The night could not have been darker. The sky was moonless, and even the stars refused to blink, a vast, indifferent velvet void. This deep, black vacuum perfectly matched the hum of his own life—a suffocating tunnel whose end he could not see.

  When he had started college, chasing the fragile, shimmering promise of education, he thought he had left the streets behind. But they never left him. At every bend in the road, at the stop of every conversation, at the end of even his brightest day, he found himself standing right where he had begun. Forget the earth, even life was round, a vicious, unending cycle.

  His phone screen lit up, cutting a small, blinding square of light into the gloom. It was a text from Jordan.

  Askai pulled up the shuddering metal shutter of the old garage. Inside sat an ancient bike, bearing a fake registration plate he knew intimately, having screwed it into place years ago. People had a childhood home. The bike—a battered, loyal machine—was all Jordan and Askai had. Their best memories and also the inescapable locus of their worst.

  He pulled off the sheet, revealing the oil-stained metal, and turned the ignition. The engine coughed, then caught with a familiar, hungry roar. The night was still young, and they had brutal work to do.

  “Are you sure this is the way?” Askai whispered, precariously balancing a rotting, unstable chair on three and a half legs.

  “If we go down the front way, the camera is going to be all in our faces, even with the masks. The security will be on us before we hit the first door,” Jordan explained, his voice terse. He was checking the rusty strength of the drainage pipe they intended to climb to the second floor of the neglected hospital wing.

  “All right. I’ll go first.” Askai sighed, hoisting himself onto the joint. His arms strained and his legs shook violently as he struggled to find secure footing on the cold, slippery metal.

  Jordan watched him like a hawk, bracing his stance to catch his friend in case of a fall—a futile gesture, as the combined weight and the subsequent clang would kill them both or bring the entire facility down on their heads. The ground below was cluttered with the kind of decaying tools and shattered refuse they didn’t want to name, let alone invite onto their bodies.

  But Askai had been doing this his whole life. He moved with the trained fluidity of a phantom, scrambling up the pipe in no time. Jordan followed closely behind, the familiar, desperate teamwork a rhythm they knew better than their own heartbeats. They jumped onto a narrow ledge and crawled in through a window whose latch Jordan had skillfully broken during his earlier staking of the place. The floor inside was dark, silent, and empty.

  “Which room?” Askai whispered, his voice catching slightly on the dry air.

  “The third on the right,” Jordan whispered back, his eyes constantly checking their surroundings, relying on a sense of ambient threat honed by years in the West End.

  Askai hummed a low acknowledgement and walked with silent, padded steps toward it. There was a large window in that room facing the corridor, but the curtains had been pulled tight from inside. Alex peeked in from a narrow slit, through which a faint, cold light was spilling out.

  The first thing he saw was a monitor beeping rhythmically by the bed. Zeke was a gruesome mass, entirely covered in wires and tubes. The sight made Askai’s stomach want to retch. The last time he had seen someone helpless in a hospital bed, that person was Kael, and every encounter with a medical facility since had reminded him of the loss he feared the most.

  But he could not—would not—let the old, consuming emotions cloud his judgement tonight.

  Right next to the bed, a heavily built man was keeping a silent vigil. He was not one of Zeke’s usual muscle; Askai could tell by the precise fit of his clothes and the wary, professional stillness of his posture. Another guard stepped into the room from the right, likely emerging from the bathroom. They seemed to be discussing something in low, inaudible tones.

  Askai raised two fingers—two targets—then waved an open palm over his chest—I'll take both, you provide distraction—and Jordan gave a grim nod. Askai stepped away from the door and melted into the dense shadows. Jordan pulled up his mask and his worn monkey cap. He casually walked toward the door, turned the knob, and stepped in.

  The men had turned before the door even creaked, their hands already moving instinctively toward their holstered weapons. They were professionals, highly trained, and Jordan had expected as much. He had only pretended to step in, immediately slamming the door shut again, taking off down the corridor in a desperate sprint. The men were out the door, seconds later, their focus entirely on the retreating footsteps.

  They were not here to guard Zeke; they were waiting for the ones who would attempt the kill.

  One raced after Jordan, while the other planted himself outside the door, staring down the corridor, completely unaware of the threat waiting in the shadows. Askai moved in swiftly and silently, the blade appearing in his hand as though by magic, its edge meeting the guard's throat with practiced, lethal precision.

  He only had seconds before the other guard realized Jordan was nothing but a distraction. Askai pushed open the door and walked toward Zeke. The notorious gang boss was completely unconscious, courtesy of the medical drugs coursing through his veins.

  Too bad. Askai wanted him to stare into his eyes, to recognize the ghost of the boy he had broken, as he finally rid the earth of the scum he was. Askai jammed the knife into Zeke's throat and quickly pulled it back as hot, sickening blood gushed out of the open wound. He wiped the knife on the sheets and made it out of the room. The entire ordeal barely took a minute, but that’s all the time he ever allowed his opponents.

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  He walked back to the window he had climbed through and hoisted himself out onto the pipes. Now, he just needed Jordan to safely make it back. They had only given each other a strict fifteen minutes to finish their tasks and meet at the agreed spot—a creepy, shadowed dumpster behind the wing.

  If either of them went more than fifteen minutes without contact, the other one was to pick up Kael and leave the city, vanishing forever. Only one of us needed to survive for that.

  Askai’s hand trembled as he climbed down the pipes, and this was not the fear of height. He had done this his whole life. This was the fear of the life he had just annihilated, and the new one he had just created.

  He jumped the remaining distance and pulled out his phone. There were still thirteen agonizing minutes to wait.

  Thousands of thoughts raced through his mind in those few moments, and each one was scarier than the last.

