NEMESIS GRINS AT THE MAFIA BOSS

You're all done today, no escape for any of you. A gun fired. The enemies were almost invisible to Robinson's group. They responded to the attack, but it was too late. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp odour of burning rubber. Robinson's heart pounded in his ears as he ran down the empty alley, his breathing in coarse gasps. Gunfire spreads across the night like fireworks, the echoes bouncing off the grime-stained walls. His palms trembled, wet with sweat, as he tightened his grip on the gun shoved in his waistband.

It was going to be a simple deal. A routine exchange. Quick cash, no problem. But now his crew was dead.

The ambush had been swift and merciless. A moment ago, Robinson and his people were laughing together, stacking bundles of cash into their duffel bags. The next was bullets that tore through the air, bringing his guys down before they could even draw their weapons. Blood sprayed along the concrete floor, warm and sticky. Screams still echoed in his head.

His best friend, Bayo, was the first to go. A bullet straight through his forehead. His body had crumpled like a discarded ragdoll. Another one of his guys, Idris, had barely turned before a rain of bullets shredded through his chest.

Now, Robinson was alone.

Boom! boom! Boom! His boots pounded the pavement as he fled behind a rusty dumpster. Slowly, like a chameleon, he reclined back against the cold metal, his chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. His mind rushed. Who the devil had set them up?

A shadow flickered in the dim streetlight.

Robinson stood.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

A hard swallow, the gun stuck to the shaking hands. The heart thudded against the ribs like a bass drum on a subwoofer as the man stepped forward. A black leather-jacketed guy, rifle thrown over his shoulder, whistled softly.

Then, the man stopped. Just a few feet away.

Robinson barely breathed.

"It's done," he murmured. "They're all dead." The man reported over the phone.

Not all of us.

Robinson's muscles coiled like a loaded spring. He had one chance. If he missed, he was dead.

He jumped at the man, with his hand clamped over the man's mouth before he could scream. He pressed the cold barrel of his gun to the back of his skull with the other hand. The man's body went rigid, his breath hitching.

"Who sent you?" Robinson hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man trembled. "P-please, man... I-I was just following orders-"

"Who?" Robinson tightened his grip.

The man took a sharp breath. And then-

A gunshot rang out.

A hot spray of blood on Robinson's face. The man jerked, eyes wide in shock. His head was pierced through by the bullet, blood trickling down his temple. His body slumped forward, dead before hitting the ground.

Robinson's heart raced.

Someone else was there.

Someone who didn't want him to know the truth.

He whirled around, gun raised-

But the alley was empty.

Only the distant wail of sirens filled the night air.

And Robinson knew that whoever had orchestrated this massacre was still watching. Waiting.

Frozen, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his heart pounded harder than ever before. The man at his feet-his only lead-lay lifeless, his skull split open from a sniper's bullet.

Whoever had set them up was still out there watching.

Robinson tightened his grip on his pistol, taking slow steps backwards. His mind screamed," Move! Move! But his legs felt like lead. Like a furious drumbeat so pounds the heart against his ribs.

Then-

A rustling sound.

Robinson spun, gun raised.

Nothing. Just the shifting shadows cast by the flickering streetlights.

Then, a soft click.

His gut twisted. A sniper was locking in their next shot.

Another shot tore through the air, but luckily for him, he had dropped to the ground just a mini seconds before. The bullet whizzed past his ear, embedding itself into the dumpster behind him with a loud clang!

Rolling behind a stack of wooden crates, like steam, he evaporated into the shadows. His ears rang from the close call, but he forced himself to stay still. His only chance was to figure out where the shots were coming from.

A third shot. It hit the crate he was hiding behind, splintering the wood.

They're moving in.

Looking around the edge, he saw a figure across the alley, on the rooftop of an old warehouse, crouching, adjusting their rifle. Their face was obscured by a dark hood.

His blood turned to ice.

This wasn't just a setup. This was a cleanup.

Whoever they were, they didn't just want him dead. They wanted him erased. No loose ends.

Robinson didn't plan on dying tonight.

