Bound To Midnight

I don’t believe in redemption. People don’t change. They reveal themselves—like blood on white linen. I learned that lesson with a blade in my hand. So I made a promise: no one would ever make me beg. No one would ever see me break. I am vengeance in silk. Death in lipstick. An assassin with a ledger full of names, all of them marked in crimson. I kill to balance the scales. I kill because it’s the only truth this world understands and I sleep like a baby after. I didn’t become this to be saved. I became this to survive. I was born with blood on my hands. Not literally, but in the way that matters. I was born into a world where weakness was a death sentence. Where men wear knives for smiles and wallets stuffed with sins and decide who lived and who got buried in an unmarked grave. I didn’t cry about it. I adapted. I learned to smile with a blade behind my back. To promise mercy with poison on my lips. To turn fear into a weapon sharper than any dagger I’ve ever carried. I’m not the hero in anyone’s story. I don’t want to be. I’m an assassin. I take lives to pay a debt the universe never settled. I hunt monsters who thought no one would ever come for them. And I enjoy it. Revenge isn’t a hobby for me. It’s my purpose. Or at least, it was. So tell me why the universe is laughing at me now. Pedro Lopez. A name that drips with sin. Cartel royalty. Power broker. Killer. The man who wraps this city around his fingers and strangles it slowly, for sport. The man with the devil’s smile and eyes that strip you bare. He rules with blood and fear. He’s everything I despise. Everything I’ve dedicated my life to destroying. Everything I hunt. Yet here I am. Bound. Captured. Chained by a man who looks at me like I’m not a threat but a prize. He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t flinch when I confess my sins. Doesn’t turn away from the blood on my hands. Instead, he studies me like a puzzle he wants to solve. He asks questions no one’s ever dared. He calls me mi alma. My soul. Mi vida. My life. He treats me like I’m dangerous but precious. He should be afraid of me. I’m the girl who will slit a man’s throat while kissing him. Who burned down a mansion to erase one name from my list. But he isn’t afraid. He wants me. All of me. Even the ugly, broken parts I’ve buried so deep I forgot how to feel them. I know men like him. They don’t want your heart. They want your loyalty. Your obedience. Your silence. He’ll get none of it from me. Because I didn’t come this far to kneel. And yet…when he touches me, I burn. When he whispers my name, the world goes quiet. There’s something in him that calls to the monster in me. I tell myself it’s hate but hate is too easy. So here’s my truth: he may have captured me. But if he isn’t careful, he’ll be the one who ends up bound. Bound to midnight. Bound to blood. Bound to me. He’s wrong if he thinks he can own me because even if these chains hold me, they don’t define me. I’ll get free. And when I do, I’ll have to choose: finish what I started and end the monster who caged me…or admit that maybe—just maybe—I’ve met my match. Maybe he’s the one man who can hold my darkness without flinching. But first? He’ll have to survive me. Because I didn’t stop being an assassin when he put these chains on me. I just got a new target.

People think power is about fear. They’re wrong. Fear is easy. It burns hot and fast and leaves nothing behind but ashes. Real power is about control. About patience. About seeing ten moves ahead while your enemies are still figuring out the board. I didn’t inherit my empire. I bled for it. I learned to kill before I learned to drive. Learned to lie before I learned to pray. My father put a gun in my hand and taught me the value of loyalty—how it could be bought, broken, reforged. I buried him myself when he forgot the lesson. That’s who I am. Pedro Lopez. Cartel king. Devil in a tailored suit. The man who signs death warrants with a flick of his pen. I keep the city in line. I make men disappear. I build alliances on fear and blood and unbreakable promises. And I don’t make mistakes. Except maybe her. Marcia Nkosi. The assassin with death in her eyes and a vendetta written in blood. She’s beautiful in the way a knife is beautiful—sleek, sharp, designed to make you bleed. When I saw her name on that hit list, I should’ve let them kill her. It would’ve been cleaner. Simpler. But I don’t do simple. I wanted to see her. The woman who hunts monsters like me. Who thinks she can balance the scales with a body count. So I caught her. And now she’s here. In my house. In my bed, if I choose. In my power. Except I look at her, and I don’t see a prize. I see a mirror. I see the same hunger for vengeance. The same scars no one else can touch. She hates me. Good. Hate is honest. I’ll take her hate over another lie whispered in the dark. But underneath it, there’s something else. A fire I want to stoke. A loyalty I want to earn. A soul I want to claim. She thinks I’m her enemy. And maybe I am. But I’ll be the last enemy she ever has to fight. Because I don’t want to break her. I want to bind her to me. Body. Mind. Blood. Even if it means letting her see the worst in me. Even if it means giving her the power to destroy me. Because for a woman like her? I’d burn the whole world.

