Wen's eyes, fixed on the muzzle of the revolver, watched as the old woman—his mother, Mrs. Jamal—raised the weapon. A reflexive shudder ran through him. Yet, having spent half his life surrounded by the noise and threat of gunfire, the sheer terror of the moment subsided almost instantly, replaced by a cold, searing question: Does my family hate me this much?
"Don't think the gun is fake, Wen," Mrs. Jamal rasped. Her face, usually soft and wrinkled like aged parchment, was contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage—a sight more terrifying than any weapon.
"Come on, Mother," Wen said, forcing a smile onto his bloodless lips. He shoved the horrific thoughts aside, trying to project a semblance of normalcy, a casualness that might diffuse the situation. He took one step forward, intent on just getting past the threshold, getting inside.
"Boom!"
The sound was deafening, sharp, and brutally real. It wasn't the distant thunder of a firefight; it was right here. A white-hot spike of agony lanced through his right leg.
He collapsed instantly, the force of the impact spinning him sideways onto the concrete porch. A guttural scream was ripped from his throat, echoing the frantic thudding in his ears. Every coherent thought vanished, drowned by the monstrous, throbbing pain that took ownership of his entire body.
He looked down, his vision blurry with shock. The fabric of his trousers was already saturated, a rapidly expanding stain of crimson blooming on the grey floor. The pooling blood pumped out rhythmically, a stark, terrible testament to the realness of the bullet. It was a 9mm slug, he realized, recognizing the pattern of the wound. The fact that he could still analyze the caliber even while blinded by pain was a grim reminder of the life he had led.
Wen writhed, clutching his leg, the screams still tearing out of him, ragged and desperate. Then, the screaming stopped, choked off by a sudden, metallic cold pressed against his temple.
"Move another inch, and I'll put the next one where your thoughts used to be," Mrs. Jamal said, her voice shaking not with fear, but with venomous intent. Her finger was trembling slightly on the trigger guard, ready to send him spiraling into darkness.
It was in that deadly silence, poised between life and death, that he heard it.
"Father!"
The name was a sharp, clear echo from deep within the house. The voice was unmistakable. It was high-pitched, urgent, and brimming with the innocent anxiety only a child possesses. Luna. His daughter. The sound of her voice, so close and yet out of sight, was a powerful, psychic anesthetic. The subsiding pain was instantly replaced by a fierce, protective focus.
He strained his neck, trying to see past his mother and into the shadowed hallway, but the angle was wrong. He saw nothing.
He looked back at his mother, her eyes still burning with a dangerous fury. It was then that a new presence intervened. A tired, masculine hand, pale and thin, settled gently onto her shoulder.
"Let him in. He is our son."
Mr. Jamal spoke in a voice so weak it barely carried the weight of the words. It was not a voice of authority, but one hollowed out by profound disappointment—a disappointment that felt heavier than the bullet in Wen's leg. Wen watched the trajectory of those words as they left his father's mouth and struck him squarely in the chest, delivering the final, crushing blow to his lingering hope.
Mrs. Jamal glared at Wen one last time, a look of pure loathing, before dropping the gun onto the concrete with a heavy thud. She didn't look at either man again, simply pivoting and entering the house. Her footsteps were not just walking; they were slamming against the hardwood floor, each one a hammer blow of silent, simmering vexation.
"Come in, Wen."
His father turned to follow her inside, but Wen's eyes locked onto something else. Just beneath the hem of his father's shirt, something thin and pale protruded. As Mr. Jamal shuffled away, Wen caught a glimpse of a faint, plastic tube disappearing into the back of his father's shirt. Below that, taped discreetly to his belt, were several small, clinical-looking tools—an IV drip port, perhaps, or a pump for medication. They were the cold, sterile paraphernalia of a hospital room, not the casual attire of a healthy man.
Was he sick?
The thought was instantly rejected with a ferocity that bordered on irrational faith. Father can never be sick. He can never, ever be sick. His father was the bedrock, the quiet strength that had weathered all the storms Wen had created.
The adrenaline that had held Wen upright evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of pain and weakness. He tried to push himself up, bracing a hand against the ground, only to cry out again as the movement sent a fresh wave of blinding agony through his damaged limb. He collapsed back down.
