CHAPTER 1: Ashes of the Past

  The smoke engulfed my surroundings, choking my lungs as I gasped for air. My body ached, pinned under the rubble of a destroyed building. Every movement sent a jolt of pain through me. I called out, tears streaking my soot-covered face.

  “Mom? Where are you?”

  I crawled forward, my legs refusing to cooperate. Through the fog, I saw her. My mother. Blood trickled down her forehead, her once-strong frame battered and bruised. Yet she found the strength to reach me, a nine-year-old child trapped in the ruins.

  She lifted me up with trembling arms and carried me out, each step a testament to her willpower. Placing me on the cracked pavement outside, she crouched down, her voice steady but urgent.

  “Stay here, Aeon. There are still people inside. I’ll be right back.”

  “No, Mom! Don’t go!” I cried, clutching her arm.

  She smiled, brushing the tears from my face. “Listen, Aeon. God will protect me. And remember, when you have the power to change something, you must do it.”

  With that, she turned and disappeared back into the building. That was the last time I saw her.

  I woke up with a start, my eyes damp.

  “Damn it... that dream again.” I wiped my face and glanced at the clock. 6:00 AM.

  “What a fantastic way to start the day,” I muttered, lighting a cigarette and stepping onto the balcony.

  The sunrise painted the city in hues of orange and pink, but I found no solace in its beauty. Twelve years had passed since that day. Playing the hero, following the will of God—that’s where it got you, Mom.

  Across the street, movement caught my eye. A woman stood on a neighboring balcony, waving at me. Her face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her name. Keeping my expression neutral, I ignored her and stubbed out the cigarette. Time for my daily routine.

  My makeshift gym greeted me with its collection of battered equipment. Training had become a ritual—a way to keep my mind and body sharp. After 40 minutes, I stood before the mirror, sweat dripping down my scarred torso. An athlete’s body stared back, marred by memories etched into flesh.

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  After a quick shower, I dressed and headed to work—a dead-end job at a corner store that barely covered the bills.

  On the way, I felt a presence behind me. Footsteps.

  “Oh, hey, Aeon, right? Didn’t you see me this morning?”

  It was the woman from the balcony—a petite blonde, a foot shorter than me. Her makeup was meticulously applied, but the cloying perfume she wore made my nose wrinkle.

  “No, I didn’t see you,” I replied curtly.

  “You look tired. Trouble sleeping?” she asked, her tone laced with concern.

  ‘What does she want? Can’t she leave me alone?’

  “I know what might cheer you up. Dinner tonight? I know a great spot with amazing food for cheap!”

  “I have plans,” I lied.

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  The least rude way to shut this down? Oh, right. “No.”

  Her expression faltered as I quickened my pace, leaving her standing there, stunned.

  Work was the usual grind: mindless transactions punctuated by angry customers blaming me for things beyond my control. The long shift dragged from morning into night.

  On the walk home, a cigarette dangling from my lips, I spotted a plane descending toward the nearby airport. The sight stirred something in me—a distant dream of flying, of freedom.

  “Keep walking, asshole, or you’re next.”

  The threat pulled me back to reality. In a nearby alley, a group of thugs surrounded a teenager, kicking him while he lay curled on the ground.

  I froze, memories flooding back. After Mom died, a gang leader—someone who claimed to be my father’s friend—took me in. But it wasn’t charity. He used me to deliver drugs, steal, and survive in a world no child should endure. Beatings from rival gangs were a regular occurrence, leaving scars that never fully healed.

  I walked on, shoving the guilt aside. I wasn’t a hero. It wasn’t my business—or so I told myself.

  A notification buzzed on my phone:

  “Unfinished payment. Fist emoji”

  It came with a location.

  I grinned. I never really left the gang life, I was the gang lord henchman.

  The location was an apartment, it was small and filthy, the stench of garbage and stale air clinging to every surface. The dealer inside tried to flee out the window when he saw me, but I grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the floor. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated—he was high.

  “You know the boss hates it when sellers use the product instead of selling it,” I growled, circling him like a predator.

  “P-please! I only took a little!” he stammered, trembling.

  My boot connected with his stomach, and he crumpled, gasping in pain.

  “If I let you off now, you’ll take more next time. You know the rules.”

  I pinned him down, locking his hands under my knees, and let the adrenaline take over. My fists met his face, over and over. His nose broke with a sickening crunch, and his eyes swelled shut.

  Blood dripped from my knuckles as I stood over him, my breath ragged. “Sell the next batch. All of it.”

  As the rush faded, guilt crept in.

  Mom, what would you think if you saw me now?