Chapter One: The Alley's Judgment
In the suffocating heart of a narrow alley, bodies lay scattered like broken dolls. Not arranged, not piled, just discarded—worthless. Blood soaked the cobblestones, mingling with puddles of murky water, carrying the metallic stench of death. The alley itself seemed to mock anyone who dared breathe there.
At the very centre, a massive figure sat slumped, drenched in his own blood, every muscle taut but exhausted. His eyes fixed on a smaller figure—a boy, barely eighteen. Not tall, not broad-shouldered, not imposing in any way—but utterly dominant. The alley obeyed him, recoiling from his presence as if it feared him. He walked forward, a faint perfume trailing behind him, cold and untouchable.
The massive man lifted his head with immense effort. His eyes pleaded even before his lips could move.
"Please… I beg you… Don't kill me. I can give you anything," he rasped.
The boy didn't answer. Not immediately. His gaze swept over the alley, over the blood, the grime, the puddles, the foul stench. A brief twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of annoyance.
A short, dry chuckle. "Give me what I want?" he said. "Are you mocking me?"
"You… you are just a gang leader from the slums. What could you possibly give me?"
Desperation clawed at the larger man's throat. "Anything… anything you ask. I'll do it! Just spare my life!"
The boy stopped. He seemed to ponder something else, something utterly detached from the man's existence. Then he produced a clean sheet of paper from his pocket. "Your full name," he said, voice unwavering.
A brief pause. "Rastel Falconi," came the whispered reply.
The boy's eyes darkened in a flash. Before any words could escape, his hand was at the throat, cold, precise, merciless. Air vanished. Vision blurred. Panic clawed at the man's mind. He tried to speak, but no sound came. His tongue refused. He tried to scream—nothing.
Then, the boy leaned closer. "I want your real name. Not the one you hide behind."
The grip loosened slightly. Rastel coughed, hacking violently. Vomit spewed. Tears stung his eyes. His voice came hoarse, broken:
"That… that is my real name. Rastel… it has been my name since childhood. Falconi… the gang I founded."
The boy's gaze lingered, cold and indifferent, then he turned away. "Pathetic," he said, stepping back. "Go home. I will visit in two days. If you are not there… the fault is yours alone."
He handed Rastel the paper. "Sign here," he said, deadpan. Trembling, Rastel pressed his thumb against the ink, feeling the weight of submission crush him from within.
And then… he left.
Rastel remained on his knees for a long while. A hollow laugh escaped his throat. Just one boy… not yet eighteen… had destroyed forty of his men, defeated him, humiliated him. Eight years of struggle evaporated in a single night. The Falconi gang was no more. Everyone is dead… except him.
At least he survived, though his dignity? Long gone, sold to the shadows of memory.
Rising, he staggered forward, each step heavy. Then, suddenly, his foot sank into something soft. He looked down: faeces. Anger flared. He kicked it hard, high into the air, then scraped his shoe violently against the ground, ridding it of every smear. This… this was why he hated the lower districts.
Every step brought the stench closer: urine, rot, unknown liquids pooling everywhere. The houses leaned and sagged, their rotted wood and breached walls ravaged by rain and insects. Every puddle is a reflection of a cruel, mocking world—a world intent on crushing anyone who dares walk it.
Through the darkness, cursing the wretched district, he finally reached his house. It was the best in the slum, though that meant little. Better than the hovels around him, yes—but still a cage, a temporary reprieve from the cruel rain and cold.
He entered. Darkness swallowed him. He collapsed into his room and, finally, sleep claimed him