Alya
He was still not dead. Fuck. Now I was in big trouble.
The blood on my hands was sinking into the cracks of my nails, warm and sticky, a stark contrast to the cold sweat beading along my spine. My breath came in ragged gulps as I turned my gaze back to the man I had vowed to kill—the man who was supposed to be lying lifeless at my feet. Instead, he was on his knees getting up slowly, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious pants. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and seething, a storm brewing in their depths.
It was a hell of a way to die, I had to agree. If I were him, I'd be angry too. Furious.
Yet, despite the blood smeared across his face, the bruises blooming along his jaw, and the sheer rage contorting his features, I caught myself tilting my head, mesmerized. Why does he look kind of attractive like this? The thought slithered into my mind unbidden, a whisper of insanity, a testament to how fucked up the human brain really is. My own included. Instead of thinking of an escape plan, I was admiring the sharp cut of his cheekbones under the dim light, the way his lips curled in an almost predatory snarl. God, what the hell was wrong with me? "Oops?" The word slipped from my lips before I could stop it. I shrugged, chuckling nervously, like I hadn't just tried and failed to murder him.
"Alya." His voice was a low, menacing growl. A warning.
I stiffened as he stepped closer. My body reacted before my mind did, I shot out a finger pointing at him like a scolding mother to a misbehaving child.
"Stay right there," I said, voice higher than I'd like, laced with forced bravado. He didn't listen. Of course, he didn't.
His steps quickened, the sound of his boots hitting the floor sending a jolt of panic straight to my chest. My heart slammed against my ribs, adrenaline coursing through me like wildfire. I swallowed hard, pulse hammering in my throat. Move, Alya, move! His gaze burned into mine, an unreadable glint flashing across his face. Was it amusement? Resentment? Or something far more dangerous? My stomach twisted as his lips parted, about to say something—
Nope. Not waiting to find out.
I bolted.
The air rushed against my skin as I pumped my legs, the dull ache in my muscles screaming at me to keep going. Behind me, his footsteps thundered, relentless and determined. He was faster than I anticipated. I cursed myself for my carelessness, for not making sure the knife was plunged deep in his heart. A mistake. A stupid, foolish mistake that could cost me everything. I glanced around frantically, searching for an escape route. The warehouse was vast, filled with rusting machinery and looming steel beams. My breath came in sharp gasps as I darted between crates, my fingers brushing against their splintered edges.
But then a hand coiled tight around my wrist.
I barely had time to react before it snatched my wrist, yanking me back with a force that sent me stumbling. A gasp tore from my throat as I crashed against something solid—his chest.
"Going somewhere?" His voice was a low rasp, breath warm against my ear.
Shit. Shit.
I wriggled, twisted, but his grip was iron-clad, his fingers digging into my skin.
"You tried to kill me." His voice was eerily calm, but there was an edge to it, a dangerous undercurrent that made my stomach tighten.
I forced a smile despite my predicament. "Yeah, well. You weren't supposed to get back up."
His lips curled into a… smirk? Was that a smirk? Was he enjoying this?
5 months ago.
Pain was a fickle thing. It had a way of burrowing under your skin, of making a home in your bones, of carving its name into the deepest parts of you until you didn't know where it ended and you began. I had spent years enduring it, training with it, letting it shape me into something sharper, deadlier. The taste of copper flooded my mouth as my head snapped sideways, another brutal blow landing across my jaw. A choked sound escaped me as blood sprayed onto the cold, unforgiving concrete. The pain splintered through my skull like a hammer against glass, my vision blurring at the edges.
"Get up."
The voice that cracked through the thick, pulsing haze in my head. Sharp. Unforgiving. Impatient.
"Up," he ordered, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
I coughed, the taste of iron thick on my tongue as I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision. I barely had the strength to tilt my head up, but I knew he was there standing on the balcony above, watching. Always watching.
Even through the dizzying pain, I could make out the irritation in his stance, the way his fingers curled against the railing, his sharp eyes boring into me like I was a waste of space. And maybe, at this moment, I was.
I had failed. Again.
Three times in one week.
That was a record for me. In twelve years of training under his command, I had never lost this many consecutive fights. My body ached, not just from the brutal impacts but from the weight of disappointment.
Why?
Why couldn't I get it right? Why was I slipping? Why couldn't I do what I was made to do?
I clenched my jaw, the sting of failure sharper than the pain in my ribs. My fingers curled into the blood-speckled floor as I forced my battered body to move.
