FIFTH SIN

Chapter 1 Riley

Present Day

Waking up was a bad idea. Opening my eyes? Worse.

Everything hurts. My mouth’s dry, coated in the taste of old blood. Head pounds from whatever shit they gave me. My arms are yanked behind me, wrists cuffed, and when I test the restraints, chains rattle and my shoulders light up like they’ve been torn out their socket. My clothes, except for my boxers, are gone. Blood and grime coat my skin. Breathing hurts. Bruised, if not broken, ribs, then.

Yeah. This didn’t go how I planned. At all.

The room sharpens slowly—shitty concrete walls, cinder blocks stained with water damage. One flickering fluorescent overhead, casting the whole place in seizure strobe. Scratches, like fingernails, rake down one wall. The floor’s soaked in grime. A puddle of something dark and stagnant fester in the corner. Smells like rot, rust, and mold. And piss.

Classic basement. Classic bad decision.

I blink, jaw tight. I’m not alone.

Three figures stand in a loose arc in front of me—black tactical gear, skull-patterned balaclavas, Kevlar vests, and weirdly shaped sunglasses. Indoors. In the dark. Either they’re all douches, or those shades do something high-tech. My money’s on both.

The one in the center doesn’t move. Arms crossed over his chest, broad shoulders squared beneath Kevlar, he radiates command like heat off asphalt—blistering, suffocating, inescapable. A single red stripe cuts down the left side of his mask, like he’s been painted in blood.

My gaze tracks the arsenal: military-grade rifle slung across his back, twin handguns strapped to his thighs, a long blade at his hip, something boxy that might be a taser. And that’s just what’s visible. There’s more—has to be. This guy’s a fortress with a pulse. A walking armory.

There’s something primal in the way he holds himself. Something that makes my breath hitch. Something that locks my spine and dries out my mouth, sending shivers over my skin.

I should be afraid. Terrified. I am terrified. But there’s a pull too—sharp, magnetic. A fascination that edges too close to attraction. A hunger that I’ve worked my whole life to suppress.

To the leader’s right stands another man—stockier, a little shorter, holding his rifle with lazy precision. Barrel down, posture loose. Relaxed, but not casual. That’s the kind of ease you only earn through fieldwork and bloodshed.

He’s geared up the same as the others, plus a thick, reinforced tablet strapped to his forearm—custom tech, definitely not off the shelf.

His fingers flex around the rifle’s grip, forearm muscles shifting under his sleeve with practiced rhythm.

A bruiser with a brain. The worst kind. Fucking fantastic.

The third figure is smaller—almost a head shorter than the others, with a lean, compact frame. Same tactical gear. Same rifle slung across the back. A sidearm gripped with the kind of confidence that says they know exactly how to use it.

A band strapped to the upper left arm holds what looks like syringes—neatly arranged. Definitely not first aid.

Despite the size difference, there’s nothing soft here. The stance is coiled, balanced, surgical. The kind of danger that doesn’t waste movement—and doesn’t miss.

Then the figure tilts their head and—

“He’s hot,” a voice purrs. “Can I fuck him?”

It hits me all at once—higher-pitched, smooth, sultry. Female.

Not just the voice, but the way she says it—lazy, amused, a little cruel.

She shifts, hand resting on her hip, and suddenly I see it. The curves beneath the gear. The subtle taper of her vest. The way her confidence rolls off her like static before a storm.

“Shut up, Siren,” the stocky one snaps. But his tone doesn’t hold malice – more like lustful amusement.

“Aw, is someone jealous?” Her voice is sharp and taunting—playful on the surface, but there’s something else underneath. A warmth. Familiarity. Maybe even affection.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll shut you up the hard way.”

“Don’t be like that, Breaker,” she purrs. “You know I’ll share—unless you’re scared I’ll ruin him first.”

“You will ruin him,” he growls, amused. “That’s why I let you go first. I like watching you do it.”

The man in the center shifts—barely. Just a tilt of his head. The air changes.

The other two go dead silent.

Yeah. That’s definitely the leader.

Not just because he commands the room without a word, but because when he moves, they obey like it’s instinct, no words needed.

He doesn’t demand power. He is power.

Still, it’s her that holds my attention. The woman.

She’s the missing piece. The reason it took me four goddamn years to find them.

No one ever mentioned a woman. Not in the files. Not in the scraps of witness statements—what few I managed to get before the witnesses stopped breathing. These three are surgical when it comes to cleanup.

But the truth is uglier.

I didn’t miss her because she was invisible. I missed her because I wasn’t looking.

I made the rookie mistake, no—the arrogant one. Assumed anyone this brutal, this relentless, had to be a man. That no woman could be so fucking unhinged. So methodical. So lethal.

I wonder how many people that blind spot got killed.

I’ve been chasing these three through scorched evidence and ghost trails—watching cases vanish into sealed files and silence. They don’t just kill. They erase.

Vigilantes. They go by Fifth Sin.

Part of something bigger. The Network. The black-market answer to a system too blind or too bloated to fix itself.

Officially? I was supposed to stop them.

Personally? I want to understand them.

I’m an FBI agent. Or I was—depending on where you draw the line between justice and treason.

I swore to uphold the law. I’ve broken that oath a dozen times over chasing shadows and corpses. Chasing them.

My heart pounds, blood loud in my ears like it’s trying to drown out the truth.

I shift my gaze between them—three monsters in masks. Silent. Still. Watching.

And I wonder—not for the first time—if I ever wanted justice… or if that’s just the name I gave my obsession.

Now comes the hard part.

I have to convince them I’m worth keeping alive.

Before they decide I’m not worth the trouble.