The wind roared in Marcia’s ears as the cargo door yawned open, revealing the glittering sprawl of São Paulo below. She adjusted her earpiece, the red glow of the plane’s interior lights painting everything in ominous hues.

Wilder’s voice crackled through the ear piece, “The time is 12:00 a.m. Midnight, prepare for landing, over. Midnight, do you copy? Over. Midnight, do you copy? Over. Cia!”

Marcia smirked and shifted closer to the edge, boot balancing on steel. Then she jumped, “Can you let a girl enjoy the view for two seconds?” she replied, voice breathy with adrenaline as the city lights streaked below her, “São Paulo is stunning from up here.”

Wilder’s sigh was audible even through the static, “You know what? I can’t, because I’d prefer it if the boss man didn’t slit my neck open when you go splat.”

Marcia laughed, pulling her chute handle with practiced ease. The canopy snapped open above her, slowing her descent, “Don’t worry about it, I’m fine here. You know I love heights,” she drawled. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the rooftops for the target zone, “We’ve got her this time, I’m sure of it. We’ll capture her and put her where she belongs. the darkness, dirtiest and horrifying so we own. This chase ends soon, Wilder. Over.”

Wilder pauses on the line, “Your landing is coming up in one minute. Are you ready? Over.”

Marcia smiled fiercely, wind whipping her hair around her face, “I was born ready.”

The rooftop loomed closer. Marcia angled her chute, boots slamming onto concrete with a dull thud. She bent her knees to absorb the impact, rolling once before coming up smoothly, hand on her sidearm.

Ivy’s voice called from the shadows, “You really do love your entrances, don’t you?”

Marcia straightened, grinning at Ivy, with her arms crossed, “Traveling by air is so much faster. I don’t know why anyone would want to take a car.”

Ivy watched her, amused, but the thought crossed her mind unbidden: Always so fearless.

Marcia was already scanning the rooftop impatiently, “Where’s my man?” she demanded.

Ivy chuckled, “Calm down, tiger. Your man is waiting for you downstairs.”

Marcia arched an brow, “Did you prepare the room?”

Ivy smirked, “Of course,” as Marcia brushed past her toward the hatch, “Have fun!”

How does this woman have that much energy? Ivy wondered, shaking her head as she followed.

Meanwhile Marcia stepped into the basement lock up, the damp room with the swagger of someone who didn’t believe in consequences. She flicked the dangling light bulb overhead, sending shadows skittering across the concrete walls. Maximus was chained to a chair in the middle of the room, bloodied but defiant.

Marcia smiled, “Missed me?” she drawled, voice mocking.

Maximus glared up at her, “Missed you? Don’t be delusional. You’re a fucking psychopath.”

Marcia’s eyes glittered dangerously, “Psychopath?” She clicked her tongue, “Sounds familiar. Oh right—that sounds like my sister. You know, the one you helped commit a crime because she manipulated you into thinking you guys were soulmates. You knew what she was. What she was doing. But you still stood beside her, didn’t you? Like a good little dog.” Her hand shot out lightning-quick, gripping his throat and squeezing until his breath rattled. His eyes widened, but he still didn’t look away, “Speaking of my sister…” Her voice was low, lethal, “Where is she? The Midnight Society—specifically me—won’t stop searching until she faces the consequences of her actions.”

Maximus coughed, forcing out words through the chokehold, “I’m not scared of you.”

Marcia laughed—harsh, sharp, unhinged. She tightened her grip another fraction before releasing him, “You should,” she whispered, leaning in close he could feel the heat of her breath, “Because your life is in my hands. I’ll say it in simple terms so your slow brain can comprehend: behave, or perish at my hands.”

The door creaked behind them as Wilder’s voice cut in, calm but firm, “That’s enough for now.”

Marcia shot him an annoyed glare over her shoulder, “I’m turning my back on you,” she told Maximus, wagging a warning finger in his face, “Don’t even think about trying anything fucking stupid.” She turned fully toward Wilder, annoyance radiating off her, “Leave it up to you to ruin all the fun, tarzan.”

