Hayden's POV
Isaaq probably thought I was still at school. Maybe even looking for me by now. But I wasn't there.
I'd gotten back in touch with the old geezer — he said he had a job for me.
The target was last spotted at a hotel not too far off, and apparently, I was the best shot he had.
So, I ditched school and took it.
Not because I wanted to — I didn't.
But I needed the distraction.
It was an easy one any way and I wasted no time getting the job done.
The room reeked of blood and cheap cologne. I sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, the weight of the blade still warm in my hand. Crimson streaks dried along the handle, sticking to my skin like guilt I couldn't wash off.
Another side task, another dead bastard.
I picked up the burner and hit the only number saved in it.
"Hello?"
"It's done," I said, voice flat.
"Excellent. I knew I could count on you."
I let out a dry scoff. "I'm sending you everything I got out of him in a text. Check your mail in five."
There was a pause, then, "Oh. Alright."
I didn't care for their approval. I just had one question. "Is the boss around?"
Silence.
Then the voice came back, quieter this time. "Hayden, I don't know what's going through your head… but whatever you're thinking, don't fucking do it."
"Don't act like you fucking know me," I snapped.
"Know you?" He sounded wounded. "I raised you. I raised your damn brother too. Don't stand there pretending like I don't see right through you. You're about to—"
Click. I ended the call and crushed the phone in my palm, pieces of plastic scattering across the carpet.
"Fuuuuuck…" I hissed, dragging my hands down my face.
I glanced at the body still lying motionless on the bed. Staring at it didn't make me feel better, but I couldn't look away. Eventually, I forced myself up and headed to the bathroom.
The faucet squealed. I splashed cold water over my face, trying to wash away more than just the blood. When I looked up, the mirror didn't even reflect me — just a ghost with my jawline and a stare I didn't recognize.
"Isaaq…" I whispered, lips barely moving. "I hope you don't hate me after this."
A beat passed.
Then I scoffed. "Who am I kidding?"
I threw on a clean shirt and jacket. The hallway outside the hotel was quiet, too quiet. My steps echoed louder than they should have, like guilt was following me.
My mind tugged in two directions. I could go back to school, bump into Isaaq by "accident," pretend this mess didn't exist and hold onto him again. He'd believe me. He always did.
But this? This mission? It was bigger than the both of us.
Still, I waited. I half-expected Aiden to show up and chew me out like always — another lecture, more yelling, telling me I was spiraling.
Nothing.
I looked up at the clouds above the city. "Isaaq, I'm so sorry."
Then I turned, and walked straight to headquarters.
I reached headquarters with blood on my hands—both literal and otherwise. My mind was a mess, but my face? Stone. Cold. Focused.
First rule: don't show weakness.
The place looked the same, but something about it felt different. Maybe it was me. Assassins filled the halls like roaches. Some I recognized. Most I didn't. A bunch of unfamiliar faces acting like they belonged here. Like this place was theirs.
Tch. Disgusting.
I was almost at the elevator when some steroid freak stepped in front of me. Bald head. Neck too thick to turn. Covered in shitty tattoos.
"Hey, kid," he said, grinning. "Haven't seen your sweet ass around here before. You sure you're in the right place?"
This stupid prick.
My eyes scanned him up and down. Probably one of those clowns who thinks lifting iron makes him invincible. Did my brother seriously let trash like this in?
"Move," I said, flat, cold.
Another stepped in—shorter, wiry, and covered in piercings like a metal detector's worst nightmare. "Ooooh," he mocked. "Little guy's got bark."
I exhaled. My patience was on its last leg. "I'll say it once more. Move."
The tall one snorted. "Or else wha—"
I didn't let him finish.
My fist connected with his jaw so hard he was airborne. One second upright, next second kissing floor tiles ten feet away.
Piercings lunged in. Slippery bastard. Flexible, fast, but predictable. I dodged clean, reading every twitch of his muscle before he even moved. He spun, kicked, lunged. All flair. No kill.
The big guy tried to sneak up behind me like I wouldn't notice his oversized shadow. Idiot. I grabbed him mid-lunge and launched his sorry ass into Piercings. They crashed into each other like bowling pins.
I was pissed. No—burning.
I walked up and grabbed the freak with the rings through his damn eyelids. Slammed him into the floor hard enough to shut off his lights. He passed out instantly. The big guy? Still breathing. Unfortunately.
I didn't stop.
Punch after punch, I unloaded every ounce of rage I had left. Every punch was for something else. For the mission. For the phone I shattered. For the call I ended. For Isaaq.