Breathe. Push through. Again.
I dragged myself up onto unsteady feet, muscles trembling with exhaustion. My breathing was uneven, shallow, but I managed to slip into the familiar stance, the same one I had been drilled on since childhood.
Above me, he said nothing.
He didn't need to. His silence was heavier than his words could ever be.
I didn't dare look at him. Instead, my gaze locked onto the smirking face standing across from me.
Hule.
If I hated anything more than losing, it was him.
Hule stood there effortlessly, rolling his shoulders, wiping my blood off on his shirt like it was an afterthought. Golden boy. The top of our class. The one who had been praised since we were kids, the one who could do no wrong. He was everything I should have been.
His stance mirrored mine, but I knew better than to think this was an even match. Hule was ruthless, fast, and calculated. And unlike me, he never failed.
I gritted my teeth, already anticipating his move.
Hule never played defense. He was always on the attack, relentless and overwhelming, like a storm crashing through everything in its path. And I was just a drowning body in its wake.
He lunged. I saw the movement before it happened, the slight shift in his weight, the twitch of his fingers, the subtle giveaway. Uppercut.
I twisted at the last second, narrowly avoiding the impact. But Hule was fast. And he knew I'd dodge. Which is why I barely had time to register the sickening force of his fist slamming into my abdomen. My breath ripped from my lungs as I folded in on myself, knees hitting the ground.
Shit.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled over me, my body screaming in protest, but the only sound I heard was his voice.
"I said up."
I barely managed to lift my gaze, my vision hazy and darkening at the edges. His figure loomed above on the balcony, an unmoving shadow against the dim lighting. The world around me was spinning, my limbs sluggish, my heartbeat a slow, pounding drum in my ears.
He was waiting. Expecting.
But I couldn't move. My limbs refused. My vision swam. The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of it all pressed down on me, dragging me into nothingness. Darkness crashed down like a tidal wave, pulling me under before I could fight back.
————————
A shocking splash of cold water sucked the air straight out of my lungs.
I gasped, sputtering as I jolted upright, my body instinctively recoiling from the sudden icy burn. Every nerve screamed in protest, every muscle ached as if I had been trampled by a thousand relentless blows. Oh, right. I had been.
Pain rattled through my bones, sharp and merciless, but even that agony paled in comparison to the suffocating realization creeping into my mind as I took in my surroundings.
The cell.
The breath in my throat caught, and my vision blurred as my eyes darted around the dimly lit space. The stone walls, damp with condensation. The cold metal shackles hanging loosely from the walls, rusted but still all too familiar. The heavy scent of iron and sweat clinging to the stale air.
No.
My pulse pounded violently against my ribs. My breathing turned ragged, shallow, each inhale stuttering as if my lungs had forgotten how to work. My body had already been screaming in agony from the fight, but now a new kind of pain—one sharper, deeper—tore through me.
Fear.
The crack of a whip echoed through the room, snapping through the silence like lightning splitting the sky.
I flinched. Violently.
The sound alone was enough to send my mind spiraling back, back to the nights I had spent in this very cell, curled in on myself, skin torn open, the metallic taste of blood thick on my tongue as I bit down to keep from screaming. I had been doing so well. I had fought harder. Trained harder. Endured. It had been a month. A whole month. I had not seen this cell in that time, and for once, my body had started to heal. My wounds had faded into scars, my ribs had stopped aching with every breath, my back had been spared from reopening.
And yet, here I was again.
Why?
Why?
Why couldn't I do anything right?
Tears mixed with the water dripping down my face, but I didn't wipe them away. I couldn't afford to. Crying meant weakness. Weakness meant pain. Pain meant…
I bit down hard on my lower lip, the sting sharp enough to draw blood, just to keep my chin from trembling. He feeds off fear. He feeds off pain. If I let him see it, if I let him taste it, then I was giving him exactly what he wanted. A deep, shaky breath rattled through me as I forced my gaze forward.
And then I saw him.
His presence was suffocating, an oppressive weight that filled the entire cell despite the space between us. His expression was unreadable, but his stance told me everything I needed to know.
I had angered him.
I swallowed hard, but my throat was dry, tight. The scars across my back itched, a cruel reminder of what was to come. They had been torn open so many times that I no longer knew where one ended and the next began. A tapestry of pain carved into my skin. My father was the worst man alive and I was his greatest achievement. A failure. Everything all at once. Everything had been going so well. Predictable. I hated not knowing what was going to happen beforehand. And now was the time.