  He had no idea how he ended up here, back with a knife in his hand and blood on his shirt. He thought those days were far, impossibly far, behind him now.

  Moraine would make life hell for them, now that Uncle Tommie was no longer in the picture. Things would be even more difficult for Jordan. Askai had no idea what Moraine had in mind for him, but he would find Askai standing in his way, every step that bastard took.

  There was the sound of muted footsteps behind him, and Askai straightened, every nerve ending screaming a warning. He knew Jordan’s footsteps intimately, and those were not the ones he was hearing.

  Fortunately, they were moving away.

  He carefully stepped out of the shadow, taking a quick peek around the wall. His heart was thudding loudly in his chest, but instinct—the life-saving instinct of the street—told him he needed to see whatever was happening in the dark alley.

  Those men again.

  In crisp black suits.

  The kind of tailoring that belonged in boardroom meetings or perhaps exclusive East-End parties, but definitely not on the decaying, vice-ridden streets of the West End.

  A sleek black car suddenly appeared around the corner of that narrow alley. It halted right next to those men, and someone slowly rolled down the window. Askai couldn’t see much because of the profound darkness, but the make and model of the car was unfamiliar.

  A custom-built machine, if his eyes weren’t failing him in the darkness. One that belonged to the Elites of the East End.

  But what would one of them be doing here? They had many hired hounds and intermediaries to do their bidding in the West.

  A man leaned in, and Askai assumed some brief, coded words must have passed. The car barely halted for seconds before suddenly speeding right toward him. Cursing, Askai ducked behind the nearest dumpster and held his breath as the sudden, overwhelming stench assaulted him.

  The car sped by, the roar of its engine cutting through the night. As Askai’s shoulders began to sag in pure, desperate relief, a hand closed like a vice around his shoulder.

  He yelped, startled, but someone immediately covered his mouth.

  “It’s me, Ask!” Jordan harshly whispered, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the running he must have endured. “Why are you acting like a fucking kid?”

  Askai simply shook his head, instantly scanning Jordan down for any injuries. A beanie cap was pulled low over his blonde hair, and the oversized denim shirt over the white vest made him look like some innocent lamb caught among the wolves. Even if the guard had caught up to him, it was hard to believe a face like that could drive a knife into anyone’s heart. An innocent face and a cruel destiny were the worst kind of joke fate could play on him.

  “You seem good,” he murmured quietly, breaking out of his spiraling thoughts. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Jordan nodded, and then, with the practiced speed of survivors, that’s exactly what they did.

  “So who do you think was inside the car?” Jordan asked, popping open another can of cheap beer. He came to sit across from him, on the edge of the other bed, his back leaning against the cool wall.

  This was their ritual. After every hit, every brush with disaster, they would sit like this, with cans of beer in their hands and all the philosophical shit in the world on their tongues—a necessary detox from the brutality.

  This night was different, however. They were worried about their future now, a thing they had never truly harbored any hopes of before.

  “I don’t know,” Askai shrugged, leaning back into his pillow. “But he was definitely from the East End. That car screamed East.”

  “Or maybe some rich wannabe from the West who… aspires… to be a part of their exclusive club?” Jordan offered, though his tone held little conviction.

  “No one can be that stupid and still be alive in the West End,” Askai scoffed, taking a pull of beer. “We are not very accommodating of the flaws. Are we?”

  “This is not good,” Jordan clicked his tongue. “West would never allow the East to lord over them and the East does not tolerate when the filth of the West bleeds into the East. Now, Moraine has a clear intention of making inroads into the East. Uncle Tommie is not there to stop him anymore, and if someone from the East End is acting on the streets of the West, we would never survive the resulting war.”

  Askai mulled over Jordan’s words. The alcohol was making his thoughts slow but dangerously uninhibited. They were slipping into zones he had never earlier dared to venture.

  “But who was stopping Uncle Tommie?” Askai asked, gazing through the window at the monstrous, indifferent structure which was the Central Wing of their University. “The man was wise as an owl, clever as a fox. His ambition had no bounds, but he never dared to step toward the East. He lorded over the West and kept everyone in check. What stopped him?”

  “You think there is someone in the East who was reigning in Uncle Tommie?” Jordan said with a sigh, genuinely astounded at the extent of his friend’s imagination. “You remember why we call the man ‘Uncle Tommie,’ don’t you?”

  How could Askai ever forget those gory details? He had almost shat his pants the night before Moraine was supposed to introduce them to the man, and he had been fourteen then.

  “That makes it even more probable,” Askai countered, sitting up, conviction hardening his voice. “Why would a crazy man like him keep the entire West in check? To what end? Think! The East always uses the West as means to do their dirty work, but what is making the East so indispensable to us that we do their bidding without stabbing them in their back? When did ethics and morals become our selling point? The West only responds to the Stick. We don’t believe in carrots. Mark my words,” Askai finished with a huge hand gesture, the beer sloshing slightly in the can. “East is holding that Stick.”

  Jordan sat back, his eyes closing for a moment as he took everything in, quietly joining his own dots. He had been with Moraine for a long time before leaving him for good, but never in those years had he ever heard him talking about any such deep organization in the East. But he did remember a certain visitor, very interesting, very demanding, who occasionally came through.

  “Stay away from Vance. His family is nothing but trouble.” Jordan said, his head hitting the pillow, eyes closing on their own. He was profoundly drained—emotionally, physically. The day had left him wrecked. He could barely keep his eyes open now; this conversation had to wait just another day.

  “Hmm,” Askai nodded slowly, the logic of his friend’s warning suddenly chillingly clear.

  His eyes closed on their own, and his last thought was the single, heavy truth that sealed his fate:

  Easier said than done!