Those that say there is no fate worse than death, has never stared him in the eye long enough. I wonder what those very people might say. If I told them I have managed to slip right through his bony fingers one too many times, If I told them the tales of my torturous life, at his grasp each and every time and each and every time I survive.

Angered by my slippery soul he chooses a host. A man with the aura of death, sculpting his body with dark designs painted down his arms, a deep gash running down his face discoloring his eyes.

Freed from my first sorrowful life but forced into another, I could not escape, nor did I have the bravery in me to try without risking the lives of those I care deeply for around me.

Manipulated, starved and beaten by the very people a child is supposed to have trusted and carved into a man, sole purpose now is to kill, kill and protect a precious heir. My life is tied, every day I need to dodge a bullet, daily I debate with myself if I can free my soul now and stop fighting, why do I even bother to try when tomorrow is never promised?

I'd stare at the barrel of the gun and decide which part of me could the bullet kill quicker and painless, but I'd always remember than the river of blood I would be drenched in every day after a session, those very kids that didn't get a chance to make it out the way I have, or Charlotte and Ray. The looks of pure terror in their eyes, and the pools of tears. The friends I have made along the way before I buried their bodies and bid them a farewell, their ghosts are still beside me now rooting for me to the finish line. 

Ending it now, their sacrifices would have been for nothing.

My jaw ticks in annoyance at the woman beside me, her deep blue orbs staring intently at the side of my face, been like this for a while now.

I stay stoic, teeth grinding together in annoyance, "Is there something you find amusing Charlotte?"

Cool wind waves through our bodies, her strands blow into view. Like the prodigy manipulator she is, she hums in response seeking my attention. Through an opening of my sunglasses, I gaze slightly to her ghost of a smirk, "No sir, I just didn't get a chance to catch you last night."

I glide my eyes elsewhere, staring at the building across from where we stood. "Oh?"

"Yes, sir. I stopped by very late last night and found your bedroom void."

"And what is it you needed with me at such a late hour of the night?" the corner of my lip tugging into a half smirk.

Her voice trailing distant from the whistles of wind, "Just needed to check on you."

"How treasuring of you, as you can see, I am well."

"But I wanted to confirm that last night."

"As you stated the bedroom was void, I stand before you now. Everyone wins." Prodigy manipulator indeed, but it was I the master that taught her those tricks. Give little and say less, let your enemies do the hard work.

"Indeed sir, but it astounds me how you stepped out during the rain."

"Sleep has pretty much been elusive, I am a man and needed to release some tension."

"Hmm, that poor maid only now recovered from your recent time together. Don't go putting her back in bed rest."

I smile to the statement; it could be best and allow her to believe I was with the South African beauty last night; however, I think she still fears me after that drunken session the other night.

"I assure you; I have not touched Nala. Do you women believe that the only way a man can release any tension is stretching women in two?"

"It was how you've always done it?"

"I haven't touched any women Charlotte; I only ran out for a run. There is a lot plaguing my mind."

"Out in the rain sir?" her head leans to me.

"It is better to soak in heavens tears."

"What is it than that has you so worked up sir?"

The main car behind us bouncing while we wait for the helicopter to land on top of the building, with my sunglasses I glance up to the warm early afternoon sun, the silent emotion spiraling in me weighs heavy and I break my stance digging for my cigarettes, leaving Charlottes question to vaporize in the wind.

'Why?' Of all questions, she asks me why.

A past I will soon be forced to face, revisiting traumas and old wounds that have barely begun to heal, has she forgotten where we are going is the same place where we lost our families? I dare not speak the reason, knowing the sensitivity of it can open up old wounds. A few guards glance at me in question as I step by.

"Uh sir, are we free to move?"

"You can stay right where you are."

"Yes sir."

The bud of the stick between my lips, cupping it together with both my free hand and the hand that holds the lighter, my lungs expand to the smoke as I inhaled, cinders of the ashes poke at the organs. One of my escape coping mechanisms. Sex and smoking, I was no better than my old man emulating his old Implements.

Coached since the beginning of this wretched life to never wear my heart on my sleeve, conceal and don't feel. Forget the past and focus on the seconds that do count. But where was the option of allowing me to heal?

Even until now, I don't question the death of my father, frankly It was the quickest I have ever gotten over someone apart of my past. The man deserved every strike and more, yet it still troubles me. I feel the presence of his ghost following me, a part of that is because I never had the chance to confront him, I never looked at him as his son and asked him why he treated me worse than scum when I was his own child? what was it about me that he detested?

Never to see him again, never will he see the man I have become and never will I get the chance to dare him to strike at me now. My elbows at the railing peering down to the ant like people walking on the ground, choosing to distract myself from the heavy thoughts as I wonder glancing down at their moving figures.

What are their stories?

"Whoof." The nuisance howls, voice spearing through the wind.

My annoyances surges, the bitter taste of the cigarette couldn't do it anymore and nothing nearby was stronger. Leisurely I twist my head back to my old post, the so-called heir stepping out of the vehicle pulling up his zipper, strands of his hair sticking to his cheeks with his shirt poorly buttoned, behind him was a young woman.

"Take care sweetie." he dismisses with a chuckle as she reaches over to him deliriously for a kiss.

Few of the guards look over to me and I nod, she throws chains of cusses at him as she's being taken away.

"Nasir" he calls, the sound of my name in his mouth is unpleasant to me.

My fists tighten as I rise, fingers itching for the gun but instead I dig them in my pocket. Clicks of my shoes are heavy until I finally stand before him with a smirk. "How can I help you sir."