He took a deep breath and thought about what to do. Then he spotted a rusty, bent fire escape ladder on the side of the nearest building. It was his last resort.

He rolled the dice.

Jumping out of concealment, he sprinted. Another bullet sang out, lucky again, it zipped past him by inches. He leapt, hardly touching, his chest gripped around the metal rungs of the ladder. The rusty steel groaned under him, but he climbed up in haste.

Another bullet. It hit the ladder just beneath his foot. He climbed more rapidly.

The sniper swore on the roof. They were losing him.

By the time he was at the top of the fire escape, the sniper was in motion, making his way towards the opposite end of the roof.

Robinson ran across the roof. Though his muscles burned, he did not slacken. If only he could get to the opposite side, he could jump to the next building and disappear into the maze of alleys below.

Caught a glimpse of- just in time to see the sniper pull out a pistol. Robinson was in peril.

They're not waiting for a clean shot anymore.

A bullet whizzed past his shoulder. The roof is too open, he was a moving target with nowhere to hide.

A burst of adrenaline flowed through his veins. He was out of time.

There was a rusty water tank in front of him. If he could get behind it, he'd have time to catch his breath.

He strained harder. The sniper managed to get a second shot off. Now the bullet only grazed his arm, a searing lash cutting through the skin. He cursed, taking cover behind the tank.

Shuddering, he leaned against the cold metal, gasping for breath. His shoulder throbbed from the graze, warm blood trickling down his arm.

I have to end this.

He peeked out. The sniper was approaching slowly, gun raised, eyes scanning the rooftop.

Now or never.

Robinson moved fast. Grabbing a loose metal pipe from the ground and flinging it toward the opposite end of the roof, the sniper jerked toward the noise, distracted.

Robinson seized the moment.

He launched himself forward. The sniper barely turned before Robinson tackled them to the ground.

Guns screeched across the rooftop. Fumbling for a knife strapped to their waist, Robinson grabbed their wrist, twisted it with every ounce of strength in him. The sniper groaned in agony.

And then Robinson yanked off the hood.

His blood ran cold.

A woman.

Sweat and dirt smeared across her face, ferocious and set eyes locked on his. A scar slanted down her jaw, her dark hair piled high in a tight braid.

Robinson was not frozen in the face, but by the tattoo on her wrist.

A snake wrapped around a dagger.

He knew that symbol.

The Vultures.

A brutal cartel known for wiping out entire gangs overnight. If they were after him, it meant one thing-

Someone had hired them to take him out.

The woman smirked. "You're dead, Robinson.

Knee slammed into his stomach. Pain erupted through his ribs. He stumbled back.

She lunged for her gun.

Robinson kicked it away, sending it flying off the rooftop.

The woman cursed.

Running for the edge of the roof, she jumped.

Robinson had thought she was trying to commit suicide, but instead she landed professionally on the flat roof beneath her, rolling into a crouch.

She turned around and gave him a last look.

Then she said to him, "Next time, you won't be so lucky." And into the night she disappeared. Robinson stayed there, his body aching, his head spinning.

Who had sold them out?

And why were the Vultures after them?

One thing was certain.

This wasn't over.

His heart pounded, feet jerked swiftly like a hyena. To the gun clung the shaky hands. Every step seemed like an eternity had gone by, but the truth of the ambush kept sinking like a chilled soda drink on a sunny day.

He had only just narrowly escaped death, but now something weightier pulled at his guts, an unsettling sense of foreboding. Something was not right. He didn't know what, but he felt it deep inside him. He stopped, breathing in rough gasps, and pulled out his phone. The screen still cracked from the last time he'd thrown it in anger.

A message.

His finger hovered over the screen, his eyes narrowing. It was from his cousin, Titi. His belly tightened as he read the message.

Robinson, you need to come home. Your parents. It's bad. Please, come.

His blood ran cold.

"Home?" He spoke the word aloud, as if it would change the meaning somehow. The last time he was home was a time before the gang, before the strife, before he became someone he did not even recognise in the mirror. That home, with its small, worn walls and the gentle hum of his mother's laugh, was a distant memory now.