Wilder crossed his arms, unbothered, “I’d rather not have to deep clean this place tonight, Cia.”

Marcia rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath in Afrikaans, “Dit is nie lekker nie.”

Wilder snorted, “And you’re out of control.”

Marcia just smirked as she stalked past him, “That’s my middle name.” But then her eyes sharpened—pinning Wilder with a look that held more weight than any weapon, “You knew what this was,” she said, her voice quieter now, but far more dangerous, “You brought him here. You dropped him at my feet like a lamb, knowing damn well I’d tear into him.”

Wilder’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch, “I brought him in alive. That was the deal. You agreed to hold back.”

Marcia echoed, incredulous, “Hold back? That—” she pointed at Maximus, who was still coughing and blinking spots out of his vision— “isn’t a person. He’s a cockroach in leather. And you want me to treat him like some delicate little witness?”

Wilder spoke, voice clipped, “He’s not just a witness. He’s a lead. We get her through him. You kill him, we lose that.”

Marcia chuckled darkly, walking toward Wilder. Her boots echoed with each step, “You always were the voice of reason, weren’t you? The steady hand. The protector. But reason doesn’t always get results. Fear does. Pain does.”

Wilder didn’t move as she came chest to chest with him.

Marcia tilted her head up, eyes boring into his, “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

Wilder grinned, “I think you’re three seconds away from making a mistake we can’t undo.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and taut. Maximus stirred behind her, a groan rising from his throat—but neither of them turned to look.

Marcia’s jaw flexed. Her hand twitched at her side, as if aching to reach for her blade, to finish what she started. But instead, she exhaled slowly—once.

Marcia murmured, “You better pray your little lead is worth it,” her voice suddenly calm in that terrifying way a storm sometimes stills before it destroys everything in its path. “Because if he plays me—if he lies, if he stutters, if he even breathes wrong—I’ll make him regret being born.”

Wilder nodded once, “Then we’ll deal with it then.”

Marcia gave a humorless laugh, stepping back finally, but not without brushing her fingers along his chest as she passed—mocking, testing, “I always knew you had a thing for trying to tame monsters, Tarzan. But be careful.” She leaned in, lips grazing the shell of his ear, “Sometimes the monsters bite back.”

Then she was gone—down the hallway with a sway in her hips and a storm in her wake.

Wilder stood still for a moment longer, the tension vibrating through the air like an aftershock. Behind him, Maximus groaned again, and Wilder finally turned, sighing as he knelt down beside him, “You’re lucky she didn’t crush your trachea,” he muttered.

Maximus looked up, eyes bloodshot and filled with fear and loathing, “You keep her on a leash?”

Wilder gave a faint smile—cold and knowing, “No. You don’t leash fire. You just hope to hell it burns down the right things. She’ll deal with you later, ass face.”

Wilder and Marcia made their way through the halls to the control room. Wilder couldn’t help but notice the tightness in her shoulders, “I can smell your rage, Cia,” he said, “What’s wrong?”

Marcia didn’t even hesitate. She stabbed a finger toward the array of monitors, “Why don’t I know who that is? Start talking.”

Tai jumped in his seat. He turned with wide eyes, “I—I’m the new hacker,” he stammered.

Marcia’s eyes narrowed, “Okay. Find the Wicked Witch of the South then.”

Tai blinked, “The what?”

From the side, Ivy cracked up, “She means her sister,” Ivy supplied, shaking with laughter.

Tai spoke slowly, “Oh…right. Isn’t it the Wicked Witch of the West?”

Ivy wiped a tear from her eye, “Because she’s from South Africa, and she’s evil.”

Marcia cut them off with an exasperated noise, “Thank you for your input but it won’t be needed anymore.” She pinned the new recruit with a glare, “You…what’s your name?”

Tai spoke nervously, “Tai, ma’am.”

Marcia recoiled like he’d insulted her mother, “Did you just call me ma’am?”

Tai’s mouth flapped, “What am I supposed to call you?”

Marcia raised an eyebrow, “Do I look like an eighty year old grandma to you?”

Wilder, in his head, was chanting: Don’t do it. Don’t laugh. She’ll kill you. He lost the battle. He burst out laughing.

Ivy clapped her hands in mock horror, “Oh dear brother, you’re fucked.”

Wilder just grinned, “Eh, I’ve accepted my fate a long time ago.”

