August 5th, 2026
Cremont City
9:23 PM
The bus rattled through the veins of Cremont City, its weary frame groaning with each turn, each bump over fractured asphalt. Rio sat near the back, one arm propped against the cool windowpane, the other resting on the seat in front of him. His storm-gray eyes drifted over the passing scenery, the broken streets, boarded-up storefronts, hollow-eyed pedestrians shuffling beneath flickering street lamps.
It wasn't the Cremont he remembered.
The Cremont of his youth had been flawed, yes, but alive, bright in its noise, its chaos. Children played in alleyways. Families strolled markets. Cafés spilled chatter and laughter into the streets. Now? It felt gutted. Hollow. A corpse of a city draped in neon lights that couldn't hide its decay.
The bus was half-empty, the silence inside broken only by the grinding of gears and the occasional cough of an old woman two rows ahead.
Across from Rio, a pair of middle-aged men in worn factory uniforms slouched together, their bodies sagging with exhaustion from another long shift. Their voices were low at first, murmurs barely rising above the drone of the bus engine.
But Rio heard them anyway. Soldiers learned to notice the smallest sounds, the smallest tremors of voice.
"You remember what Cremont used to be?" one man asked, staring blankly at the window, his reflection tired and sunken. "Warm. Welcoming. Streets alive even past midnight. It wasn't perfect, but, hell, it felt like home. Like a city that breathed with you."
His companion chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "Feels like that was another lifetime. Look at it now. Dark, vast, empty, unsafe. People used to come here for dreams. Now they're scared to walk outside past sundown."
The first man sighed, dragging a calloused hand over his face. "Started about three years ago, didn't it? That's when everything shifted. Like the whole damn city turned rotten overnight."
Rio's ears sharpened at that. Three years ago. He filed the thought away, pressing his lips into a thin line.
"Yeah," the second man said. "Three years ago. That's when all those bastards started showing up, gangs, mafias, cartels. At first, just whispers. A mugging here, a missing person there. But now? It's everywhere. Yakuza carving up districts like they own them. Triads pulling strings in the markets. Cartels moving drugs in broad daylight. Slavic and Russian mobs running protection rackets. Italians sticking their claws in the shipping ports." He spat on the bus floor. "Every corner of this city belongs to somebody now. Just not us."
The first man looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. "I've got a daughter. Going off to college next week. And I'm scared out of my mind for her. What if...what if she runs into the wrong people? Gets snatched up? God knows what they do with young women these days…"
The man's voice cracked at the end, trembling with unspoken terror.
The second leaned forward, resting an elbow on the worn plastic seat. "C'mon. Don't think like that. She'll be fine. There's still law in this city. Police'll keep her safe."
"Bullshit." The first man's reply was sharp, bitter, full of despair. "Half the cops are bought off. You know it. Everybody knows it. You can't even trust the uniforms anymore. Too many of them in the pockets of those families."
Rio's brow furrowed. He glanced subtly toward them, watching the one who had spoken, noting the lines of worry carved into his face.
"Which ones?" the second asked quietly, wary eyes flicking toward the driver.
The first man lowered his voice, but Rio still caught the words. "The Yakuza family, the Oniburo clan. They've got their claws deep in the precincts. Then there's the Triads, the Bloodfang. Heard they've been running human trafficking right under the cops' noses. And don't get me started on the cartels, the Los Cazadores Cartel, they own half the west district. It's them, those animals, responsible for the girls vanishing. Every week, somebody's daughter disappears. And no one does a damn thing."
The second man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, scratching at his neck. "I've heard that too. Rumors. But what can we do, huh? We're just factory men. We keep our heads down and pray."
The first man shook his head. "And hope our kids don't end up another missing face on a poster."
Rio pressed his forehead against the glass, eyes closing. Their words pierced deeper than he wanted to admit. Missing women. Trafficking. Cremont swallowed alive by syndicates.
What if…
The thought slithered unbidden into his mind, a whisper that chilled his blood.