He desperately dragged his torso across the rough concrete, pulling himself toward the doorway. He managed to reach the jamb, grasping the rough wood with shaking hands. He summoned a deep breath, focusing the last of his strength, and tried to leverage himself up.
"AAAGHH!"
The scream was involuntary, a primal sound of agony. He fell immediately, the wood scraping against his knuckles.
The second attempt was quieter, fuelled by shame and grim resolve. His veins corded and swelled in his arms as he used every muscle, every ounce of will. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled himself vertical, leaning heavily on the doorframe. His right leg dangled uselessly, an anchor of pain, twitching faintly in the air. He rested his forehead against the cool, rough wall, fighting the rising nausea and the dizzying, blood-loss-induced weakness.
It was in this moment of weakness that he noticed the small child.
Standing outside the low garden hedge, peering at the scene with wide, unblinking eyes, was a boy. The child looked perhaps eight or nine, dressed in a brightly colored hoodie, clutching a battered soccer ball. The moment their eyes met, the child froze, caught in the act of witnessing a violent, adult horror. The boy's face cycled through confusion, alarm, and a flash of something like morbid curiosity.
Wen watched the child compose himself. Then, the boy lifted his hand. Was it a wave of pity? A signal of farewell? Wen couldn't tell through the haze of pain. The small hand moved, an uncertain gesture, before the boy turned on his heel and sprinted away, vanishing around the corner of the house with surprising speed.
Inside the House
The familiar scent of cedar wood and aged furniture—a scent that instantly transported Wen back to his childhood—was momentarily overwhelmed by the coppery tang of his own blood.
He was propped awkwardly on the main sofa, his injured leg stretched across a faded ottoman. The house was, as he had noted, an almost perfect replica of the one he grew up in—the placement of the heavy mahogany side table, the pattern of the Persian rug, even the slightly askew portrait of his grandparents. Nothing had changed, except for the cold, crushing atmosphere of betrayal.
The screams that had followed him into the living room were now echoing around the space. Mr. Jamal, his brow furrowed in concentration, was sterilizing a long, slender piece of iron over a flickering lighter flame.
"Hold still," his father murmured, his tone professional, utterly detached from the reality of treating his own son, whom his wife had just shot.
The iron spike was driven into the wound.
"A-A-A-AHHHHH!"
Wen's raw shriek was ripped from the deepest parts of his chest. His body arched violently against the sofa cushions. He bit down so hard that he heard a faint crack in his jaw. Tears, already wetting his shirt from the exertion of his movements, now flowed freely, hot and humiliating. He focused only on the crushing reality of the pain, squeezing his eyes shut against the sight of the procedure.
The agony peaked as Mr. Jamal extracted the bullet—a tiny, mangled piece of lead that represented a world of hurt. The noise in the room subsided. Wen was left only with a ragged, whistling breath, his teeth still grinding against each other.
Then, a fresh burst of pain: his father applied a liquid that felt like fire to the open wound, a makeshift antiseptic. Wen only managed a stifled gasp. He didn't open his eyes until he felt the rough pressure of a clean linen cloth being tightly wrapped around the injury.
"I'm done."
Wen let out a long, shuddering sigh and let his leg drop back onto the ottoman, feeling a dull ache but a blissful absence of the previous, sharp, agonizing throbbing.
His father, Wen knew, was no doctor. He had no formal training, no prescription knowledge. Yet, he possessed an almost surgical precision in one specific task: removing bullets. It was a dark skill learned and honed during their years living in the grittier downtown districts. Back then, it was a necessary, lucrative profession. Gangsters fought, bullets flew, and Mr. Jamal was the only one in that dangerous business, making him an anonymous, sought-after figure. He had dropped it years ago, understanding the danger it posed to his family—a danger that, ironically, Wen himself had embodied.
Wen opened his eyes and looked up. Mrs. Jamal stood framed in the doorway leading to the kitchen, the revolver now held loosely at her side, pointed at the floor, but the intensity in her eyes was unchanged.
"Why are you here?" she demanded, her voice flat and utterly cold, devoid of any warmth a mother should hold for her child. The gun seemed to tremble slightly in her grip.
