KING OF THE NORTH

Chapter Two: Blood on the Floor

The house in the quiet suburbs of Newton looked normal from the outside.

But inside, it was a slaughterhouse.

Aunt Miriam lay crumpled on the hardwood floor of her living room, her body twisted at unnatural angles that made her look less like a living thing and more like a broken doll. Blood pooled beneath her legs – both of them shattered at the knees. The bones had been smashed so completely that jagged white fragments jutted through torn skin and fabric like broken teeth.

Her kneecaps had been pulverized into powder with a metal club.

The pain was indescribable.

Every breath she took sent fresh waves of agony through her nervous system. 

Her face was deathly pale, slick with sweat and tears. Every breath she took came out ragged and weak, like her lungs were struggling to keep working.

Around her stood five thugs.

One of them, a fat man with a scarred lip and greasy hair tied back in a ponytail, crouched down beside Miriam. 

He was holding the club that had destroyed her legs – the end of it still wet and dark with her blood. Fragments of bone and tissue clung to it.

"You know what's funny?" he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You could've lived in luxury. Could've had everything you ever wanted."

Another thug leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "But no. She had to go and cut ties with him. Chose to run off and hide these bastard kids like she was some kind of hero."

The fat man stood up slowly, tapping the blood-soaked club against his palm. Each tap left a small red mark on his skin."And look where that got you. Broken. Bleeding out on your own floor. Was it worth it?"

Miriam's eyes burned with pure hatred. Her lips trembled as she forced the words out. "Go... to hell."

The fat man threw his head back in laughter, "Still got some fire in you, huh? I like that. Makes this more fun."

The others laughed.

"Doesn't matter how much fight you've got left," the man with the cigarette said, exhaling smoke through his nose. "The girl's already gone. We sent her off to the auction over an hour ago. She's probably being pawed at by some rich pervert right now, crying for her big brother."

Miriam's face twisted in anguish. A broken sob escaped her throat. "You... you monsters..."

"Monsters?" The fat man laughed hard, slapping his knee. "Lady, we're just doing a job. Francine Hale pays damn good money, and we deliver results. It's just business. Nothing personal."

He crouched down again, bringing his scarred face close to hers. His breath smelled like stale beer and cigarettes. "But here's the thing. We've got very specific orders when it comes to you. First, we're supposed to break all your limbs." He gestured casually to the others. "Then, well... the boys here might want to have a little fun with you before we finish the job. See how long you can last."

One of the men pulled out a pair of rusted pliers from his jacket, snapping them open and closed with a menacing click. "After the arms, we're supposed to pull out your teeth. One by one. Make you chew on them.”

Another drew a hunting knife, the blade catching the dim light.

"Then we're gonna carve our names into your skin," he said, grinning. "Real slow. Make it last for hours. See how long you can stay conscious.” 

The fat man held up a hand. "But – and here's the generous part – if you tell us where that nephew of yours is hiding, we might be willing to skip all that. Give you a quick death instead. Bullet to the head. You won't feel a thing."

He leaned in closer. "So what do you say, Miriam? Where's Navine Garrett?"

Miriam's face hardened. She summoned every ounce of strength left in her broken body and spat blood directly into his face.

The fat man froze.

Slowly, he wiped the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. His grin disappeared completely. His eyes went cold.

"Wrong answer," he said quietly.

He raised the club high above his head, both hands gripping it tight.

"Time to break those arms."

He swung down with all his strength, aiming for her elbow –

"Stop!"

The voice came from the doorway. Everyone froze.

The kidnappers spun toward the entrance, their hands instinctively reaching for guns, knives, whatever weapons they had tucked away.

Standing in the open doorway was a man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered.  He wore a dark tactical uniform, the kind soldiers wore in war zones, still streaked with dust and grime from the battlefield. His face was hard, all sharp angles and cold eyes.

Navine Garrett stepped inside.

"Step away from her," he said.

For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then the fat man started laughing.

"Well, well, well," he said as he lowered the club. "Never expected you to just walk right into our trap,"

One of the other kidnappers pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. "Oh man, the boss is gonna love this. Let me call him right now."

He pressed the phone to his ear.

"Yeah, it's me," he said into the phone. "You're not gonna believe this. Navine Garrett just showed up at the house. Yeah, the brother himself. Walked right through the front door like he owns the place." He paused, listening. "Got it. We'll hold him here until you arrive."

He hung up and grinned at the others. "Dorian Caldwell's on his way. We're getting a bonus for this."

The fat man cracked his knuckles. "Perfect. Let's soften him up before the boss gets here."

He gestured to the others with a jerk of his head. "Get him. Alive if you can. Beat him bloody either way."

Three of the kidnappers rushed forward at once with their weapons raised. 

From the floor, Aunt Miriam's eyes went wide with terror. "Navine... no! Run! Please, just run!"

Navine's voice was calm, steady. "Don't worry, Aunt Miriam."

Then he moved.

The first kidnapper swung his club at Navine's head with all his strength. 

He just... moved. Like he knew exactly where the attack would be before it came.

His hand shot out and grabbed the man's wrist mid-swing with precision.

SNAP!

The sound of bone breaking was sharp.  The kidnapper's wrist bent backward at a ninety-degree angle, the bones jutting through the skin in a compound fracture.

The man's scream was high-pitched and inhuman.

Before he could even process the pain, Navine drove his knee into the man's ribs with such devastating force that everyone in the room heard the sickening crunch of multiple ribs shattering simultaneously.

The kidnapper's eyes bulged. Blood exploded from his mouth – not a trickle, but a spray that painted the wall behind him.

Navine wasn't done.