On his way home, his mind was a mess of thoughts-images of his mother's friendly smile, his father's stern expression, but a warm face. Yet something had generated a flash of panic that had headed straight to his stomach. What was it? Why wasn't Titi telling him?

The city was noisy, but it seemed muted in his ears as he journeyed. The swinging lampposts cast long shadows, and the world narrowed down to one tunnel of black. His legs and other body parts hurt, but he didn't care.

He opened the door.

The house was quiet.

Robinson's heart thudded within him as he stepped into the house, his gaze taking in the room lit by shadows. His mother's favorite chair stood near the window, empty. His father's shoes were placed at the door, but there was silence.

No smile. No laughter.

"Titi?" he called, his trembling voice as he proceeded deeper into the building.

Quiet.

The only sound in the room was the floorboards creaking under his feet.

He wandered around the house, his head befuddled, his eyes fixed on the old family picture of him and his parents, grinning at family reunions. He was queasy as he passed by the old kitchen, where his mother would hum at dinnertime.

Finally, he arrived in the living room. And there, sprawled on the sofa,

"Titi, what is it?!" Robinson rushed to her, panting in ragged gasps.

She didn't look at him. She stared down at the ground, lips quivering. She was ten years older in those last few hours.

"I. I didn't know what to say to you," she breathed, her voice barely audible. Robinson. Your parents... they're dead."

Robinson stiffened. The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. His face went white, his legs trembling. Gone? His parents couldn't go. They had to be-no, they couldn't be.

Gone! To where?

"I-I don't get it." His voice cracked as he grasped Titi's shoulders, shaking her softly. "What do you mean, they're not here?"

Titi's eyes filled with tears, and she finally looked up at him. Her face was blotchy, her cheeks streaked with the marks of sleepless nights. "Robinson, your mother... she she-she died giving birth. "And your father-" She choked on her words, her breath ragged. "Your father...had a heart attack while thinking of your disappearance into the underworld earlier, before your mother's death."

The world tipped, spinning off beneath him. He jerked back, shoulders scraping against the wall. His dad's lost? His mom-dead? No, no. He couldn't catch his breath. He couldn't think. He couldn't understand. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

He shook his head. "No. No, you're lying. They can't be... they can't..."

Titi's eyes softened with sorrow. "I wish I were lying. I wish I could take it back. But Robinson, it's true."

Robinson's world turned upside down. He felt the ground had been pulled from under him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed on the floor, his chest heaving as waves of grief engulfed him. His mind whirled in a thousand different directions. How? Why? Why had he not been there? Why hadn't he returned home sooner? As a young teenager, his peers had a very great negative influence on him, leading to his disappearance into the underworld. He couldn't be more sorrowful as he missed the warmth of family he once had before he took a bow of shame to nothingness- the underworld.

Titi knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she placed them on his shoulders. "Robinson, your mother's last wish... she wanted you to come back. She never gave up on you."

The tears welled up in his eyes, his throat closing under the pressure of it all. His parents were lost forever. The pain hit him like a hammer. He had stayed away too long, too deep in the underworld. He had abandoned them. And now... now they were never coming back.

But then, as if to add salt to the wound, a phone rang. Robinson barely registered the sound, his body numb, his mind spiralling into darkness. Titi's phone.

She grabbed the phone with a shaking hand, her voice shaking. "Hello?"

Robinson did not hear what was said next.

She spoke once more, but what she said sent Robinson's blood cold.

A sickening realisation washed over him, a hollow void in his chest. His sister? But. How? His mind grappled to wrap itself around it all.

How could she be alive?

Before he could speak, Titi put the phone down, her face pale and grim. "Robinson... your mother didn't die alone. She gave birth to a baby girl... she named her Lucy before she died."

Robinson's world spun again. His mother had died, giving birth to his sister.

But why had no one told him? Why hadn't anyone-?

His thoughts were interrupted by the distant wailing of sirens, shattering the otherwise peaceful night. Robinson's stomach twisted. Police? Or something worse?

Suddenly, the door exploded open and Robinson's heart leapt up into his throat. The police? A raid? His mind whirled, adrenaline coursing through him as he instinctively went for his gun hidden in the waistband of his jeans.

