The first blinding sweep of headlights cut across the pier like a blade, pinning Jackson in their glare. Engines roared behind the light, black SUVs eating up the dock until the wooden planks rattled under their weight. Victor had arrived.Jackson’s pulse slammed in his throat. The bodies of the masked men lay scattered around him, their blood slicking the boards. Elena clung to his arm, her wrists raw from the ropes he’d cut, her face pale but streaked with determination.He had seconds, only seconds, before Victor and Carlo saw everything. Jackson’s mind fired like a machine: Hide the truth. Twist the story. Turn this into advantage.He shoved Elena upright, whispering through clenched teeth, “Play along or we’re both dead.” Her eyes burned into his, fear and defiance, but she nodded.The SUVs screeched to a halt, doors bursting open. Victor stepped out first, cigar glowing like a red coal, his wolfish grin already plastered across his face. Carlo flanked him, eyes sharp, suspicious

The pistol’s weight was a curse in his hand. Elena’s chest rose and fell against the ropes, her eyes locked to his, screaming the words she couldn’t speak.The Ghost’s masked face hovered inches away, voice soft, venomous. “Kill her, Jackson. Prove you’re not prey.”The masked men tightened their grip on him, forcing the barrel closer. Cold steel pressed against Elena’s silk dress, right above her heart. Jackson’s mind split.His mother’s last words echoed, Do not spare anyone of them. But his father’s shadow crept into focus, muddying everything.One of them, the Ghost had said. His father hadn’t been a victim, he’d been a piece of the same machine. A surge of rage burned through Jackson’s chest. At his father. At the Ghost. At fate.He turned the gun slightly, just an inch. Enough for Elena to notice. Her eyes widened, flickering with both fear and something else… trust. Jackson pulled the trigger.The blast cracked the night apart. The masked man to his right staggered, a hole in h

The cheers from the courtyard thundered like war drums, a drunken choir roaring Victor’s name into the night.Bottles shattered, boots stomped, men sang the old songs of blood and fire. Outside, the Gotham underworld was preparing for war. Inside the shed, Jackson knelt in silence.Elena’s blood soaked his hands, hot and slick, her shallow breaths barely audible above the raucous noise beyond the door. Her pulse fluttered like a candle fighting against the wind. She was alive, for now.But every second dragged her closer to death. Jackson pressed a strip of cloth against her wound, his hands steady though his chest trembled. “Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice gravel in his throat.Her eyelids flickered, lips parting just enough to release a whisper. “Why… why didn’t you…?”“Because you’re not supposed to die here,” Jackson said. He tied the makeshift bandage tighter. “Not like this.”Her eyes rolled back, slipping into unconsciousness again. Jackson swore under his breath. If Vic

Boots thudded against the boards above the cellar. Dust rained down from the ceiling, filling Jackson’s nostrils with the stench of rot and gun oil.“Spread out,” Carlo barked. His voice was sharp, commanding, his tone dripping suspicion. “The wolf hides secrets. I want every shadow uncovered.”Jackson crouched beside Elena, his hand pressing her shoulder gently but firmly. Her eyelids fluttered, breath ragged.“They’re coming,” he whispered. “Stay quiet. No matter what.”Her blood-slick fingers brushed his wrist, faint as the breath of a dying flame. Her eyes spoke volumes she couldn’t say: don’t risk yourself for me. But it was too late. He already had.The cellar door creaked, torchlight bleeding into the darkness. Shadows stretched long, soldiers descending the narrow steps with rifles raised.Jackson moved quickly, rising to his full height in the cellar’s cramped space, body positioned squarely in front of Elena’s makeshift cot. His pistol hung loose at his side, casual, but his

The brittle pages trembled in Jackson’s hands as though they carried their own pulse. Candlelight guttered across the faded ink, throwing long shadows over Elena’s pale face where she lay on the altar.Every name scratched in his father’s neat, deliberate hand was a chain pulling him deeper into a past he had never asked for.Navarro. Victor. Rocco. Dozens of others, lieutenants and foot soldiers, all recorded like pawns in a game older than Jackson’s scars.But it was the last name that froze the blood in his veins. Carlo.Circled once. Then circled again. And beneath it, in his father’s scrawl, a single word: “Debt.”Jackson pressed his palm against the page, forcing air into his lungs. Debt? To whom? To his father? To Victor? Or to something else that had no face and no name?He flipped back, searching frantically through older pages. His father’s script flowed like water, every stroke steady, precise.Transactions. Locations. Meetings. Codes that only someone inside the empire’s m