a manic, sharp energy.

"Listen up!" Marcus boomed, his voice echoing off the limestone walls. "We have an announcement about Carl and the future of this Syndicate!"

Brooks’s eyes finally slid down to John. The warmth in the man’s face turned to stone. He didn't ask about the blood on John’s hands. He didn't ask why he was shaking.

"John, stand up. For God's sake," Brooks sighed, the sound of a man exhausted by a chore. "Do you have to be a disaster every time we have something to celebrate? You’re twenty. Stop acting like a child."

Caleb pulled his hand away. The heat vanished.

"We are proud to announce," the Don shouted, "the joining of the Hale and Card lineages. Caleb and Carl are getting engaged at the gala!"

The world didn't stop. A bird chirped in the hedge. A car idled in the distance. But John felt the air leave the planet. He stared at the man who had promised him a life. Caleb didn't look ashamed. He didn't even look uncomfortable. He just stepped away from John and walked to Carl.

Carl met him halfway, a smug, razor-thin smile on his lips. He kissed Caleb’s cheek. Caleb let his hand settle on the small of Carl’s back. It was the exact same spot he used to hold John when they walked through the city.

The brothers cheered. They pounded Caleb on the back, laughing, joking about "pure blood" finally returning to the line. They’d been planning John’s replacement while he was still dreaming of a wedding.

"Carl, babe," Caleb said, his voice smooth as silk. "Something for the future of the family."

He pulled out a velvet box. Inside sat a platinum band set with a black diamond. It was the exact ring John had pointed out in a shop window three years ago. The one thing he’d asked for.

Carl squealed, throwing his arms around Caleb. "Oh my god! It’s perfect!"

John watched them talk about how many heirs they’d produce. He was a ghost in his own yard. He waited for the noise to dip, then he lunged, grabbing Caleb’s arm and jerking him away from the circle.

"Explain this," John snapped. "Explain how you’re standing there with him when we haven't even broken the contract."

Caleb sighed. He looked at John with a pity so thick it felt like an insult. "John, seriously. Start by apologizing to Carl for the stunt you pulled today. You’re making this harder than it needs to be."

"Apologize to him?" John laughed, a jagged, broken sound. "Caleb, we were supposed to be the future."

"I’m sorry. Truly." Caleb’s voice was low, almost believable. "But my people expect me to lead. I need an alliance. Once Carl came back and it was clear you were... well..." He waved a hand at John’s body. At the lack of power. "I can't lead with a blank on my arm, John."

"You’re a coward, Caleb," John spat. "And your taste is as cheap as your word. You think he’s a prize?"

Caleb’s jaw tightened. "You’re just jealous. Carl is pure. He’s everything you used to be before you turned into this bitter shadow. I thought the guys were lying about how toxic you’d become. I see they weren't."

Caleb leaned in, lowering his voice. "I still care about you. Tell you what. At the Mid-Year meet in six months, I’ll get you a gift. We can still be... close. Like before. In secret."

Caleb turned his back. He walked back to the "pure" boy who was currently smirking at John over Caleb's shoulder.

Six months. Caleb was making promises for a man who would be a corpse in fifteen days.

Suddenly, a sharp, burning pressure spiked in John’s skull. A mental intrusion.

’I won, John,’ Carl’s voice hissed through the psychic link—a power John couldn't even use to fight back. ’I took the Don. I took the brothers. And I took your man. You’re a ghost, John. Why don't you just go find a hole to rot in?’

John couldn't reply. He had no "voice" in the link. He could only soak in the poison. He squeezed his fists until his nails cut fresh crescents into his palms. He looked at Ethan and Marcus Jr. one last time. They were safe. They’d never know it was the "blank" who bought their lives.

The sound of running boots shattered the moment. A servant came skidding around the corner, his face the color of chalk.

"Don! Brooks!" the man wheezed, pointing toward the city gates. "The registration office... Officer Miller sent me! Someone finally did it!"

The Don frowned, his hand resting on Carl’s shoulder. "What are you talking about?"

"The sacrifice!" the servant cried, his voice cracking with a mix of terror and relief. "Someone officially signed their life away to the Abyss! The ritual is on! We’re saved!"

John stood in the dirt, the secret burning like acid in his throat, watching his family celebrate his death without even knowing his name was on the paper.