The man by the pillar swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as if every word he wanted to force out turned to stone in his mouth. His pride clashed with his fear. His fingers clenched against his thighs, nails biting into his skin.“I…” he croaked, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”The bartender stiffened, blinking rapidly. His lips parted, but no sound came out. It was almost too surreal.Dylan’s eyes narrowed. He raised his chin slightly, the movement deceptively lazy but steeped in authority. “Too soft. Say it again. With your chest. Let them all hear who you bow to when your mask cracks.”The man’s face burned red. A muscle in his jaw ticked furiously, but when Dylan tilted his head in that sharp, mocking way again, he caved.“I’M SORRY!” he shouted, the words tumbling out raw and ugly. His voice carried across the room, echoing off the walls. “I was wrong. I mocked without knowing. I–I shouldn’t have said it!”The bartender flinched, looking down at the counter, shame and discomf

he silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until the sharp click of heels broke it. Every head turned. A woman in a sleek black dress stepped out from the shadows near the bar, her presence commanding in a way that made even Dylan’s exit feel incomplete.Her crimson lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.“Well,” she said, voice smooth as silk yet barbed with venom, “that was… entertaining.”The bartender stiffened. “Madam…” he stammered, his throat suddenly dry.She ignored him, her gaze settling on the man still crumpled on the floor. She tilted her head, studying him like one might examine a broken tool.“You’ve embarrassed us tonight,” she murmured. “I warned you to keep your vices hidden. But now…” Her smile sharpened. “…now the wrong man knows.”Gasps rippled through the room. Wrong man?The broken man whimpered, his voice cracking. “P-please… I didn’t mean—”Her hand shot up, silencing him instantly. She didn’t raise her voice, but the weight of her authority was

Dylan’s boots clicked against the wet cobblestones, each step deliberate, echoing through the empty streets like a warning. The alley behind him swallowed the man’s muttered curses, but the words clung to him, heavier than the fog settling over the city.He didn’t move fast—there was no rush. Storms, he had learned, came whether you ran or stood still. And tonight, he needed to see the pieces before striking.The man caught up after a few steps, hesitant, like approaching a predator. “Dylan… if your brother is alive—”“Alive,” Dylan repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “Alive doesn’t mean he’s mine anymore.”“Then what do you want? Revenge? Closure?” The man’s voice wavered, but there was a thread of fear woven through it. “Because if it’s revenge… you’re walking into something you can’t control.”Dylan stopped at a streetlamp that flickered in protest against the darkness. He looked down at the puddle forming beneath it. The reflection of his face wavered, distorted by th

Dylan didn’t answer Ivy. Not with words, not with fists. He just turned, rain soaking his coat until it clung to his frame, and walked away. His boots splashed through the gutters like they were the only rhythm left in the world.The city square blurred behind him. He needed movement, something tangible, something that didn’t taste like betrayal. By the time the lamps thinned into neon strips and storefronts, he had decided: a car. A way out, a way forward.The dealership was a glass box of light in the storm, its bright windows cutting through the wet dark. Polished machines glimmered under fluorescent bulbs, their paintwork like candy shells. Dylan stepped inside, trailing a storm behind him. Rainwater pooled immediately beneath his boots, dotting the glossy white tiles with dark splashes.A young salesman, slim and polished, spotted him at once. His smile was professional, but his eyes couldn’t hide the quick sweep they gave Dylan’s figure: unshaven jaw shadowed in dark stubble, ha

The younger salesman’s grin twitched, faltering like a cheap neon sign. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first. Then—too fast, too bright—“Funny. That’s funny, right? You—uh—you’ve got jokes.”Dylan didn’t move. His gaze stayed on him, still as the car itself.The older salesman leaned forward in his chair, forcing a chuckle. “Listen, pal. We don’t… uh… hand out keys to just anyone walking in off the street. That car—” he jabbed his finger at the blood-red machine gleaming under the showroom lights—“isn’t for… browsing.”Rain hammered harder against the glass, the sound swelling like a drumroll.Dylan’s voice cut through it, calm, unbothered. “Not browsing.”He took a single step forward. Water dripped from his coat onto the tiles, each drop loud in the hush. “Buying.”The younger salesman tilted his head, trying to laugh again but it came out thin. “Buying? That one? Friend, that thing’s six figures—before taxes. You don’t just stroll in here, dripping wet, and call dibs.”D