This week, I've made four deliveries, two threats, and one body disappear.

The deliveries were easy: packages with no labels, no questions. The threats were less clean. One guy cried. Another pissed himself. The third one I didn't have to say much to. He knew the rules.

The body was the hardest. Not because of the blood, or the weight, or the smell. That part I've gotten used to. It was hard because I knew him.

Not well, but enough to know he had a daughter. A girlfriend. A mother he sent money to every month. He crossed the wrong person. Took money he couldn't return. I didn't kill him, but I was the one told to make him disappear.

Five months ago, I was just some kid trying to stay out of trouble. Now I'm neck-deep in it, working off debts that aren't even mine.

Maybe your family lives if you do well, they told me.

So I do it. I run their errands. I rough people up. I play guard dog at underground poker games and make sure debts are collected. And I keep my mouth shut.

But every time I come home and look at my father—who still won't meet my eyes—and Dariel, who's trying to act like he doesn't know what I'm doing... I want my epilepsy to just kill me on the spot.

They made the mess. I'm the one cleaning it up. I don't know how much longer I can survive it.

It's after midnight when I finally crawl into the back corner of the abandoned gym we use as a hangout spot. My hoodie's soaked through from the rain, my knuckles are raw, and there's blood on my shirt that isn't mine. Might be. Doesn't matter.

Thomas spots me first. He's sitting on the floor with. Frypan's next to him, eating noodles straight from the container. Alby's leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. They all look up at the same time.

"Damn," Frypan mutters, "You look like hell."

"I feel great," I say flatly, dropping onto the nearest bench.

"You didn't answer your phone," Alby says. "We thought something happened."

"Something did," Thomas adds. "We haven't hung out in three months and you disappeared from school the past week. What are you doing?"

I exhale and run a hand through my damp hair. "Working."

"Dude," Thomas leans forward. "You're scaring us. You keep showing up looking like you got jumped by a truck. What's going on with you?"

"I told you," I mutter. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Alby says. "You think we're blind?"

I don't answer. I just stare down at the floor, jaw tight.

Thomas adds softly, "We're your friends. Let us help."

I clench my fists in my lap. "You can't. Look, I need to go, okay? I'll see you around."

"How are things with Luciana?" Newt asks in an attempt to lighten the mood.

One good thing about the mafia is that I no longer think about her. Not that much, at least. Besides, the time will come that I mess up and she'll never want me. Same goes for Dariel, though. The tension between them is unbreakable.

"They're fine," I murmur. "I'm going."

"Where to?"

"Home. I need a nap."

"You better show up at school tomorrow."

Slowly, I nod. "I will."

"You swear?"

"Yeah, dude." I groan at Alby. "I swear."

"See ya, then."

"Bye."

I almost thank them for not neglecting me even though I've neglected them, but I don't. Maybe later, when I've gathered the encouragement to do it.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The thing about the mafia is that they don't hesitate. They don't build things up like in books or add extra tension for bystanders. No, if you do something wrong, you can say bye.

I know the second I step through the front door of Dad's house. The air is wrong. My breath catches, spine locking up. The metallic scent of blood coils in my nose. Something drips. A slow, steady patter against the floor.

I close the door behind me. My fingers tremble against the handle. The whole house feels colder than usual.

I step forward. The floor creaks beneath my foot.

Blood smears it like someone tried to crawl away. Dark streaks drag toward the living room, leading around the corner. My pulse hammers against my skull.

I think already know what I'm going to find. I've been preparing for it for the previous three months.

I move forward, each step heavier than the last. The copper scent is overwhelming now, burning in my throat.

My father is slumped against the wall, his body motionless, his arms sprawled at unnatural angles. His suit is torn and soaked in blood, deep red staining the fabric. His mouth is still open, frozen mid-scream. His eyes are hollow, staring at nothing.

A knife juts out from his chest, buried to the hilt. Another is lodged into his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, trailing in thick rivers across the floor.

I can't move.

It's not shock. It's something worse. Something sharp and raw and hollow, a splintering emptiness tearing through my chest.

"Dad," it's barely a whisper.

I spin. My chest is tight, my vision tunneling as I bolt down the hall.

"Dariel?" My voice cracks. "Dariel!"

I burst into the dining room—

And everything stops.

He's on his knees, his head hanging forward, arms yanked behind him, bound with thick rope. His face is a mess—bruised, bloody, swollen beyond recognition. One eye is barely open. Blood seeps from a gash on his temple, running down his cheek and dripping from his jaw.

And behind him, Five men.

I recognize all of them. All of them.

Their suits are clean, crisp, untouched by the blood staining Dad's house. They watch me, their eyes cold. And in the center of them, standing just behind Dariel, is a man I know too well. Advik, the one who introduced me to the mafia.

Black gloves cover his hands. He meets my gaze with an amused expression. Like this is just another business meeting. Like he doesn't have my brother at his feet, barely breathing.

"Minho," Advik says smoothly, as if we're old friends. "Glad you could make it."

My heart is a fist in my chest, clenched tight and suffocating.

Dariel lifts his head weakly, his split lip trembling. His one open eye finds me. "Minho..."

I take a step forward—

"Ah." Advik raises a hand. One of the men shifts, pressing a gun against the back of Dariel's skull.

I freeze.

"Smart boy," Advik murmurs. He crouches beside Dariel, his gloved hand gripping a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. Dariel grits his teeth but barely makes a sound.