He brought his elbow down hard on the back of the man's skull at the precise spot where the spine meets the brain stem.

CRACK!

The kidnapper's body went instantly limp. He collapsed face-first onto the hardwood floor with a wet thud, blood pooling around his head. His eyes were still open, still conscious, but his body wouldn't respond. 

His spine was severed.

He was paralyzed.

The second attacker lunged with a knife aimed at Navine's gut. 

Navine caught the man's forearm mid-thrust.

His fingers clamped down like a vise, stopping the blade inches from his body.

The kidnapper's eyes widened in shock. He tried to push forward, tried to complete the stab, but it was like pushing against a steel wall. Navine's grip didn't budge.

"What the –"

Navine twisted.

CRRRACK!

The elbow bent backward with a sound like green wood splitting. The joint dislocated, then the bones fractured completely, the arm hanging at an impossible angle.

The knife clattered to the floor.

The kidnapper let out a shriek of pure agony that made everyone's skin crawl.

Navine silenced him with a devastating punch to the throat.

The cartilage in the man's larynx collapsed instantly. His scream cut off mid-breath, replaced by a horrible wet gurgling sound as he tried – and failed – to draw air through his crushed windpipe.

He collapsed to his knees, both hands clutching at his throat, his face turning purple, his eyes bulging in terror as he slowly suffocated.

It would take him three minutes to die.

Three minutes of drowning on dry land.

The third kidnapper hesitated for just a fraction of a second, his eyes wide with sudden fear.

That hesitation cost him everything.

Navine closed the distance in a heartbeat, moving so fast he was almost a blur.

He grabbed the man by the front of his shirt with both hands and lifted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.

Then he drove his fist into the man's face.

CRUNCH!

The nose exploded. Blood sprayed and bone fragments scattered.

Again.

CRACK!

The cheekbone shattered. The eye socket caved in.

Again.

CRUNCH!

Teeth exploded from the man's mouth like white shrapnel, scattering across the hardwood floor like dice. 

Blood poured from his ruined face in thick streams.

Navine hit him seven more times in rapid succession – each punch delivered with mechanical precision, each one breaking something new.

By the time he dropped the body, the kidnapper's face was unrecognizable. It looked like raw meat. His jaw was hanging at an impossible angle, completely detached from his skull.

He was still technically alive but he wouldn't be for long.

The entire fight took less than ten seconds.

The remaining two kidnappers – the fat man and the one with the neck tattoo – stood frozen, eyes wide, all their bravado draining away like water through a sieve.

The fat man's hands trembled. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Y-You... you don't know what you're doing. We already called Dorian Caldwell. He's the heir to the Caldwell Family. One of the oldest, most powerful families in all of Newton. And he works directly under Francine Hale herself."

Navine's head tilted slightly, like he was considering this new information.

"Dorian Caldwell," he repeated slowly.

The fat man thought Navine was scared. He said, "That's right. You should be shaking right now. The Caldwell Family has been running this city for three generations. Dorian controls half the underground operations here. When he gets here, you're finished. You're – "

Navine snapped back to attention.

His fist shot forward faster than the fat man could even process – faster than human reflexes should allow.

The sound of a skull shattering echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Navine's fist had connected with such force that the fat man's head snapped backward violently, his neck hyperextending past its breaking point. 

His eyes went blank instantly as his brain function ceased before his body even registered the pain.

The back of his skull exploded outward.

Brain matter splattered across the wall behind him; a grotesque painting of grey and red and white bone fragments.

His body lifted off the ground for a split second, suspended in mid-air by the sheer force of the blow, before crashing down onto the blood-slicked floor with a wet, heavy thud.

Dead before he hit the ground.

The last kidnapper – the one with the neck tattoo – stumbled backward until his back hit the wall. His face had gone ghost white. His legs were shaking so badly he could barely stand.

"Oh God... oh God... please..."

Navine turned toward him slowly, his expression cold and empty.

"I don't have time for games,” He said. 

He stepped over the bodies littering the floor and walked toward Aunt Miriam. He knelt beside her, his expression as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Aunt Miriam," he said quietly.

Her eyes fluttered open. Tears streamed down her bruised and bloodied face. She reached up weakly, her trembling hand touching his cheek.

"Navine... you came back..."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," he said.

She shook her head weakly. "Listen to me... Lyanna...They took her. They... they auctioned her off. Some underground slave market. I don't know where it is. I tried to stop them. I tried... but I couldn't..."

"It's not your fault," Navine said firmly, gripping her hand. "None of this is your fault."

Miriam's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

Her hand went limp. Her eyes rolled back. She lost consciousness.

Navine checked her pulse. Faint but still beating. He stood slowly then  turned to face the last kidnapper, who was still pressed against the wall, shaking uncontrollably.

"Where is my sister?" Navine asked, his voice deadly calm.

"I-I don't know! I swear to God, I don't know! They just told us to grab the girl and put her in the van! We didn't ask questions! We're just the muscle!"

"Where did they take her?"

"I don't know! Please! I'm just a grunt! They don't tell us anything! I'm nobody!"

Navine took a single step forward.

The kidnapper dropped to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Please! I'm telling the truth! I don't know where she is! Don't kill me! Please!"

Navine stared down at him, his eyes like frozen steel.

Then the front door exploded inward.

A man strode into the room. He was tall, looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing an expensive tailored suit that probably cost more than people earned in a month. 

He had the kind of face that screamed entitlement, the kind that had never been told "no" in his entire life.

Behind him were six more men, all of them armed with guns tucked into shoulder holsters and knives strapped to belts. They spread out immediately, surrounding the room with efficiency.

Dorian Caldwell had arrived.

"Now here's someone who does know.” Navine muttered.