"Fathe—"
"Siege."
The name cut through the air like a blade, sharp and final.
"I am not your father."
The words shouldn't have stung. They shouldn't have made my chest tighten like a vice, shouldn't have sent a cold, bitter ache curling through my stomach. I had heard them before, had lived beneath their weight for years. And yet, every time he said them, it felt like a fresh wound being carved into my ribs. I lowered my gaze, breaking the heavy stare that had locked between us. But even that felt like a defeat. My body betrayed me before I could school my expression—my shoulders tensed, my breath hitched, a violent shiver wracked through me. From the cold. From his presence. From the crushing realization that, no matter what I did, no matter how hard I fought, I would never be enough.
Siege had mastered the art of making me feel like a nuisance. A disappointment. A mistake. A+ for him.
He took a slow, deliberate step forward. My body coiled in response, instincts kicking in before my mind could catch up. Every muscle went taut, bracing for impact, for punishment. I had spent years learning this routine—anticipating the shift of his stance, tracking the movements that dictated whether he would strike, whether he would push, whether he would simply watch. I wasn't sure which was worse. But he didn't raise a hand. Instead, he simply looked at me. And somehow, that was more terrifying. Siege was never impulsive in his anger. He didn't lash out blindly. Everything he did was intentional; every blow, every word, every ounce of pain inflicted with purpose. My breath came out unsteady, clouding in the chilled air between us. Get it over with.
Whatever he wanted, whatever it would take to satisfy the void where his soul should have been, I just wanted it to be over. But instead, he took a seat in front of me catching me off guard, leaning towards the light flickering weakly above us until I could make out the emotion running through his eyes. Nothing. Typical.
Living under his system for years had taught me to never expect anything more. Never hope. Always expect disappointment. Because the feeling of something crushing you when you hoped for something—that was more painful than anything he could do to me.
I never knew what it meant to have a father.
A dad.
Never pronounced it once in my life. Because when I examined the man meant to be my father sitting before me, all I saw was a ruthless man starving for revenge. For power. Even if it meant destroying his daughter slowly.
He exhaled, voice calm, controlled. Always controlled.
"There's to be a mutual collaboration between Isamu and I."
Isamu? The Japanese kingpin? The one who ruled the underworld like a chessboard?
"Yes, him," Siege replied, reading my mind with unnerving ease. "His son is to arrive this evening."
He leaned back in the chair. Bad sign. That meant he wasn't pleased.
"Seems he doesn't trust me yet if he's sending his bastard of a son," he scoffed, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at that statement. So, what? He was mad that a man notorious for being paranoid didn't want to trust him outright? That's what happened when you spent years building a reputation of betrayal. But more than that, I never understood the ridiculous obsession with bloodlines. It didn't matter if someone was born to power; that didn't mean they deserved it. That didn't mean they were capable. Strength, intelligence, adaptability, critical thinking—those were the things that determined a leader. Not birthright.
Yet here we were, playing the same old game.
"Alya."
My thoughts shattered like glass.
I met his gaze again.
"Yes… Siege?"
He leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking under his weight.
"His name is Wan. Two years older than you. Your job is to get close to him. Gain his trust. Through him, I want every detail about his father."
"What makes you think I can make him trust me?"
Siege's lips curled into something cold. Something that barely resembled a smirk.
"You will," he said simply. "Because you have no other choice."
I lowered my gaze, nodding slowly. Siege took that as a cue to stand, coming up behind me. I braced myself. Shut my eyes. Waited for the pain to come. Instead, I heard the rattling of iron. The heavy, rusted chains around my wrists snapped free, clattering to the ground.
I froze. What?
What's happening?
I remained seated, body tense, because I had made the mistake of hoping before. Once, I had thought I was free. That he would let me walk out of this cell without punishment. And what a surprise I had received that night.
So I stayed still, heart pounding, watching him carefully.
But Siege didn't linger. He didn't watch me struggle to comprehend what was happening.
He simply turned and walked away expecting me to follow.
No words. No warnings.
My body still ached from the fight, from the fall, from years of built-up damage that never had the chance to fully heal. There was no time for healing here so as always, I followed.
Siege's footsteps echoed ahead of me, each one precise, controlled. He never wasted movement. Never made a sound unless he wanted to. I had spent my whole life memorizing his habits, reading the minute shifts in his posture, the unspoken messages in his silence.