But then he saw it.

A man in a suit.

And then another.

Both are carrying official documents.

Robinson's eyes widened.

The twist he hadn't expected.

The letter in the man's hand.

A death certificate. His mother. His father's.

And there, at the bottom of the page, something that sent a chill down his spine:

The child, Lucy, was also missing.

His sister... missing?

Robinson's breath hitched. His entire world shattered in an instant.

Who had taken her? And where was she now?

Streets flooded with rivers of filth and broken dreams as the city gets pounded by the rain. Heavy grief pressed on him as though it were a 100 kg weight placed on him. He walked down the street in the rain. Face hidden in the hood.

He was not the same man who had hurried home days earlier, desperate to be with his parents. That man had died the moment he had read the death certificates, the moment he knew his sister, his last bit of family, was dead.

Now, there was only the hollow, angry version of himself.

A streetlamp buzzed and fluttered above his head as he walked toward the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. This was the meeting place. Where the nightmares ceased, or began.

The gang he once belonged the one that had been ambushed- had playground antics compared to the gang he was meeting tonight. The Venom Fangs. Ruthless. Relentless. Powerful. If you needed protection, money, or revenge, you went to them.

But once you were in, there was no turning back.

Robinson exhaled, his breath misting in the chill air. He was not here to go back.

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision. Then another. Men and women stepped into the light, faces hidden under hoods and masks. One tall man shouldered forward, his presence a vacuum, drawing the air toward him.

Devon Black. The leader.

"Late," Devon said, his voice smooth, but sharp, like a knife scraping against glass.

Robinson stared back at him, his hands fidgeting at his sides. "I came to join."

A low laughter ran through the crowd. Someone spat on the floor. Another muttered something Robinson couldn't pick up.

Devon tilted his head, regarding him. "You think you can just walk in here and insist on getting in?" He stepped toward him, crunching gravel with his boots. "You've got blood on your hands, kid?"

A commotion erupted suddenly- someone pulled a man forward, pushing him to his knees in front of Robinson. A man, trembling, was staring at him; his hands bound behind him, a gash on his cheek, crimson with blood.

Robinson's heart pounded in his ears.

"This rat burgled from us," Devon said, nodding toward the man. "If you're in, take him out."

The gun was heavier than it ought to have been as it was pushed into Robinson's hand. The cold steel bit into his palm like a cruel reminder of the choice before him.

The man on the ground cried. "Please," he begged. "I have a family."

Robinson's grip tightened on the gun.

He thought of his own family. The ones who were already gone.

He thought of Lucy.

A sharp breath. A second of hesitation.

Then-

A gunshot shattered the night.

The body slumped. The rain washed the blood into the cracks of the pavement.

Robinson didn't feel anything.

Devon grinned. "Welcome to the Venom Fangs."

A hand clapped against Robinson's shoulder, and the group erupted into murmurs. But his mind was empty, his heart cold.

The last piece of him had just died.

Then, just as the surrounding voices faded into the night, another gunshot rang this time from the rooftops.

A scream. A flash of movement.

And before Robinson could react, the world exploded into chaos.

A night of chaos, full of shouts and fire exchanges. The initiation had turned into chaos following the gunfire from the rooftop. Footsteps thudded on the sidewalk. Robinson scarcely had time to consider before Devon yanked him back into the shadows.`

"Sniper!" someone shouted.

Robinson's mind spun. He hadn't even had a moment to think about what he'd just done-what he'd just become-before a new horror was revealed to him.

Venom Fangs fled and ran, dashing behind dumpsters, crates, whatever. A second bullet cracked, hitting the ground inches from Robinson's boot. His muscles froze.

"MOVE!" Devon shouted, shoving him through a rusty metal door. Robinson staggered through, catching himself by the hair as the door closed behind him.

Inside, it was thick with cigarette smoke and perspiration. The warehouse itself was enormous, a labyrinth of steel columns and boxes, lost corners in the dark. Devon's gang members were already there, sharing hushed words among themselves, eyes flicking in Devon's direction.

"We have a problem," one of them snarled.