Marcia pointed at Tai, her eyes hard, “Find her exact location and tell me the second you know.”

Tai swallowed, “Yes ma’—yes, boss.”

Marcia rolled her eyes and strode toward the door.

Fuck my life, Tai thought, fingers flying over the keyboard as Ivy snickered at him.

Marcia’s boots pounded against the floor as she stormed down the narrow hallway, eyes locked on the heavy metal door at the end. She jiggled the handle. It didn’t budge. Her voice boomed through the corridor, “TARZANNNN!”

Wilder’s laughter floated back at her from around the corner, lazy and unbothered.

Marcia slammed her hand against the door, glaring at the lock like it had insulted her, “Why is the door locked?!”

Wilder poked his head out, grin widened, “You see, I know you have that ‘190 IQ’ shit going on, but I’m your best friend. I know you better than I know myself. I knew you’d try to go back down there and beat the shit out of our boy Maximus. So…I locked the door.”

Marcia’s eyes narrowed to slits. She tilted her head with a too-sweet smile, “You’re so funny.” She paused, voice dropping to a feral growl, “Run, bitch.”

Wilder gulped, “Shit.” Wilder turned around and bolted.

Marcia launched after him, laughter and curses mixing as their boots thudded down the hall. They burst onto the balcony, night air slapping against their faces.

Wilder vaulted over a planter to slow her down, but Marcia was right behind him, fingers snatching at his hair. He yelped, “I think you just took a chunk of my hair!”

Marcia snapped, hair wild, eyes blazing with the thrill of the chase, “All you have to do is give me the key!”

Wilder kept backing away, breathless from laughter, “Welp…guess it’s time to go bald!”

Marcia stopped, chest heaving. She planted her hands on her hips and scowled at him, “You’re so annoying.” Her face softened then, unexpectedly. She glanced up at the stars winking over the city, her voice quieting, “Remember when I used to watch the stars with mom on the roof? She was always busy during the day, but she always made sure to watch the stars with me at night.”

Wilder’s smile faded. He rested a hand on the railing, watching her with sober eyes, “Your mom would have wanted you to be Midnight, Cia,” he said softly. “If she were alive, she would have done everything to make sure of it. You were born to be Midnight. Not A—”

Marcia’s words cut sharp and cold, “Don’t say that backstabbing bitch’s name.”

Wilder swallowed, nodding once, “We’ll find her this time.”

Marcia’s eyes were hard as steel, “Oh, we will.” She turned away, voice low and lethal, “And I’m going to make her suffer for what she did to mom.”

Without another word, she walked back inside, boots clicking on the floor. She didn’t even glance at Wilder as she disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, the sound of the shower filled the quiet hall.

Wilder exhaled, running a hand through his hair—wincing when he found the missing chunk. He shook his head with a sad, resigned smile, “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, “We’ll find her.”

You’ve guessed it…I’m a motherless child. But that’s not entirely true. I had a mother most of my life until my backstabbing son of a bitch selfish ass sucking sister murdered her. And my biggest motivation for getting out of bed every morning is to get that bitch back in to avenge my mother. I need to get out of this damn solitary building in the middle of nowhere. I wonder what the streets of Sao Paulo look like at 2 a.m. Of course I end up on a sketchy street. Clearly criminals. It’s critical of me to be observant because of who I am and what I do. This man appears to be battered with swollen knuckles and visible wounds all over his body. He’s not the one being beat up, he’s obviously the one doing all the dirty work. But he’s not just any criminal, he’s a rich one which can only mean one thing…he’s a member of the Lopez cartel. One of the wealthiest and most powerful cartels the world has ever seen. This must be someone who works closely with their boss, Pedro Lopez. A ruthless, sinister man…a man who wields great power and is capable of wreaking havoc. He’s untouchable, and a few people have met him…even fewer know his face and few dare to find out. This guy has clearly fucked up. He’s new, I could tell this right away from the second I saw him. He still appears clean, and his eyes haven’t yet met true evil. I know this man won’t make it in their business…he looks too soft. But he doesn’t know that and it amuses me knowing that people can’t recognize the things I do. He’ll probably end up dead and that’s just the truth. However, even as tough and intimidating as this goldilocks look alike is, I can tell from the hopefulness in his eyes that he will give the guy another chance. Everyone’s weak spot for me is their eyes, they reveal everything. and despite his scars and hard exterior, this man has a heart as gold as his hair. Big mistake buddy. Whatever, just walk away so you don’t have to be anyone up tonight.

