By the time Adrian showed up for his first job, the city had changed colors.
Daylight turned to tarnished gold, then bled into ash-blue. Streetlights flickered like dying stars, illuminating alleys where the real power moved unseen. The world of classrooms and campuses was behind him now. In its place stood rusted doors, broken deals, and the sound of footsteps that never echoed alone.
Adrian wasn't walking into danger anymore.
He was inviting it in.
---
The address Marco had given him wasn't marked. Just a steel door behind a strip club in East Hollows, where the pavement cracked like old skin and syringes decorated the curbs. He knocked twice, hesitated, then knocked once more.
The peephole slid open. Eyes. Then a buzz.
The door creaked.
Inside was dim and narrow—a corridor smelling of bleach and blood. No music. No welcome. Just the sound of an electric fan rotating, slow and steady like a ticking clock.
At the end of the hall, a man sat behind a desk, eating cold noodles straight from the box.
"Fresh meat?" the man grunted without looking up.
Adrian nodded.
The man's eyes finally met his. "You don't look like much."
"I don't need to."
The man snorted. "Cocky. We'll see how long that lasts."
He tossed Adrian a black envelope.
"Your contact is Vincent Moretti's guy. Enforcer tier. Mid-rank. Name's Rocco Bell. You'll meet him at Dock 12. If he doesn't like your face, you won't be coming back."
Adrian swallowed. "Got it."
The man grinned. "Welcome to Belladonna."
---
Dock 12 was silent, save for the lap of cold water and the groan of old boats.
Rocco was waiting. A brick wall of a man, scarred from temple to jaw. He wore a leather jacket despite the humidity, and he lit his cigarette like he was setting the world on fire. The moment he spotted Adrian, he scoffed.
"You're the one they sent?"
"I am."
"You look like you lost a bet, kid."
"I'm here to earn."
Rocco studied him. "That so?"
He exhaled smoke, then without warning, punched Adrian hard in the stomach.
Adrian collapsed to one knee, choking.
Rocco crouched beside him.
"This world don't care about your reasons. Or your dead brother. Or what you think you're here for."
Adrian's eyes widened. "How do you—?"
Rocco grinned. "Nothing stays secret here long, rookie. Not even pain."
He stood and offered a hand.
Adrian didn't take it. He stood on his own.
Rocco nodded with approval. "Alright. You've got balls. Let's see if you have teeth."
---
They drove in silence.
Past dead factories and forgotten streets. Past graffiti murals of saints and sinners. Until they stopped outside a two-story warehouse with no windows and no neighbors.
Inside were crates. Dozens. Some stacked six feet high. Others sealed with digital locks.
"What is this place?" Adrian asked.
Rocco smirked. "Warehouse 31. You'll come to know it well. It's one of Belladonna's supply lines."
"For what?"
"Don't ask stupid questions," Rocco said, unlocking a case. Inside: pistols. Ammo. Unregistered.
Rocco continued. "Today's lesson: how to move things you don't talk about. With people who don't like being watched."
He handed Adrian a crate. "Deliver this to a guy named Marquez in Old Town. Don't look inside. Don't ask why. Just keep your head down and your knife closer."
Adrian nodded.
But he couldn't help notice the stain at the bottom of the crate.
Dark. Dried.
Blood.
---
The delivery went sideways fast.
Old Town was crawling with junkies and jumpy locals. The apartment Adrian was told to go to—Unit 3C—had its door half-open. Inside: silence.
He knocked.
No answer.
He stepped inside anyway.
A man lay slumped on the couch, a needle still in his arm, breathing shallow. Another figure appeared behind Adrian, blade in hand, reeking of chemicals.
Adrian moved without thinking.
A twist. A slam. A gurgle of pain.
The man dropped.
Adrian stood there, heart hammering, hands trembling, a bloody switchblade in his grip.
It had taken less than a week.
And he had already killed someone.
---
Marquez was dead.
The crate undelivered.
Adrian returned to Rocco, expecting to be punished. Or worse.
Instead, Rocco just raised an eyebrow.
"You get jumped?"
Adrian nodded.
"You kill?"
Adrian nodded again.
Rocco lit another cigarette. "Then welcome to the first day of your real life."
---
That night, Adrian sat in his bathtub, clothes still on, water running ice cold.
His hands were stained red.
No matter how much he scrubbed, the blood felt like it had soaked into his bones.
But his eyes held something new.
Conviction.
He whispered to himself.
"This isn't about survival anymore."
"This is war."