Chapter 1
Dean stepped out of the shower, steam curling off his skin as he crossed the room, a towel slung low around his hips. Bruises shadowed his ribs in shades of violet and dull gold and a split across his lower lip had reopened slightly, a small bead of red catching in the corner. His knuckles were raw, scraped, one still faintly swollen but he moved like none of it mattered.
His phone buzzed on the mattress, screen lighting up. He didn’t rush just reached for it with the same steady calm he wore like armor.
He answered without checking. “Yeah?”
“You jerking off or something?” Stefan’s voice came through, rough with dry amusement. “I called you three times.”
Dean grabbed a pair of briefs from the floor. “Shower. What do you want?”
“Letting you know I’m heading out. One job. Maybe two.” A pause. “Also, cut your damn hair. You look like a stray that crawled out of a war zone.”
Dean smirked faintly, the expression tugging at his split lip. He ran a hand through his damp, dark brown hair mid-length and casually tousled, strands clinging to his jaw. “No. I keep it the right length. For me.”
“It’s a tactical disadvantage,” Stefan muttered.
Dean stepped into his jeans in one smooth motion, ignoring the flare of discomfort along his thigh. “So are emotions. You still use those.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, softer, Stefan asked, “You okay?”
Dean didn’t look at the phone. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know. I just don’t trust your head right now. Not after… everything.”
Dean didn’t answer right away. He pulled a black tank top over his still-damp skin, the fabric clinging slightly where bruises bloomed. Then he reached for his shoulder harness, buckling it across his chest with practiced ease. “It’s been eighteen days. I’m fine.”
“Dean, come on. I’ve known you your whole life. You’re not fine.”
He grabbed his knives next, six throwing blades, sliding them into place one by one like clockwork. Then he reached behind him, securing the two butterfly knives into the sheaths at the back. “I’m not fine. I’m not good. I don’t know what I am. But I’m not going to do anything stupid. You don’t have to babysit me.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “Should I worry about you?”
“I’m Rank Five,” Stefan said. “I’ll be back.”
“You better,” Dean muttered, a half-smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, reopening the cut again. “Or I’ll kill you.”
Stefan huffed a short laugh. “Don’t worry.” The line clicked dead.
Dean stared at the screen a second longer, then tossed the phone onto the bed. He rolled his shoulders and sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on his knees.
Quiet.
But not calm.
Dean clasped the bracelet around his wrist and slid the ring onto his finger with practiced ease. The motion was smooth, automatic like brushing his teeth or loading a weapon.
He pulled on a black jacket, snug enough to hide his shoulder harness without restricting movement, then stepped outside. The hallway was quiet. He didn’t look back.
He walked a few blocks in silence, hands tucked loosely in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Then a sleek black car pulled up onto the sidewalk, cutting off his path.
Dean stopped. Three men in tailored suits stepped out coordinated, deliberate, wrong.
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not buying anything,” he said flatly. “And I’m definitely not joining your cult.”
One of the men shifted his blazer just enough to flash a pistol at his hip. “We’re not here for that,” he said.
Dean sighed. “Of course you’re not.”
The one on the right opened the back door. His voice was clipped, controlled. “You’re coming with us.”
Dean tilted his head, considering. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Why not. Could be fun.”
He walked past them like they weren’t even armed, calm as smoke and slid into the back seat.
As the door shut behind him, he smirked. “Though if you really want to impress me, whip out your dicks. I’ve seen enough guns for one lifetime.”
The men exchanged a glance but said nothing. They got in, the engine hummed and the car pulled away.
The car ride was silent. The men didn’t speak, they just watched Dean, who leaned against the door, elbow resting on the window, eyes tracking the passing streets. He didn’t look tense. He looked bored.
When they arrived, the car pulled up to a mansion large, clean, expensive. Dean stepped out and glanced at the guards near the entrance. More waited inside. Matching suits. Alert eyes. Stiff posture.
They guided him through sleek, polished halls the air too clean, the silence too sharp. At the end, a heavy wooden door loomed. Without a word, one of them stepped forward and pushed it open.
Dean crossed the threshold first.
