The morning was hollow, soaked in frost and fog.
Adrian stood in front of a mirror with a pair of scissors in hand. His fingers shook slightly—not from fear, but from something deeper. Resolve.
A piece of him was still there in the reflection—the boy who once joked with Lucas about college plans and road trips. But now that boy had cracks in his face and shadows behind his eyes.
Without ceremony, he pulled the scissors through his hair. Black strands fell into the sink like shed skin. Each snip was a goodbye to the version of himself that still believed justice came wrapped in law books and police reports.
By the time he was done, his hair was shorter, messier, and sharper—just like his thoughts.
He didn't cry.
He'd already used up all his tears.
---
Adrian knew one thing now: the Belladonna Syndicate was at the center of it all.
Lucas had tried to leave them. Expose them.
And for that, they'd executed him like a warning shot to anyone else with a conscience.
The name Vincent Moretti—spoken in that video—was a whisper in the city's underground. Rumored to be second-in-command to someone more dangerous, more untouchable. And yet, not even the cops dared say his name on record.
But Adrian wasn't a cop.
He wasn't bound by rules anymore.
He was bound by something else.
Vengeance.
---
He started with what little he had: Lucas's old notebook, filled with cryptic entries, half-written thoughts, strange street names, and initials.
"BLK-MKT 43rd"
"TWR / V.M."
"DO NOT TRUST M – 2 FACES"
And tucked in the back, written in faint ink:
"You want to find the heart? Start with the ribs."
Adrian stared at that line for hours.
And then it clicked.
The "Ribs" was local slang for a run-down industrial zone on the city's east side, known for warehouses, chop shops, and illegal betting rings. It was a place where even rats carried knives, and the cops rarely followed.
If Lucas had hidden something there—or someone was expecting him—then Adrian had to go.
---
The sun had barely dipped when Adrian slipped out in a hoodie and dark jeans, a burner phone in one pocket and a switchblade in the other—Lucas's old one, now cleaned and sharpened.
He took the subway to the edge of the city, then walked.
The streets grew filthier. The air smelled like oil, iron, and desperation.
Every step he took past graffitied walls and flickering streetlamps pushed him further from the world he once knew. He no longer felt like a student. Or a son. Or even a brother.
He felt like a question waiting for an answer.
And that answer might kill him.
---
The warehouse was marked "43B." Rusted, half-collapsed, its loading dock lined with broken crates and beer bottles. But inside, a soft red glow pulsed behind cracked windows.
Adrian crept closer. His heart thundered in his chest—not from fear, but readiness.
Voices drifted from inside.
Low. Male. Laughing. One of them coughed—a deep, familiar rasp.
Adrian edged closer to a shattered window and peeked in.
Three men.
One tall and thick-built, probably in his forties. Tattoos down his arms, a metal bat in hand. The second, younger, lean, and twitchy. The third—a black-haired man in a trench coat—sat calmly, counting cash on a table surrounded by briefcases and unlabeled boxes.
The center of it all was Vincent Moretti.
The same voice from the video.
Adrian's breath caught.
This was too soon.
He hadn't expected to see Moretti himself.
Suddenly—CRACK.
Glass snapped beneath Adrian's boot.
Three heads turned toward the window.
"Hey! You hear that?" the twitchy one shouted.
Adrian backed away fast. A door slammed open.
"Don't move!" one of them yelled.
But Adrian was already sprinting down the alley, lungs burning, heart pounding. He leapt over a stack of crates and ducked behind a wall, flattening himself into shadow.
Footsteps thundered past, but they didn't see him.
When silence returned, Adrian exhaled, trembling.
Too close.
But it was also a sign.
He was on the right trail.
---
That night, he made the choice.
He would join them.
If the Belladonna Syndicate had killed Lucas, if they were hiding the truth, then Adrian would bury himself in the same darkness that consumed his brother—but not to be devoured.
To dismantle it from the inside.
He didn't know how long it would take.
Or how many lies he would have to tell.
But the path was set.
---
The next day, Adrian approached an old boxing gym near the docks. According to Lucas's notes, this was one of the Syndicate's recruiting spots for street-level enforcers and debt collectors.
He stepped inside. Sweat, metal, and the stench of blood clung to the air.
At the back of the gym stood a man with a scar along his throat—Marco—Lucas had mentioned him once. Trusted with vetting new recruits.
"You fight?" Marco asked without turning around.
Adrian nodded. "Enough."
Marco tossed him a pair of gloves. "Prove it."
Adrian stepped into the ring with a man twice his size. He didn't hesitate. Didn't think.
He just moved.
A left hook.
A feint.
A brutal jab to the ribs.
He moved like he was possessed—not by skill, but by raw, desperate rage.
When his opponent collapsed, Marco just smiled.
"Name?"
"Adrian," he said. Then added, "No last name."
Marco smirked. "Good. You won't need it."
He scribbled something on a clipboard.
"You start tomorrow."
---
That night, Adrian walked home with blood on his knuckles and purpose in his veins.
Lucas had died trying to escape the Syndicate.
Adrian would live by diving deeper into it.
Not because he wanted power.
Not because he craved violence.
But because the only way out now was through.
Through the lies.
Through the blood.
Through the shadows of midnight.