Meanwhile the alley stank of stale beer and trash, lit only by the flickering glow of a dying streetlamp. Marcia adjusted the strap on her backpack, the scuffed concrete crunching beneath her boots as she walked with purpose toward the mouth of the alley.

Antonio’s voice cut through the darkness behind her, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Marcia stopped, rolling her eyes before turning slowly to face him.

Antonio stood there with that same arrogant tilt of his chin.

Marcia didn’t even bother to look intimidated, “You made a mistake letting him go,” she said coolly, “He’s not going to succeed.”

Antonio’s brow furrowed, “What did you just say?”

Marcia cocked her head, lips twitching in amusement, “I’m pretty sure you heard me, considering the short distance between us. Unless you have a hearing impairment.”

Antonio’s jaw tightened. In one smooth motion, he pulled his gun and leveled it at her chest, “Do you know who you’re speaking to, kid?”

Marcia blinked once. Then she sighed dramatically, “It’s the braids, isn’t it?” she asked, tugging lightly at one of them.

Antonio frowned, “What?”

Marcia clicked her tongue, “I knew the braids would make me look way younger than I am. I’m twenty one, okay? I just have these annoyingly youthful genes.”

Antonio’s voice was low and dangerous now, “Stop talking.”

Marcia shrugged, unbothered, “Can a kid do this?”

Before Antonio could react, her hand flicked out, steel gleaming. The knife spun end over end before striking the barrel of his gun with perfect precision, sending it clattering to the ground.

Antonio jumped back, cursing.

Marcia pointed a finger at him, “Now, direct me to the city, Goldilocks.”

Antonio blinked at her, mouth half open, “Um…” He glanced down at his gun, still rolling to a stop, “Keep walking straight and then take a left.”

Marcia beamed at him like he’d just passed a test, “Thanks.” She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Advice, Goldilocks? Do what you’re passionate about, not what others want. You don’t seem cut out for this whole intimidation thing.”

Antonio scowled as she turned on her heel and sauntered away. He muttered under his breath, “I better get back before he has a fit.”

But then something caught his eye on the ground.

She left her knife.

Antonio bent down slowly, picking it up by the hilt, “Hey, you forgot—” He looked up, but the alley was empty. He frowned, glancing at the knife’s intricate design. She’s gone. Antonio exhaled and slid the blade into his pocket with a smirk. Welp, guess this cool knife is mine now.

You’re probably wondering who I am. I suppose standing here being modest, telling you I’m nobody. But that’s not the case…I’m someone important. I’m Midnight, and I’m an Elite assassin and the Midnight Society’s leader. I come from a family that has crafted some of the world’s most courageous and strong assassins. I’m one of those individuals but my power and title arrived much sooner than everyone intended. I was never supposed to be Midnight. I believe that no matter the rules, this was always the universe’s plan. You see, I was never meant to be Midnight. Only the firstborn daughters are allowed to become Midnight. I was third born…my family is in charge of the bloodline for the midnight assassin. Our assassins Society is ancient…dating back hundreds of years. you may think we’re part of the underworld but that’s where you would be wrong. We protect the world from evil. Were in fact very against most practices in the underworld. We work with organizations all over the world in hopes of eliminating all Criminal activities.

Suddenly Marcia closed her eyes for half a heartbeat, letting the weight of that truth settle before the memory of her sister twisted like a knife in her gut. Then she turned around—only to see Wilder watching her, arms folded, unimpressed. She didn’t give him a chance to speak. She socked him in the arm, hard.

Wilder winced, “Kalmeer, peanut.”

Marcia’s eyes narrowed, “Hoekom volg jy my?”

Wilder shrugged, unfazed, “Het jy regtig gedink jy kan wegkom? So…waarheen gaan ons eers?”

Marcia smirked darkly, “We’re going to do something we’re not supposed to do.”

Without waiting for his reaction, she started striding away, boots clacking against the rooftop.

Wilder watched her go, sighing, “Lord forgive me.”

As they walked into the bar, the sticky floors. Bad lighting. A bartender with too many piercings.

Wilder slumped on the barstool beside her, clearly miserable, “You know we’re not allowed to do this, peanut,” he hissed in Afrikaans tinged English, shooting a paranoid glance around the dingy bar.