Behind a broad desk sat a man with presence etched into posture cigarette in hand, smoke curling lazily around his face like a veil.
A frown appeared the instant his eyes lifted. “Who is this?”
His gaze swept over Dean: the bruised cheekbone, split lip, torn knuckles. His voice turned cold, sharp enough to cut.
“I hope, for your sake, none of you touched that boy without my permission.”
“Wasn’t us, sir,” one of them replied quickly. “He was already like that when we found him.”
No relief surfaced. “Then why bring me this street rat?”
Dean sank into the nearest chair without waiting for permission. He leaned back, perfectly at ease. “Who you calling a street rat, you wannabe gangster?”
A narrowed stare followed. “You’ve got a mouth on you for a kid.”
“I’m seventeen,” Dean said, flat and unbothered. “But let me guess the full beard, buzzcut, broad shoulders? That’s your tough guy persona? How many hours a week you spend trying to perfect ‘intimidating and scary’?”
The cigarette rose again. A slow drag, deliberate. “You scared?”
“Why should I be?” Dean asked, tilting his head slightly. “If someone like you wanted me dead, I’d already be bleeding on this floor. And the way you panicked at the idea your guys touched me? Tells me death’s not the plan.”
With a sharp motion, the cigarette was stubbed out smoke curling in its final breath.
“Name,” the man demanded.
“Dean. Dean Mercer.”
Before the men could respond, Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
Without hesitation, he pulled it out and answered.
“I’m busy,” Dean said, voice calm.
“What, you on a date or something?” Stefan’s voice crackled through, dry as ever. “About earlier… if you need me, I can drop the jobs. Stay with you longer.”
“No. Of course not.” His eyes flicked toward the desk. “I’m here with… what’s your name again?”
The man behind the desk didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it with slow precision and leaned back, exhaling smoke like it was punctuation. Unbothered. Silent.
But the silence didn’t extend to his men.
One of them shifted. Another’s jaw tightened. The third took a single step forward, eyes locked on Dean’s phone.
“Where are you?” Stefan asked, voice tightening with concern.
Dean let out a slow breath through his nose. “You were kinda right. I think I might be in a little trouble. But don’t worry nothing I can’t handle.”
That was enough.
Without a word, one of the suited men moved. Smooth and quick, he stepped in, snatched the phone from Dean’s hand fast, practiced, no room for argument and ended the call with a tap of his thumb.
Dean didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just watched him walk away with it, eyes cold. “Touch me again,” he said flatly, “and you lose a finger.”
Another man stepped in closer, hand grazing the weapon at his side.
“You should’ve put it away,” he muttered.
Still, the man across from him remained silent just took another drag from his cigarette, watching through the smoke like none of it mattered.
Dean’s gaze lingered on him for a beat, unreadable.
“Sorry for picking up,” he said finally, voice low but even. “We were mid-conversation.”
It wasn’t an apology just a fact, laid out with blunt precision.
His tone didn’t waver as he added, “Can I know your name? I think that’s fair. Or not?”
The man’s mouth twitched into a smile tight, humorless.
“Malik Al-Fayeed.”
Dean let out a soft chuckle under his breath. “Figures. You’ve got the whole ‘Middle Eastern crime lord’ aesthetic locked down.”
“You stole from me,” Malik said.
A brow lifted. “Me? I would never,” Dean replied, voice sweet with mock innocence.
“Is this a joke to you?”
“No, Malik,” he said, exaggeratedly polite. “But if this is about something I might’ve done or not I can return it.”
“First of all,” Malik said, his tone sharpening, “you call me either Mr. Al-Fayeed or sir. Not my name. Is that clear?”
Dean nodded once, silent.
“And you returning it?” Malik continued, voice turning cold. “That won’t cut it.”
Dean shrugged. “What else, then?”
“You cost me,” Malik said. “Tracking you down wasn’t easy. You owe me for the time, the resources, the men.”
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand. If you return the watch. More if you don’t.”
Dean’s jaw tensed briefly. Then he nodded. “Fine. I get a job and then I’ll pay it back.”
“No,” Malik said, voice smooth but final. “You belong to me now. You work here. Seven days a week. You’ll make a thousand. Half goes to housing and food. The rest repays the debt.”
