blood and war.

Chapter 1: The Boy Who Died

The city called to him like a loaded gun—dangerous, hot, impatient. Midnight rain slithered through gutters choked with trash. Neon flashed above ruined storefronts, painting cruel edges on stone and flesh. Jayce Carter, newly returned from the dead, watched the corner through the fogged glass of a stolen Lincoln idling beside a battered warehouse.

He had to move. He’d been gone too long to play it safe. He needed a message that would hit the streets like a live wire.

A battered sedan screeched to a halt across the block. Three men piled out, nerves twitching in their hands—pistols bulging awkward under cheap jackets. Jayce recognized two faces from mugshots Dad used to keep: small-time sharks feeding off the desperate. The third wore a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, glancing nervously into the shadows.

Jayce stepped out into the rain, the city’s muggy breath sticking to his skin. He slipped his gloved hand over the butt of his pistol—a cold reminder that survival here meant violence, and violence was always loud.

Across the street, laughter flared. The men ducked into a back alley, vanishing from street lamps into the city’s digestive tract. Jayce’s heart thumped. He followed, shoulders hunched, shoes silent on wet concrete.

Down the alley’s throat, the world shrank to a choke point. Dumpster fires licked brick. Rats scurried between mountains of refuse. The men flattened against the wall as an older figure emerged—a dealer Jayce recognized from the old days, a rat king of this block.

“Payment’s short,” the rat king hissed.

One of the thugs drew fast. Gunmetal glinted. The alley roared with a single shot.

The rat king folded, blood soaking his shirt, mouth working for a word that wouldn’t come. Jayce didn’t hesitate. He pressed forward, the city’s heat burning in his chest. Muscle memory took over.

He grabbed the closest thug by the collar, slammed him face-first into the alley wall with a meaty crack of cartilage breaking. The second spun—a wild shot barked and ricocheted. Jayce’s knuckles split as he smashed into his jaw. The third tried to run, but Jayce’s pistol found his back, pinning him in place with silent intent.

Sirens screamed nearby, closer. Jayce knelt, whispering in the terrified man’s ear, “Tell your boss—Jayce Carter is back.”

He vanished into the shadows before backup could arrive. Adrenaline crackled through his body—an old, familiar friend. The city would know by dawn. The boy who died was alive, and he wasn’t running anymore.

Flashback: Fire and Ash

His father’s voice haunted him: “Trust gets you killed faster than a bullet.” Jayce was fifteen again, hands slick with sweat, listening to shouts outside their apartment. The door caved in under boot-heels. Flames licked the wallpaper—gunpowder stung his eyes.

He saw Malik, just a boy, crying and calling his name. Then he saw Father—cornered, beaten—blood on his lips as the shot rang out.

Jayce tasted metal every night since. Betrayal came with a lover’s face. Even now, in the cold alley, his chest clenched remembering Malik’s arms, then his silence. The deal, the betrayal, and the bullet meant for Jayce that never found him.

Now: War Begins

Jayce moved fast through side streets, dodging the blue flash of police patrol. He ducked into an abandoned bodega, checked his phone. Three missed calls—unknown. A message appeared: an address, and a warning emoji.

His new crew hid inside—a few raw, desperate souls he’d pulled from the cracks. They were tense, questioning him in quiet tones—What now? Wasn’t this suicide?

Jayce’s smile was razor-thin. “We take back what was ours. Street by street.”

A whispered name reached him: Malik. Jayce’s pulse stuttered. Was it anger? Hope? He crushed both.

Gunfire erupted outside—the enemy’s reply came fast. Glass shattered as bullets zipped through the walls. Jayce rolled, barking orders, dragging his men low as the air filled with splinters and screams.

Two went down before he found a way out. Smoke bled into the shop. Jayce kicked open a side door, shoving the survivors out. One, wide-eyed, looked up at him. “Who are you, man?”

Jayce wiped blood from his brow, voice cold as iron: “The ghost.” He forced them onward, knowing rumors would multiply with the sunrise.

The Message

At 3 a.m., Jayce stood outside the old train yard on the city’s edge. This was the territory Malik had claimed for his new masters. He dialed a burner number—a voice answered, wary.

“I know it’s you, Malik.”

A beat of silence. A tremor.

“You should have stayed dead,” Malik whispered.

Jayce’s vengeance tasted like rot. “Come see for yourself who’s really dead.”

He left a bullet on the tracks, wrapped in a torn playing card. The ace of spades—Jayce’s father’s card, now his own.

Far in the darkness, police and gangs moved like sharks. Jayce slipped away, grin sharp. War was coming. And he was ready to watch the city bleed.

The city’s heart pounded all night, sirens and thunder locked in duet, as Jayce Carter—once mourned, never forgotten—wrote the first bloody sentence of his story in the only ink the city understood.