"No kidding." Devon's voice was cold, calm. He turned to Robinson, his eyes dark and calculating. "Congratulations, rookie. Looks like your first job's coming sooner than expected."

Robinson's pulse hammered. "What job?"

Devon smirked. "The one that proves you belong here."

Time dragged on as Robinson sat in the back of a sleek black SUV, his knees bouncing nervously. His fingers followed the shape of the gun in his lap. The city lay before him, yellow streetlights bleeding into the darkness, a pulsating world oblivious to the conflict simmering just beneath the surface.

Devon sat beside him, spinning a knife between his fingers."Your first major job's simple," he said. "There's a politician, a big name. But he's got debts-debts he ain't paid." He flicked the knife up, caught it effortlessly. "Your job? Collect."

Robinson swallowed hard. "And if he refuses?"

Devon grinned. "Then you make him regret it."

Robinson nodded, his fist around the gun. Heart pounding. Of course, he knew violence, but this was not the same. There was no gang war, no revenge. This was business.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a towering glass hotel. Devon gave Robinson a lazy nod. "Go on then, kid. Show us you belong."

Robinson stepped out, adjusting his hoodie. Every step toward the hotel felt heavier, like he was walking deeper into something he could never escape.

He wondered how he would make it out of the hotel, seeing that politicians usually have heavy guards around them. But little did he know that the boys working for the sanetor are Peter's ( a deadly drug lord, an ally to the leader of the 'fwangs', Devon). That way, Peter played his game into the corridors of power to have his crimes covered by the lawmakers and authorities. The boys have been instructed not to respond to any threat today. And the senator is now in for it.

Inside, the atmosphere was chilly, expensive. A man in a navy-blue suit was sitting by himself at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. Senator Douglas was his name.

Robinson walked in. "Senator."

The man glanced up, frowning. "Do I know you?"

"You owe the Venom Fangs."

Silence. "The senator was shocked to hear that. The senator whispered, his voice shaking. "I need more time." I swear, I"

Robinson's restraint cracked. Swift as an eagle to the prey, so went Robinson on him. Hand to the lapels and then a yank out of the chair.

The bartender gasped, and a few of the customers turned to look, but no one could step in.

"Walk," ordered Robinson.

On unsteady legs, he led him to the back of the hotel. Robinson held him tight, his own heart working regularly. He felt Devon's eyes on him from the waiting car outside, waiting. Watching.

It was darkly lit outside the alleyway and had an odor of spoiled food. Robinson shoved the senator into the wall of the bricks.

"Last chance," Robinson commanded, waving the gun. "Where's the money?"

"I, I don't have it," the senator stuttered. "Please, I just need ...."

Robinson never gave him the space to land the lies he had just cooked; rather, he pressed the barrel against the man's forehead. The seriousness of the situation was daunting. There could be no turning back if he pulled the trigger.

Just a moment of uncertainty.

The senator's phone rang in his pocket. Robinson's eyes flicked down, and before he could react-

A sudden movement.

The senator lunged.

The gun fired.

Blood sprayed against the wall. The senator collapsed, gasping, his hands clutching his stomach. His mouth opened as if to say something, but the words never came.

Robinson's breathing was ragged. The gun shook in his hand. His first major crime. His first step into the abyss.

Then-

A voice crackled in his earpiece. Devon.

"Leave him."

Robinson hesitated, staring at the dying man. "What?"

"We got what we needed."

Robinson glanced down. The senator's phone had fallen to the ground, the screen glowing with a text message.

"The money has been moved. It's safe now."

Safe where?

Robinson's mind spun. This wasn't just about debts. There was something bigger at play.

He turned to leave, but before he could take a step.

The senator grabbed his ankle.

His lips moved.

A whisper.

A name.

Robinson's blood ran cold.

"...Lucy."

The world tilted.

His sister?

How did this man know her name?

The senator coughed, blood pooling beneath him. His hand slipped away. His body went still.

Robinson stared, his breath frozen in his lungs.

Devon's voice came through the earpiece again, sharper this time. "Get back in the car, rookie."

But Robinson barely heard him.

His sister's name.

What the hell was going on?