The sun struggled through a gray winter sky as Aiden Cole jogged down the cracked sidewalks of East Hollow, his breath misting in the frozen air. Houses stood hunched and broken, paint peeling, windows taped up with cardboard. Most people here gave up dreaming a long time ago, but not Aiden.He clutched the worn strap of his backpack tighter as he neared the rickety building that housed him, his father, his mother, and his little sister Emily. Aiden's world. His reason to keep fighting.Inside, the smell of frying eggs and cheap coffee filled the air. His mother, Mary Cole, a woman with tired eyes but a bright smile, greeted him with a kiss on the forehead. His father, Thomas, set down the newspaper, the job ads section circled in red ink, and gave Aiden a nod that said everything words couldn’t. "Any news today?" his sister Emily chirped, her hair tied up in uneven pigtails.Aiden forced a smile. "Not yet, Em. But... maybe soon."In truth, hope had been gnawing at his insides for d

The tiny recorder felt like it weighed a hundred pounds in Aiden’s pocket. He could feel it pressing against his thigh as he sat in Mr. Calloway’s office, the Dean of Student Conduct. A severe man with wire-rim glasses and a pinched mouth, Calloway tapped a pen against his desk rhythmically, staring Aiden down like he was a roach on fine marble. “So you’re accusing Bryce Maddox of assault,” Calloway said at last, voice flat.Aiden didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”He pulled out the recorder, placed it carefully on the desk, and pressed play. The tiny machine crackled to life.“Hey, charity case, got you a little welcome gift. You don’t belong here, trash. Maybe you should go back to the slums before something bad happens.”The room went cold. Calloway listened, face unreadable. His fingers tightened around the pen until his knuckles whitened.When the recording ended, there was a long, heavy silence. Finally, Calloway leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "You understand the ser

The old Aiden would have hesitated. He would have reasoned, pleaded, hoped for justice.That Aiden was dead now, and what rose in his place was something colder. Sharper. Something that would not stop until the debt was paid, in full.The plan had to be flawless. Aiden spent the entire night drafting it out, lines crisscrossing a notebook page, notes written in furious, tiny script.Marcus watched silently from across the room, only nodding once when Aiden finally looked up. "We hit them where it hurts," Aiden said."And where’s that?"Aiden’s eyes gleamed. "Their pride."The Saint Augustine’s Winter Ball was two weeks away. A gala for the elite, senators’ sons, billionaire daughters, royalty in everything but name.It was the highlight of the semester, a showcase of wealth, privilege, and carefully curated power.Bryce would be there, smug and untouchable. So would his father, the Vice President of the country.Security would be tight. Perfect. If Aiden could humiliate Bryce publicly

The blood oath wasn’t optional. It was a contract, older than any written law. One that stitched loyalty into bone and betrayal into death. Salvador made that very clear the next morning."You think last night earned you a seat at my table?" Salvador scoffed, circling Aiden like a shark. "That was a favor. A courtesy."They were deep inside Salvador’s underground compound now, a network of tunnels, repurposed bunkers, and labyrinthine backrooms hidden beneath Winterfell’s crumbling dockyards.The scent of oil and iron hung heavy. "This, " Salvador held up a slim, wicked blade, ", is your real initiation."Aiden’s fists clenched. He’d come too far to flinch now. "I’m ready," he said.Salvador grinned, teeth flashing like a predator. "We’ll see."The ceremony took place in a narrow chamber lit only by flickering, oil-stained torches.The walls were etched with old symbols, signs of gangs long forgotten and bloodlines long broken.Ten men stood in a ring, faces masked by black hoods. In

The rich liked to pretend they were untouchable. Aiden Carter was about to remind them how wrong they were. The Gala of Kings. Winterfell’s grandest night. A masquerade held once a year inside the ancient, gleaming walls of the Seraphim Hotel, where golden chandeliers dripped light like molten diamonds, and power oozed from every silk-draped corner.Tickets were invitation-only. The Vice President, his son Bryce, and all their crooked allies would be there, masked, drunk, smug, and somewhere inside that glittering fortress?The ledgers. The real ones. Hard copies. Proof. It was Nina's intel, hard-won and soaked in risk. It was also a suicide mission. Perfect.Aiden stood in the alley behind the hotel, rain slicking his hair to his forehead, heart thundering. His "borrowed" tuxedo itched against his bruised ribs.A black-and-silver mask, stolen from a drunken partygoer, hid half his face. His invitation?A forged card tucked into his pocket, courtesy of a contact Nina had paid in blo