Wen looked past her to his father, who was now settling back into a high-backed armchair, visibly struggling to regain his breath. The tubes and ports were momentarily forgotten as Wen focused on his father's sheer exhaustion.
"Is Father sick?" Wen asked, turning back to his mother, ignoring her question.
"I said, answer the question! Don't try to dodge it!" Mrs. Jamal's gaze shifted to his other leg, a clear, silent threat.
Wen instinctively sank deeper into the sofa, a vestige of fear rising up. But then, an ugly, defiant memory surfaced—a shadow of the gangster lord he used to be. I was feared! They bowed before me! Now I am afraid of everyone?
He pushed the weakness down. "I came to look for my wife and daughter. They told me they were here."
Mrs. Jamal merely looked at him, then to his father, who simply shook his head, a gesture of deep, silent disappointment that cut Wen deeper than any bullet.
Then, his mother burst out laughing. It was a harsh, brittle sound, the kind of laughter that never reached the eyes or the heart, but scraped against the eardrums. She clutched the gun tighter as the sound echoed around the room.
"You ask of family, right?" she asked, the laughter dying abruptly, leaving a bitter taste in the air.
Wen nodded. That was all he wanted.
"Were you not the one that put those you are looking for to death?" Her voice began to rise, gaining speed and destructive power. "You killed them, Wen! Indirectly, yes, but you signed their death warrant! You put them to death!"
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a terrifying, controlled whisper. "The only one still drawing breath is Chun, and no one knows where that poor fool ran off to."
Wen's heart began to beat like a furious drum against his ribs. "Wait… is Wren dead?" he stammered, naming his brother.
This brought on another spasm of sharp, mirthless laughter. "You also killed him, Wen! Because of your wicked ways, your selfishness! He isn't here. Now leave."
She pointed the revolver toward the door, the gesture final, uncompromising.
Wen's mind was a furious storm of confusion, grief, and denial. Dead? My wife and Luna? Wren? He was sure he was losing his grip on reality, going mad. He stood up slowly, the treated leg sending only a manageable, dull throb through him. The emotional pain eclipsed the physical.
He slowly walked out, the front door slamming shut behind him with an authoritative thud, severing him completely from the life he desperately wanted to reclaim.
He stood on the porch, staring blankly at the driveway. It was then that he saw the child again.
The little boy, the blonde skin, the clear blue eyes, and the messy brown hair—the one who had waved—was skipping happily toward the compound gate. He stopped directly in front of Wen.
"When I was going, I saw a man who looked a bit like you," the boy said, his voice bright and unaffected. "He told me to give you this."
He held out a plain, standard white envelope. Wen's hand moved without conscious command, accepting the paper. He watched the child skip away, disappearing down the street as if he had just delivered a message about a playdate, not a crucial plot device in a drama.
Wen stared at the envelope. It was identical in size and paper stock to the many letters he had sent to his family over the past two years—letters that had gone unanswered, letters that were now apparently meant to lead him to a family that wished him dead.
He looked back at the closed front door, a deep, unsettling suspicion starting to coil in his gut. What was it? The coldness of his mother? The sickly state of his father? The quick lie about Chun? Or the very fact that his mother, a civilian, was so fast and lethal with a gun?
A cold impulse, the old instincts of the street lord, took hold. He didn't want to know why they had lied; he needed to know what the lie was protecting.
He tore the envelope open. Inside, there was no letter, only a small, tightly folded piece of thin paper. He unfolded it and read the single, chilling sentence written in hurried, block capital letters:
THEY ARE LYING. KILL THEM. YOU HAVE BEEN BETRAYED.
Wen's heart, which had just started to steady, now hammered an aggressive, primal rhythm against his ribs. His entire demeanor changed. The slump of the disappointed son vanished, replaced by the rigid, coiled tension of a predator. A steel-like resolve, the ruthless strength of his former self, flooded his veins.
The only word that mattered, the one that screamed in his mind, was: WHY ARE THEY LYING?
If they were lying about Wren, about Luna, about his wife... they were lying about everything. The pain in his leg became a mere background hum. His eyes, dark and dangerous, focused on the closed door, no longer the house of his family, but a cage holding secrets he was prepared to butcher his way into.