The King in the Dark.

The night began like any other in the southern stretch of San Tercero, that labyrinth of cracked pavements and flickering streetlights where dogs barked at nothing and the air always smelled faintly of rust and smoke. The Flinch family lived in a narrow row house that leaned against its neighbor as though too tired to stand alone. Inside, thirteen-year-old Harold sat by the window with a pencil stub and a piece of torn paper, trying to copy the shape of the moon. His older brother, Diego, fifteen and restless, tossed a tennis ball against the wall again and again until their mother told him to stop.

Outside, a car idled for too long.

“Someone’s out there,” Harold murmured, peering through the cracked blinds.

Diego rolled his eyes. “You and your ghosts again. Probably the night watch, that’s all.”

But Harold had a way of seeing danger before anyone else did. He noticed things-the slight glint of metal beneath a man’s jacket, the way silence sometimes pressed harder than sound. When the car door opened and a figure stepped into the orange wash of the streetlight, Harold’s stomach dropped.

“Diego…” His voice came out thin. “That’s not the watch.”

The front door splintered a second later. The crash shook dust from the ceiling.

Their father’s voice roared from the hallway, “Get upstairs, both of you!”

Men in black tactical gear stormed in, their vests marked POLICÍA, but their eyes were cold and wrong. Gunfire ripped through the narrow house. The walls shook. Harold froze halfway up the stairs until Diego grabbed his wrist and pulled him up.

“Come on!”

They stumbled into their small bedroom, hearts hammering. From below came the sound of their mother screaming, then a sharp crack-one, two shots-and then silence.

Diego’s face went white. “No. No, no……”

Harold clamped a hand over his brother’s mouth. Tears burned his eyes, but he didn’t cry. He couldn’t. Through the open window, he could see smoke rising from the kitchen. Someone downstairs kicked over the kerosene lamp. The flames crawled up the curtains, devouring everything they touched.

He pulled Diego toward the window. “We have to go.”

Diego shook his head, wild with disbelief. “We can’t leave them.”

“They’re gone,” Harold said, the words breaking in his throat. “We’ll die too.”

Outside, the alley was narrow and half-choked with trash. They climbed down the drainpipe, the metal hot from the spreading fire. Behind them, their home, the only thing left of their childhood-breathed its last in a burst of heat and glass.

They hit the ground running.

----------

The city was alive with sirens, but none of them came for help. Harold dragged Diego through the maze of backstreets, his lungs burning from smoke. He could still hear the crack of gunfire in his head, replaying like a cruel echo. Every few blocks, they ducked into shadow to avoid passing patrol cars.

“Who were they?” Diego rasped.

Harold didn’t answer. He didn’t know the names yet, but he had seen enough to remember their faces: the leader’s sharp jawline, the scar beneath his left eye, the way his men moved in perfect, practiced rhythm. This wasn’t police work. This was execution.

They reached the edge of the neighborhood, a place where the asphalt ended and the ground turned to gravel near the old freight yard. Trains hadn’t run here in years, and the rusted cars stood like gravestones in the dark.

“We’ll stay here until morning,” Harold said.

Diego dropped to the ground, panting. “You think they’ll come looking?”

“They don’t need to. They already think we’re dead.”

The air was thick with the sour smell of oil and burnt rubber. Harold tore a strip from his shirt and wiped the soot from his face. His hands trembled, though he tried to hide it.

“I saw them shoot her,” Diego said suddenly. His voice was hoarse, small. “I saw her fall.”

Harold said nothing. He only stared at the ground, where a trail of his own blood marked the cuts on his palms.

After a long silence, Diego whispered, “You think Dad—”

“Don’t,” Harold cut him off. “Don’t say it.”

The wind blew ash across the yard, tiny gray flecks that settled in Harold’s hair like dead snow. In that silence, a thought began to take root-something fierce and wordless, a promise buried deep.

He would remember every face. Every voice. Every shadow that had moved through their home that night.

----------

Hours passed. The city lights flickered out one by one as dawn crept over the horizon, a thin gray line that made everything look older and colder. Diego had finally fallen asleep against a rusted train car, his face streaked with soot. Harold sat awake, watching the light touch the smoke still rising from their neighborhood.

He could almost hear his father’s voice-soft, serious. “A man’s strength isn’t in his fists, Harold. It’s in what he remembers.”

Harold closed his eyes. “I remember,” he whispered.

From somewhere in the distance came the faint rumble of an engine. A black sedan rolled past the freight yard entrance. Harold ducked behind a crate, his pulse spiking. The car slowed, headlights sweeping across the gravel.

Two men stepped out, talking in low tones. He recognized the scarred one — the leader from the house. Hugo Martinez’s men, though he didn’t yet know the name.

“Boss wants it done clean,” one said. “No loose ends.”

“Kids?”

“Probably burned with the rest.”

They laughed and got back into the car.

Harold’s nails dug into the crate until splinters bit his skin. He wanted to scream, to run at them, to make them see what they’d done—but Diego stirred beside him, murmuring in his sleep. Harold forced himself still. Not yet.

When the car disappeared, he exhaled shakily. The first morning the sun broke through the clouds, setting the smoke from their home aglow in a dull orange haze.

Diego woke and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time to go,” Harold said.

“Go where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He took one last look at the horizon, where their old life was still burning, then turned away.

---

They followed the freight line toward the docks. The city changed as they moved-richer, cleaner, but colder. People stared at their soot-stained faces and kept walking. No one offered help.

By afternoon, Diego’s stomach growled loud enough for Harold to hear. They found a broken vending machine behind a bus stop and kicked until a packet of stale chips fell out. They split it in silence.

“We’ll find work,” Diego said finally, trying to sound certain. “I can lift crates or something. Maybe the fishermen will pay.”

Harold just nodded. His eyes never stopped scanning the street. He memorized corners, escape routes, and the times when patrol cars passed. His mind was already building a map—a way to live invisible.

That night, they found an unlocked storage shed by the waterfront. The air smelled of salt and diesel. They curled up on the floor, using old tarps as blankets.

Diego spoke into the dark. “You think they’ll ever pay?”

Harold stared at the ceiling. “Everyone pays.”

“Even the cops?”

“Especially the cops.”

Diego let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, half a sob. “You sound like Dad.”

Harold didn’t answer. His thoughts moved slower now, heavy with exhaustion. Somewhere far away, a ship’s horn wailed, long and low, echoing through the harbor.

He imagined the men’s faces again, the one with the scar, the cold eyes behind the mask. He imagined their laughter. And then he saw the fire, bright and merciless, swallowing everything he’d ever loved.

When he finally drifted into sleep, the vow formed like iron in his chest.

He would grow stronger. Smarter. Harder than any of them.

He would learn their names, their trades, their weaknesses.

And one day, when they least expected it, he would return.