What if Mama… Alessandra… Marcella… Selene…
His chest tightened. His hand twitched against his knee. He shut his eyes harder, forcing himself to silence the thought. No. Impossible. He would not let his mind wander into that abyss. His family's betrayal was already poison enough. He would not picture them in chains.
"…and it's not just them," the second man continued, almost whispering now. "They say Cremont's become the biggest battleground in the world. All of them, the Yakuza, the Triads, the cartels, the slavic mobs and the new guys, the Russians, the Italians, they're tearing each other apart for control of the city. Streets run red every night. It's only a matter of time before one rises above the rest."
"Yeah," the first man muttered grimly. "And when that happens, God help us all."
For a moment, silence filled the bus again. Only the groan of tires on cracked asphalt and the faint hum of rain tapping against the windows.
Then the first man leaned closer, lowering his voice further. "But you've heard the latest rumors, haven't you?"
The second blinked. "What rumor?"
"That one family already runs Cremont. Quiet, like shadows. Not Yakuza. Not Triads. Not cartels. Something… darker. They call themselves the Gothic Mafia. Heard they move like a cult. Heard they don't just rule with fear, but with obsession. And people, people say they already own this city."
The second man frowned, shaking his head. "Never heard of them. Who are they?"
The first man hesitated, fumbling with the words. "I can't remember the name… Ca… Cast… something."
"Castellan?," the other corrected softly, snapping his fingers. "Yeah, now I remember. I've heard them somewhere. The Castellan family.
Rio froze.
His entire body went rigid. His hand hovered midair as though reaching for something unseen.
The bus screeched as it slowed, the driver calling out the next stop, the one Rio had been waiting for. But he didn't move. Not yet. His ears rang with the sound of his own blood.
Castellan. His name. His bloodline. Spoken in whispers as the name of a mafia family.
He stood slowly, one hand gripping the rail, his gaze still locked forward, unfocused.
The driver barked at him, annoyed. "Hey, buddy! You getting off or not?!"
Rio clenched his jaw, forcing his legs to move. He stepped off the bus into the wet street, the door hissing shut behind him.
The vehicle rumbled away into the dark, leaving Rio standing alone on the cracked pavement.
Castellan family.
The words echoed in his skull, heavier than any bullet.
And for the first time in years, Rio felt a cold knot of dread coil deep in his gut.
The bus roared away behind him, its exhaust curling in the damp air, leaving Rio alone at the corner of the street. The rain hadn't stopped. It dripped from eaves and puddled across cracked pavement, a constant hiss beneath the hollow thrum of the city. Cremont City, his city, once alive and bright , loomed like a corpse in the distance, its neon lights flickering against a horizon bruised with storm clouds.
Rio adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and started walking. The old apartment wasn't far, just a few blocks down. He remembered the route clearly, the turns, the peeling billboards, the corner shop where his father used to buy cigarettes. His boots struck against wet concrete with a steady rhythm, yet his heartbeat faltered, tripping over the weight of his thoughts.
His family.
His mother.
His sisters.
A powerful mafia? A gothic mafia, no less?
The thought hit him so hard he almost stumbled.
"No… no, that's insane," Rio muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
He tried to push it away, tried to rationalize it, but the words he'd overheard on the bus clung to his skull like parasites. The Castellan family. His family name. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, then suddenly, laughter burst from his throat.
It wasn't joy. It wasn't amusement. It was something hollow, manic, boiling out of him in disbelief. His laughter echoed off the wet walls of the alley he passed through, bouncing back at him like the mockery of a madman.
"Ha… ha… ha… fucking impossible!"
His mother? His sisters? Criminals? No, leaders of crime? No, it was absurd. He shook his head harder, as if the thought would fall out if he rattled his brain enough. "It's just a rumor. Just a fucking rumor."
But then the darker voice in him whispered.
What if?
Rio froze mid-step, his boots splashing in a shallow puddle. His breath came unevenly as the possibility wormed its way into his mind.
What if his mother's lover, the man from the photos, the man always hidden, concealed, was someone powerful? Someone untouchable. That would explain everything.