"You made a mistake, Minho. We gave you a task. And yet..." His gaze flicks toward my father's body in the other room. "Your father was still breathing yesterday."

"You never told me to—"

"Did I have to?" Kaito tilts his head. "You knew what would happen. You knew the rules."

Dariel shifts, his jaw clenching. Blood drips from his mouth onto the floor.

Advik sighs. "Minho, Minho, Minho. You could have prevented this. You could have done something. But instead..." His fingers trail along Dariel's jaw, mockingly gentle. "Here we are."

"Let him go," I say, my high-pitched voice betraying me. I've never felt such stress in my life. It's so much that I'm not even sure how to express it. "This isn't his fight."

"Of course it is. Your fight is his fight."

"Please," I force out. "I'll do anything. Just don't—" A gun cocks somewhere behind me.

I stop again.

"Your little brother made a mistake," Advik tells Dariel. "And now, you get to suffer for it."

Dariel barely reacts. He's shaking, his shoulders heaving, his face pale from blood loss. I know what he's thinking. Don't watch. Don't give them the satisfaction. But I can't look away.

Not when they start.

The first hit is fast. A sharp, brutal punch to Dariel's ribs. He grunts, his head jerking to the side. Another follows. Then another. And another.

They don't stop.

A man behind him slams a foot into his back, sending him sprawling forward. He tries to catch himself, but another kick collides with his ribs, forcing a choked sound from his throat.

I jerk forward again, but someone grabs my arms, twisting them behind me. I thrash, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "Stop—!"

Advik watches me with amusement. "Why? This is what you signed up for, isn't it?"

My body moves before I can control it, adrenaline surging. I throw myself toward Dariel, toward the men who are tearing him apart.

"Stop! Stop!" I scream. My voice is raw.

They only hit harder.

I scream again, the noise ripping from my throat, and I charge forward, trying to break through, trying to do something, but I'm caught right back.

A hand grips my wrist, yanking me away.

"No, no, please!"

Dariel's face twists in pain as another punch lands, cracking against his ribs. He gasps, choking on the blood pouring from his mouth. I can see it. I can hear it. His breath turning ragged. His strength fading.

A guttural noise leaves my throat. The pain is almost unbearable, like my body is trying to split open from the inside.

But I fight. I claw at the hands holding me back. I kick. I scream. I scream for Dariel.

Another blow. The sound of bone cracking. His body jerks forward. He can't fight back. He's too weak.

"Stop!" I scream again, my voice breaking. But no one listens.

I kick again, feeling the strike in my own chest. My muscles are burning, my throat raw. I can't even hear myself anymore.

Dariel's blood is everywhere. On the floor. On my hands. On my clothes.

A crowbar hits him, hard. His body slumps.

Tears blur my vision. "Stop," I choke out. "Take me! He didn't do anything—"

A sick laugh echoes through the room.

I snap my head toward Advik, but before I can move, another punch lands on Darie.

I watch his body crumple.

He's gone.

Too fast. Because the mafia doesn't hesitate.

Something inside me shatters. My legs give out. I collapse to the floor, my body too weak to hold itself up. My hands claw at the ground, scraping against the bloodied floorboards.

"No."

The word is barely a whisper, but it's all I can manage. I'm shaking uncontrollably. "No... no, no..."

The world goes still for a second, but it doesn't matter.

Dariel is gone. My brother is gone.

Blood is soaking through my jeans. My hands are covered in it. My hoodie sleeves. My arms. My face.

His head is turned slightly toward me, like he'd been trying to find me in the end. His face is barely recognizable. Bruised. Swollen. Split open in too many places. But I still know him.

That's the same guy who used to sneak candy into the movies for me when we were little. The one who always competed with me about stupid things. The one who I should've treated way better.

Gone. Because of me.

I crawl forward, fingers slipping in blood. My chest is heaving, my lungs locked up with pain I don't know how to carry.

"Dariel..." I reach for him, my hand shaking as it brushes his shoulder. Still warm.

A broken sob leaves me. My entire body trembles with it. I fold forward, pressing my forehead to his shoulder like I used to when I was a kid and had nightmares. I'd always run to him.

There's no safety now. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."

My hands curl into his shirt. I wish he'd yell at me. Hit me. Anything. I deserve that. I deserve all of it.

But he can't. And I'll never get to tell him all the things I should've said. I scream. It rips through me like it's the only thing I have left. My throat burns, my lungs burn, my soul burns. I scream again. And again. I hit the floor with my fists, over and over. Pain flashes through my knuckles, but it's not enough.

Then they grab me. They drag me across the floor, pinning me down, twisting my arms behind me. "Let me go! Let me go!" I wail.

A fist slams into my stomach. Then another. I can barely breathe between the blows. They're relentless. I try to shield myself, but I'm too weak. I can't stop them.

My face is shoved into the floor, the wood pressing into my skin. Blood drips from my nose, mixing with the blood already staining the room. The world is spinning.

They stop only when I can barely move. I'm half-blind, my vision blurrier than ever, the feeling more unpleasant than anything else.

Through the haze, I see Dariel's hand. His cold, lifeless hand, lying on the floor beside me.

I stretch out a trembling arm, my fingers brushing against his. I don't know if it's real, but I can feel it.

I hold his hand.

I hold it tight as I feel the cold of a gun pressed to my forehead.

"Good night, Minho."

The world goes dark.