A large palm lands on my shoulder, pungent smell of sex and sweat looming all over him as he stands close. "Father is finally coming." He beams. "It's really here, we reunite as a family, and I fuck a Queen tomorrow hmm?" he taunts. Palm slithering behind my back, I say nothing about his poorly worn clothing.

"Don't you think?"

"Well, this is a big moment for you sir."

"No, stop doing that, this is our moment. Well not tomorrow, but hey, at least you get to reunite with your old crush hmm?"

"You throw that word out very much lately sir, I assure you there has never been any-."

"Don't give me that Nasir, anyone could see just how much your eyes twinkled to the sight of her face. Take this as an opportunity," leaning in, our temples touching ... "At least now you can actually watch this one slip through your fingers." he whispers.

The amusement of his only growing at the twist of my head to him.

"Nasir, sir the helicopter!"

The sound of Charlottes voice breaks my gaze, I'll come back to that comment in the future but for now I smell death, emerging North from the greying clouds, the plane.

"Line up!" I roar.

My blood pacing through my nerves, heat courses through me as my chest rams, the plane closing in, heavy smell of ashes and gun powder enveloping the ground. In a line we all stand, three on each side.

My life in a mob, killed or be killed. Stabbed by knives, fast bullets puncturing through my body, men of dark backgrounds with cravings to inflict death and pain upon the innocent and traitors. Yet no man has ever brought me grave fear as this one. Leader of the undergrown and ruler of mobs.

Most know him as the devil, but I know him as King Adelheid.

The hairs on my back risen, ice cold waves washing through my chest, born in Hamburg, Germany and the man who made me who I am today. Even with my skills and smarts I still know when there is a fight I will not win. Once you are in his leagues there is never any percent chance you can escape, consequences too gory and frightening that will keep you up at night just at the thoughts alone.

I wonder how Prince Gunter still sees him after those years, especially after witnessing the gruesome death of his mother.

The plane aligns on the tracks, ready for landing.

"Bow!"

Choppers of the helicopter roaring in the sky, with everything I have I plant my body firmly to the ground, us against the wind. He is here, my head lowered but slowly glance up to watch his dress shoes step down, polished leather come to view, tiger fur fall down to his ankles.

His presence is dominating, and he hasn't even said a word yet. A guard next to me waits for my signal to rise, but I couldn't speak. Roars of the chopper die down, silence restored, all but my ramming chest.

"Sir?"

I will look into his eyes again and all I will see is the eyes of the devil.

"Nasir?"

This existence of a gangster is due to his doing, he gave me a second chance but in turn taking my soul rendering me a hallow shell.

"Nas-"

"Rise!"

After many years I have come face to face with him again, aged but clean cut. Trimmed and groomed into a king, Navy suit and white thin stripes, sporting a gold Rolex on his left wrist. Neat cut sideburns and a thick red beard. Skin of the tiger fur knitted like a robe hooked around his neck hanging behind his back.

Eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. And I'm reminded I still had mine on, leisurely I raise a hand removing them from view squinting instantly to the rays of the sun. I see him better now or at least the apparition of death itself that was looming behind him.

As his head twists I catch another figure sitting in the plane, a few of the guards shivering nearby. He is studying, any minor fault with the stance or attire and a head would splatter onto the cement, I don't care much for these men but the hassle of replacing and training is detrimental, and we are on a timer.

"Father!" Gunter cheeses, within the time he had, he hadn't bother to adjust his clothing. Stepping before the king in disorderly fashion.

Fool.

But could the great king bring himself to kill his own son? not even a question, hadn't it been for important fares that require his presence, Gunter would have finally met his fate. Like a happy child he strides towards his father, hand extended only to be met with the end of a Woodend stick that was hidden in the fur.

A sound of a sharp blow whips his head to the side, none of us react, Gunter fallen to the ground in agony. Moaning and grunting, the more he moves the more the pain in his jaw soars.

"Look at you." The king speaks. "Pathetic" with the end of the stick he pokes at his son like a pig, pointing out fault. With a mighty kick to the rib Gunter is flipped to the side, "Is this how a Prince greets the King?"

Gunter sharply shoots out a thick load from his mouth, streams of blood running down his nose. A hand cupping his mouth as he shakes it vigorously to the question. The heave of his chest deepens as his father crouches down. "Be lucky I am in no foul mood as of today, present yourself to me like this again son, I'll dismantle you myself and use your skin as my carpet."

My bones twitch.

"Flee from my sight, the idea is too musing."

Though disoriented Gunter didn't let the words linger, with the help of a few guards signaled by the father he was on his feet, two holding him up at the elbows. All was left was me facing him, I am met with a bone chilling smile, sharpened canines in his jaw as he removes the sunglasses.

That scar, deep and ugly with those distinct colors of his eyes. One a shade lighter than the other. 

"Little frog." He muses. "My, you have grown."

I gulp gravely, "Sir. Welcome back."

As the king smiles at me, two figures move behind him, someone else was inside the chopper, a frame I could make out any wear. Out into the light they step; one at each side. Identical to one another even down to the clothing, with the time I have spent in their grasp it was now easy telling them apart.

Risen from hell all the way from Poland. Bartek on the left, a loyal guard dog to the king, not much he will say. But so many deadly things he'd prefer to do. My eyes trail to the right, Albin, the one who wielded the bat with nails.

I'm taken back to that day seventeen years ago, the little boy that had to witness a terrifying scene. The very three men have come back, standing before me just like the way they did before but this time they plan to drag her into the pits of hell along with all of us.