It explained why Janus, his father, had been utterly and easily crushed in divorce court. Why the judge had spoken like a machine, handing everything to Isabela. Why his sisters chose their mother's side. Because power, wealth, and influence can significantly corrupt a person. Even his own sisters weren't immune to this corruption.
It explained why, despite him blocking her, rejecting her, shutting down every letter, every email, she always found a way to reach him. Resources. Reach. Power.
It explained why she had been able to show up at his barracks, halfway across the world.
Rio's chest tightened. The memory of that last letter flashed like lightning in his mind:
"Please come back. I will explain everything."
His eyes widened, blood roaring in his ears.
"…No." His voice cracked in the rain. "No. No, no, no…"
It couldn't be true. It couldn't.
His mother, Isabela Castellan, not a desperate housewife but a queenpin? His three sisters, Alessandra, Marcella, Selene ,not broken victims, but willing participants? Mafia princesses draped in darkness?
He staggered, clutching at his temple as if he could crush the thought. "No, no, no… I can't… I can't accept that!"
His breathing grew ragged. His boots scraped against the sidewalk as he walked faster, almost running. His chest rose and fell violently, like he'd just come off a battlefield. The storm inside him was worse than gunfire.
Better if they were dead, he thought suddenly. The idea came raw, sharp, cutting through the denial like a blade. If his mother and sisters had died, it would hurt, but at least it would be final. At least he could mourn them honestly. At least he wouldn't have to picture them with bloodstained hands and soulless eyes.
But this? This possibility, that they had chosen corruption, chosen betrayal, was unbearable. It was like a slow poison rotting him from the inside.
He grit his teeth, his jaw trembling, his eyes wet, not from rain, but from something deeper, something furious and wounded.
He kept walking.
The streets were empty. Neon signs flickered weakly, their glow reflecting in puddles like dying stars. The city's air smelled of cigarettes, grease, and despair. The Cremont Rio once knew, the Cremont he'd left behind, was gone. Now it was a graveyard wearing the mask of a metropolis.
Finally, he turned the last corner.
And there it was.
His breath caught.
The place he had once called home. The old apartment. The place where Janus had tried to keep the family together, where Rio had grown up with laughter and arguments and dinners around a battered table.
But it wasn't there anymore.
In its place rose something grotesque.
A nightclub.
A towering façade of glass and steel, dripping neon across the wet pavement. Purple and crimson lights bled from its windows. Bass rumbled from inside, faint but steady, like the heartbeat of a beast. A line of shadowy figures waited outside, guarded by bouncers in black coats. Cigarette smoke drifted around them.
Rio stared up, water dripping from his hair into his eyes, but he didn't blink.
Gone. His home was gone. The apartment, the memories, the walls his father had once painted with weary hands, all gone. Erased. Paved over by flashing lights and pounding music.
A grave desecrated by decadence.
His fists clenched so tightly that his nails cut into his palms. He felt the sting of blood mixing with rain, but he didn't move. He just stood there, trembling, staring.
"This… this is what's left?" His voice was hollow.
The rain came harder, pelting him, soaking him to the bone. He didn't move. Couldn't move.
Inside, music throbbed. Laughter spilled out as the doors opened for another wave of strangers. Life, debauchery, shadows. The building had been remade into something alien, something that spit in the face of the life that had once existed there.
Rio's chest heaved. His mind spun. His thoughts, already fractured, began to split further.
If the rumor is true… then this… this belongs to them. To her. To them.
He imagined his mother, elegant, ruthless, walking through those doors. His sisters, cold-eyed, dressed in black velvet, perched at the top floor of this grotesque tower.
The thought made his stomach twist. He doubled over, gripping his knees, the laugh tearing from him again, low, hysterical, choked with rain.
"Ha… ha… ha… ha…"
It wasn't laughter anymore. It was the sound of a man breaking.
The lights of the nightclub burned into his eyes. His memories of childhood clawed at him. His father's voice. His father's cigarette smoke. The smell of stew on the stove.
Gone.
And all he could do was stand there, broken in the rain, staring at the truth: his past had been buried.
And the grave had been built into a kingdom of shadows.