And right now?
Right now, his silence was heavy with warning.
Something about this deal with Isamu wasn't sitting right with him. Siege was rarely out of control, but when things weren't moving in his favor, his temper sharpened like a blade.
Wan was a problem. Not an obstacle—not yet. But something about Isamu's son made Siege uneasy. If I had to guess, it was the same reason I was being sent to gather intel instead of one of his more… disposable men.
I was easier to overlook.
Less of a direct threat. Less of a problem if things went south.
A tool.
Nothing more, nothing less.
I forced my hands to unclench as we reached the main hall. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the dim lighting casting long, fractured shadows along the stone walls. A few men stood at their posts, unmoving. Watching. Siege led the way down a corridor lined with tall windows, moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. My stomach twisted. The last time I walked this path, I had been dragged. We stopped at the far end, in front of an iron door.
"Change," he ordered, nodding toward the folded clothes sitting on a wooden chair.
I glanced down at myself. My shirt was ripped at the seams, dried blood crusted along my collarbone. My arms were bruised, my ribs sore beneath every shallow breath. I looked like someone who had lost. And Siege wouldn't have me representing him like that. I didn't argue. Just grabbed the clothes and stepped into the side chamber, locking the door behind me.
By the time I stepped out, Siege was already waiting.
The black tactical outfit fit snugly, covering most of the evidence of my earlier failures. The boots were a familiar weight, grounding me. I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the stiffness in my muscles. Good enough.
Siege's gaze flickered over me once before he turned, gesturing for me to follow. We reached the end of the hall, where two steel doors loomed before us. Without breaking stride, he pushed them open, revealing a stark, modern room with large windows stretching across the far wall. The city glowed beyond them, a sprawling sea of lights beneath the heavy night sky.
A single chair sat in the center of the room, a thick black folder resting on the table beside it. The only sign of life was the faint red glow of a cigarette burning between Siege's fingers.
"Sit."
I obeyed without hesitation, my body reacting on instinct. He picked up the folder and tossed it in front of me. It landed with a dull thud, the papers inside shifting slightly from the impact.
"Read."
I flipped it open. The first page was a photograph—grainy, taken from a distance, but clear enough to make out the subject.
Wan Isamu.
Mid-twenties. Dark hair, sharp eyes, lean build. He carried himself with a relaxed confidence, but something in his expression told me he wasn't someone who let his guard down easily.
I flipped through the rest of the pages, scanning information as quickly as I could process it.
• Son of Isamu Kaito.
• Trained since childhood. Martial arts, strategy, firearms.
• Largely kept out of his father's dealings until now.
• Unclear motivations. No known weaknesses.
• Sleeps. A lot.
The last line caught my attention, reading it twice. Who wrote this? I twist my lips to stop the impact of smiling, frowning instead.
"He's an unknown variable."
"Exactly," Siege said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Which is why you're going to get close to him."
I glanced up. "And if he doesn't trust easily?"
"Then make him." His tone was flat, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "His father has yet to prove himself useful. We need leverage. If Kaito won't talk, maybe his bastard will."
I nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edges of the folder. "What's my cover?"
Siege studied me for a long moment, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You're going to charm him, Alya."
I blinked.
I had expected espionage, manipulation, deceit. But this? This was different. Siege had trained me in many things; combat, survival, strategy. But charm? That wasn't exactly in my arsenal.
He smirked at my hesitation. "You don't have to love him. Just make him think you might."
I clenched my jaw. "And if he doesn't fall for it?"
Siege's expression didn't change, but his voice dipped lower, edged with that familiar, quiet threat.
"Then you find another way."
My pulse drummed in my ears. Another way could mean anything. Blackmail. Coercion. Elimination.
I didn't ask for clarification.
I knew better.
After a beat of silence, Siege stood. "Wan arrives tonight. Your instructions are in the file. Read them. Memorize them." He stubbed his cigarette out on the ashtray, turning away. "You leave in an hour."
I stayed seated as he walked toward the door, my grip tightening on the pages before me.
I had been given many assignments before. Some easy. Some brutal. Some where success meant taking life, and failure meant…
Well. I didn't like to dwell on those.
But this was different.
This wasn't just gathering intel. It wasn't just a job. It was something Siege had never asked of me before.
It was a game of trust. And I would have to play the part perfectly. Because if I didn't…. I wouldn't have to wonder what would happen.