I walked down the desolate street, the cobblestones slick with frost and grime, the air biting my skin like needles. A few citizens huddled next to burn barrels in small, shadowed alleys, their breath visible in the frigid air. I never quite understood them. They gave you warmth, yes, but it was a false comfort—crackling flames that flickered in the wind and only seemed to highlight how disgusting the streets had become. The stench of old refuse and stale sweat clung to the air, thick enough to taste.

  Well, not like I can blame them. It is terrifyingly cold these days, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, making you feel like you'd never really been warm to begin with. The south side? They don’t even care. They don’t care about this side of the city, not about us, the ones who scrape by in the dark. If we didn't do what we did, they'd leave us to rot. No, the people on the south side wouldn’t even glance at the trash heap we call a district. They’ll never know the kind of cold we endure.

  A man, his coat frayed and hanging loosely off his shoulders, suddenly pointed. His face went pale, eyes wide with panic. "The Suits! Hide..." he barked, voice strained and cracking. Without waiting for a reply, he bolted back into his alley, disappearing into the shadows where I wouldn’t follow him. Not that I wanted to, anyway.

  The Suits. The clan I was a part of. We were the ones who controlled the wealth. And yet here we were, the only ones keeping this side of the city alive. It’s funny, in a grim way. We extort, we kill, but it’s all for survival. Some have to be sacrificed for the many, and that's common knowledge in this life. It’s the only way I survived.

  I laughed, letting the sound bounce off the cold, empty streets. "Today's gonna be a good day, today's payday!" The words felt good to say, the promise of money lighting something in me. My friend Nick chuckled in agreement. "Can't wait to get back to base. Being around these cretin... disgusting." He spat the words out like they tasted sour, his disgust clear. But we weren’t above it. We had to make a living somehow.

  We moved to a small bench tucked away in a quiet corner of the street, a wooden relic of a time when people still had reasons to gather outside. A table sat in front of it, worn by years of use but still sturdy enough. These benches used to be filled with families in the warmer months a few years back, but now, with winter settled in like a stubborn stain, the benches were rarely used, save for those seeking a brief respite from the cold.

  I pulled out a deck of cards from my pocket and began shuffling them absentmindedly. "Blackjack or Poker?" I asked, glancing over at Nick. He rubbed his hands together, a futile attempt to warm them up, then looked down at the deck.

  He thought for a moment, then shoved the small lantern to the far side of the table. "Blackjack," he said, "four silver each for betting?"

  I dropped the deck on the table, done with the shuffle. I dug into my shirt pocket, feeling the smooth leather of my coin wallet. "Lucky I carry that exact amount on me." I said, pulling out the coins and placing them on the table with a soft clink.

  The cold settled around us, but the warmth from our little game was enough to fend off the worst of it, for now. We were halfway through the ninth round when something caught my eye to the right.

  It was Granny Joan. She was sitting outside her cluttered clothing shop, a small building that always smelled faintly of wool and patchouli, her fingers working furiously at a piece of knitted cloth. She had on her heavy winter coat, her face framed by the gray strands of hair that had long since escaped her bonnet. I hadn’t noticed her at first, not until I saw the familiar, comforting motion of her knitting needles.

  She was one of the few who sold clothes in this part of town, and she sold them cheap, which made her beloved by those who couldn’t afford anything better. It also made her a target. I saw her eyes flick up from her work, scanning the street, but there was no one left to help her if things went south. Her husband, the weak and poor man, was getting on in years, barely able to shuffle around anymore. He was no help when the thieves came.

  I looked down at my cards: a six of spades and a four of hearts. Not much. I let out a small sigh and placed them face-down on the table. "I've kept track of how much I lost, and it’s a fair amount," I said, pushing my cards aside. I glanced at Nick. "I want to make my money back. How about we make do by asking Joan for her protection fee?"

  Nick raised an eyebrow, intrigued but hesitant.

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  Earlier, that man who’d bolted when the Suits showed up had been homeless. The kind of guy who’d have stolen from Joan without a second thought if he’d thought he could get away with it. We were the deterrent. We were the ones who made sure the thieves didn't get too comfortable around here.

  We walked across the street, hands stuffed deep into our pockets, the bitter wind biting at our faces. My boots crunched on the frozen ground as I moved toward Granny Joan’s shop. The flickering glow of the lanterns inside cast long shadows on the street, making the whole place feel like a ghost town. When she saw us, Granny Joan’s face lit up with a smile, like she didn’t yet understand what was coming.