By the time I was done, the guy was barely breathing. Face puffed. Nose crooked. Blood smeared across his dumb tattoos.
I stood, breathing heavy, blood on my knuckles, dripping down my fingers. My shirt was stained. So was my face. I blew a strand of hair out of my eye and turned slowly to the crowd that had gathered.
They stared. Frozen. Waiting.
"Anyone else got something to say to me?" I asked, voice low but sharp enough to cut steel.
Silence.
Heads shook. Everyone suddenly remembered they had places to be. Busy, busy assassins.
"That's what I thought."
I tore a piece of the big guy's shirt, wiped the blood from my hands, and finally stepped into the elevator. Didn't look back.
The doors slid shut.
I was going up.
But something in me was still falling. Fast.
_ _ _
This was it.
I stood in front of the door—the top floor. Demonhead's office. Only a few assassins ever make it up here. You had to earn your way into this room. Had to kill, bleed, survive.
I'm number six in the rankings. And the man sitting behind this door? He's number one.
I exhaled hard, rolled my neck, and pushed the door open.
The room was dim but sleek, full of ego and shadows. A few people were already inside. Conversations paused. All eyes turned to me. Some curious. Some cold. Not one of them felt welcoming.
Didn't matter.
I wasn't here for them. My business was with him.
My brother. Sebastian Blood. The freaking Demonhead of Bloodlust syndicate.
He sat on the desk, legs crossed, the smugness already growing on his face the second he saw me.
"Well, this is unexpected," he said, lips stretching into a grin. "Need something, baby brother?"
"We need to talk," I replied, colder than I intended. But fuck it, I was trying hard not to punch that grin off his face.
Behind him stood a man I recognized—same asshole I spoke to on the phone. He gave me a look. One of those warning glances. Like he was trying to keep things from getting messy.
Too late for that.
Sebastian's eyes drifted to the others. "As you can see," he began, smiling lazily, "I'm in a meeting. Can it wait?"
"No."
He let out a long sigh, the dramatic kind. "Fine. Leave us."
"But sir, we're not done—" one of them tried to protest.
Both Sebastian and I turned to him at the same time with the same stare. Dead cold.
He shut up real quick. They all left, though not without a few nervous glances back.
Now it was just me, Sebastian, Carmine—the old fool who never shuts up—and a couple of guards who were probably dying to throw me out the window.
Carmine cleared his throat, already stepping into the lecture he'd been dying to give. "Hayden, listen. You really need to use your head and think. Don't make any rash decisions."
I barely glanced at him.
But of course Sebastian cut him off. "That's enough, Carmine. You think my baby brother came all the way up here to hear another one of your bedtime stories?"
Then his eyes were back on me. "So," he said, drawing it out. "What do you wanna talk about?"
I tossed the mission file onto his desk. It slid right to him. "This job on Theodore Malrione. I'm not going through with it. And if there's a hit out on him, call it off."
Carmine looked like he was about to piss himself. "Seb, listen. Don't do anything stupid—"
Sebastian didn't even blink.
Instead, he stood up—slow and casual. One hand in his pocket, the other swaying lazily by his side. Walked towards me like a man who owned the room. Which he did.
"I saw your little stunt in the lobby," he said, voice almost amused. "You were pretty badass. I was impressed."
I narrowed my eyes. What the hell was he talking about?
"That has nothing to do with this."
He kept walking, then leaned in just close enough to make me want to punch him. "You and I both know you're only at number six because you keep your head down. Don't like the spotlight. But you're better than half the top five combined."
He reached out and touched my hair like I was five years old.
Always so goddamn clingy.
"We could set up a ranking match for you," he whispered. "Stir things up. Make it interesting."
I slapped his hand away. "I'm not here to play. I already told you what I wanted."
He stepped back, lips twitching into that smirk again. "Sorry, what was that?"
Tch.
He was pissing me off.
"Don't make me repeat myself. You heard me."
He tilted his head mockingly. "Oh, that. Right. I remember now."
I clenched my fists. "Well?"
"Hm?" he teased. "I'm sorry—did you want something?"
That was it.
I grabbed his collar and yanked him closer. "Call off the fucking hit on Theo, you piece of shit!"
The guards moved. I heard their boots shuffle.
Sebastian raised a hand and they froze.
Then his own hand shot out and grabbed my wrist—tight. Crushing.
"How about… no," he said, voice low and cold enough to stop my breath.
I winced, pain shooting up my arm. Fuck. I had to let go of his collar.
He released me, like I wasn't even worth holding.
I staggered back and clenched my jaw. My hand throbbed. Bastard.
This fucker.