Marcia leaned back, grinning as she drummed her fingers on the counter, “You’re always ruining the fun, tarzan. Let me try one drink. I’m twenty one now. My dad doesn’t need to know.”

Wilder groaned, running a hand over his face, “It’s against the Accords—”

Marcia cut him off with a dismissive wave, “It’s a stupid rule if you ask me.”

Wilder sighed in defeat, glancing at the bartender and then back at her, “You’re going to get us both killed,” he muttered.

Marcia only smiled wider with mischief in her eyes, “That’s the spirit,” she purred.

The accords are the set of strict rules we follow in the Midnight Society. There are two sections. Section one contains the rules for the General Society. Section two contains the rules for Midnight…aka me. Rule number one, once the individual becomes Midnight they’re prohibited from alcohol except wine on special occasions. Rule two, Midnight and the General Society is forbidden to have sex before marriage. Rule three, Midnight is allowed to complete jobs (assassinations) between the hours of 12:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m. There are more but those are the main ones. Most become Midnight at a much older age so they have time to experience the joys of consuming alcohol but I just became of age and I only became midnight a year ago. This makes me the youngest person in his history to become Midnight.

The bartender polished a glass as he approached, “What can I get you guys tonight?”

Marcia didn’t hesitate, “Whiskey, please.”

Next to her, Wilder squinted at the ceiling as if consulting unseen stars, “The night is frowning down upon you,” he intoned gravely.

Marcia let out a snort, “Well, the night can suck it for one drink.”

As the bartender moved off to pour her whiskey, a thought crept into Marcia’s head unbidden, unspooling like a warning sign. The Midnight Society worships the night. We’re starting to sound like a cult, aren’t we?

Marcia blinked and whispered, “Holy shit,” as if realizing it just then.

Wilder arched an eyebrow as the bartender set the glass in front of her, “See?” he said, watching her take a sip, “Alcohol tastes bad.”

Marcia coughed once at the burn, then grinned, “I love it.”

Wilder just sighed, shaking his head while laughing.

Meanwhile in the Lopez residence, the living room was quiet except for the muted tick of an old clock on the mantle. Antonio stood with his arms crossed, gaze sweeping the room, “Where’s boss?” he asked, voice low and direct.

Trystan didn’t even glance up from his phone, “Dealing with something.”

Damien, lounging in the armchair nearby, scoffed, “Correction—he’s dealing with someone.”

Antonio frowned but didn’t argue. He simply turned and walked away, boots tapping on the polished floor as he left the two behind.

As soon as Antonio was gone, Damien fixed Trystan with an annoyed glare, “Would it kill you to put your phone down and talk to me for two seconds?”

Trystan ignored him at first. Then, with deliberate slowness, he got to his feet, eyes flicking around the room.

Damien watched him, exasperation boiling over, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Trystan gave a dramatic sweep of his arms, “Searching for a fuck to give.”

Damien’s mouth fell open. He jabbed a finger at him accusingly, “You’re rude.”

Trystan shrugged, finally looking him in the eye with a crooked, unbothered smile, “And yet you still insisted on talking to me. Am I rude, or are you just dumb?”

Damien huffed, crossing his arms tight over his chest, “I hope you slip on a banana peel.”

Trystan’s grin widened, teeth flashing like a wolf’s, “Charming as always,” he drawled, as Damien muttered curses under his breath.

Meanwhile Pedro’s office smelled of gun oil and expensive cologne, but tonight there was something fouler beneath it—the coppery tang of blood. A dead man lay sprawled across the floor, limbs twisted unnaturally, a dark pool spreading beneath him and soaking into the rug.

Antonio stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He surveyed the scene with a practiced eye, noting the body, the smoking gun on Pedro’s desk, the calm in Pedro’s eyes.

Antonio raised an eyebrow, “I see you’ve had your hands full tonight.”

Pedro didn’t sit behind his desk. He stood in front of it, arms folded, the barrel of his pistol still faintly warm at his side. He gestured at the corpse with a flick of his chin, “Take a good look, Antonio,” he said evenly. His voice held no tremor of regret, only cold certainty, “This is how you deal with people who try to fuck with you.” He took a step forward, boots scraping over the blood streaked floor. His gaze met Antonio’s, unblinking, “This,” Pedro continued, voice low and sure, “is how you get to the top in the world we live in, brother.”

Antonio didn’t argue. He only nodded once, grimly, the weight of the truth in Pedro’s words settling in the silence between them.