Dean tilted his head, studying him. “And what exactly would I be doing?”
“Whatever the head of my men tells you to.”
Dean stood. “Alright. Sounds fun.” A beat. “Okay, sir. I’ll go grab my stuff.” He turned toward the door.
Behind him, Malik’s voice cut through the space low and dangerous. “If you run, I’ll find you again. And next time, you won’t walk in on your own.”
Dean glanced back, expression unreadable. “Don’t worry. I don’t run from debt.”
He took a step toward the door, then paused.
One hand slid into his jacket.
“Let me give you a tip for the future,” he said, voice casual.
Dean pulled out a knife sleek, matte, deadly and held it by the hilt, nonchalant. The room tensed instantly. The guards stiffened. One man’s hand twitched toward his weapon.
But Dean didn’t move.
“Your men didn’t check me,” he continued, tone flat. “Not when they dragged me into the car. Not when I walked into this place. No pat down. No scan. Nothing.”
His fingers spun the blade once, slow and precise not flashy, just confident.
“I’m not even that good with knives,” he added, glancing around. “But I could’ve hurt someone. Maybe even you.”
For a beat, the room stayed frozen.
Then Dean slipped the blade back into its sheath like it was nothing, adjusted his jacket and turned toward the door.
He didn’t look back.
“You might want to fix that.”
And then he walked out.
The door shut behind Dean with a soft click.
For a moment, the room was still.
Then Malik snapped.
“Out!” he barked.
The remaining guards cleared the room without hesitation, all except Cole.
As soon as the last one was gone, Malik turned on him. “Why the fuck didn’t you pat him down?”
The words slammed through the room like a shot. Cole stiffened under the weight of them.
“I didn’t think...” he started, already flinching. “He was bruised, sir. Cut up. I didn’t think he’d be armed.”
“You didn’t think?” Malik shouted. He stepped forward so fast the chair behind his desk toppled over and crashed to the floor.
“You’re one of the heads of my units you don’t get to not think. You saw some bruises and decided that made him safe? That’s your logic?”
“He didn’t look like a threat,” Cole insisted, voice tight. “He looked like someone who got his ass kicked. Like a stray.”
Malik’s eyes were wild with fury.
“Exactly,” he spat. “He looked reckless. And reckless kids do stupid shit. Like bringing a knife into my house. Into my office. You think that makes him less dangerous?”
Cole opened his mouth, then shut it. There was no right answer.
Malik paced behind the desk, hands clenched at his sides.
“He pulled a blade,” he growled. “And you didn’t catch it. You didn’t pat him down at the gate. Not when he walked through the hall. Not before you let him sit ten goddamn feet from me.”
“He didn’t try to use it,” Cole offered weakly. “He just showed it.”
“Oh, how generous,” Malik snapped. “He showed it. Like it was a lesson. Like he was teaching you something.”
The door opened. Grant stepped in, posture straight, eyes sharp.
“Sir,” he said evenly. “I heard.”
Malik turned on him like a fire catching wind. “You should’ve been on him the second he walked through the gate.”
“I was watching,” Grant said calmly. “He didn’t make a move.”
“That’s not the point!” Malik’s voice cracked with fury. “The point is, he didn’t have to. He was already in. Already armed. Already sending a message.”
He grabbed the edge of the desk and slammed his palm down hard enough to rattle everything on it.
“That little punk just told us we’re sloppy. And we are. You let some half-broken stray with attitude and bruises walk in here carrying steel.”
“I’ll retrain the entry teams,” Grant said. “We’ll reinforce the protocol. Strip checks at every gate if needed.”
“Do it,” Malik snapped. “And make it clear anyone who steps into this house gets searched. I don’t care who it is.”
He turned his glare back on Cole.
“You’re lucky he didn’t try something,” he said, voice lower now, but dead cold. “You’re lucky he just wanted to prove a point. But you should’ve stopped him at the door. You don’t get to assume someone’s harmless because they’re bleeding.”
Cole lowered his head. “Understood, sir.”
Malik stared at the closed door for a moment, jaw tight.
“He thinks he’s clever,” he muttered. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