  I smiled back, but it was cold. "Granny Joan, it's time to pay our protection fee." My voice was steady, but underneath, I could feel that familiar rush—control, power. I’d need to give thirty percent to the boss, but we’d still walk away with a few silver. More than enough for the trouble.

  Granny Joan’s smile faltered as soon as she heard those words. Her face fell, and she let out a tired sigh. "But... that’s not for another two and a half weeks..." she said, her voice small and defeated. She sounded like she’d been worn down by years of dealing with people like us, and hell, she should be.

  I couldn’t help it. The frustration bubbled up, the years of this same game grinding against my patience. Without a second thought, I slapped her across the face, a sharp crack echoing in the cold air. I pulled my punch, just enough not to kill her, but the sting of it had to register.

  Her hand flew to her cheek, and I saw her eyes water up. The old woman was fragile, but still, that defiance was something I respected.

  I leaned in closer, my voice dropping low. "The homeless are getting restless. If you don’t pay... word might spread that the Suits aren't protecting Joan's anymore."

  She glared at me, the last semblance of her pride flaring up in her eyes. That brief spark of fight.

  I didn’t let it linger. I pulled back and delivered a punch to her stomach, not too hard, but enough to knock the wind out of her. She staggered back, spitting a mouthful of blood, her knees buckling under her. She clutched her chest, gasping for air.

  Her blood landed on my suit. I looked down at the stain, a faint red blotch against the black fabric. Wiping it off, I muttered, “Why, that’s no good.”

  Just then, the door to the shop flew open with a loud bang, and out stepped a figure who made not just my skin, but my muscles run cold.

  A literal giant. He had long, wild blue hair, and he was dressed in a sharp, expensive-looking outfit, a scarf draped over his broad shoulders. The muscles underneath were like something out of a beast’s anatomy—bulging and threatening to tear through the fabric. For a moment, I froze.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  Instinctively, I took a half-step back. The towering man placed his right hand over his chest, and his voice rumbled like thunder. "My name is Zion Yugait." he said with a kind of calm that only someone who knew exactly how dangerous they were could pull off.

  I tried to act tough, but there was a knot tightening in my stomach. "Why do we care for your name?!" I spat, forcing myself to hold my ground.

  Zion’s eyes narrowed, and the smile that spread across his face was pure menace.

  "Because you should know the name of the man who killed you."

  Zion moved like a force of nature, too fast for me to react. His fist connected with Nick’s skull, and the noise made shook me to my core. Nick’s head snapped backward, eyes wide, mouth agape as blood sprayed out in a grotesque arc, painting the ground and me with a warm, sticky shower. Zion's other fist slammed into Zachary’s head with equal force. His body crumpled as if it were nothing more than a ragdoll, and his head flew off like a broken apple from a tree, leaving behind a fountain of red that splattered across my coat.

  I sat there, frozen in shock, the blood still dripping off me as the two lifeless bodies hit the ground. Zion didn’t even break a sweat. He reached down and grabbed their legs with ease, lifting them high into the air as if they weighed nothing. With a swift, effortless motion, he threw their bodies into the sky. I watched as their forms disappeared into the distance, a final arc that would end with them freezing long after they reached the edge of Hasfra.

  The blood from the men stained the streets, and I could feel the wetness on my skin as Zion slowly turned to face me. His smile was a strange mix of satisfaction and something darker, but the gesture was all too calm, almost casual. "In return for my help, these clothes are free, okay?" His voice was low, yet there was no malice in it—just an eerie sort of finality.

  Custom-tailored, these clothes had cost more than a decent chunk of change, but in that moment, it was nothing. I knew better than to argue. The way he moved, the way he handled those men... it was clear that Zion was far beyond anything I had ever seen. I nodded, wiping the blood off my face with the back of my hand, still trying to shake off the horror of the violence I’d just witnessed.

  "Sure," I muttered. "but the rest of those guys, they'll come back."

  Zion’s eyes sharpened, the calm demeanor fading just a bit, his gaze turning colder, sharper. He knelt down slowly, his massive frame towering over me, and began to wipe the blood from my clothes with a cloth he’d pulled from inside his coat. There was something almost tender in the way he did it, as if he had all the time in the world, wiping away the remnants of violence was a ritual for him. The gentleness in his actions felt unnatural, like a predator carefully cleaning its claws.

  "I will never let them come back." he said, his voice steady but full of an unshakable certainty. His eyes locked onto mine, cold and piercing, and I felt the weight of his words settle like a stone in my chest.

  "For without violence, there is no peace."