The world was black and muffled.
Elijah's wrists burned from the coarse rope digging into his skin. The bag over his head smelled faintly of mildew, his breath hot and shallow inside it.
His heartbeat was a drum in his ears. He tried to count the seconds, to focus on anything but the swaying motion that told him he was being carried—or dragged—somewhere unfamiliar.
The voices around him were low and scattered, their words muffled by the fabric. He caught fragments—"boss wants him alive"… "don't damage the face"… "Luca's going to lose his mind."
---
When the bag was yanked off, the light hit him like a slap.
They'd thrown him into a dim, windowless room—bare concrete walls, a single table, and a chair bolted to the floor. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes and old metal.
And sitting across from him, perfectly relaxed, was the tall man from the alley.
"Comfortable?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
Elijah glared. "You know the answer."
The man smirked. "I like you. You've got fire. Let's hope you still have it after you hear what your precious Luca has done."
---
Elijah's stomach tightened. "You talk too much."
"Maybe," the man said, tapping a cigarette from a silver case, "but you deserve the truth—before you decide whether he's worth bleeding for."
Elijah stayed silent, though his pulse quickened.
The man lit the cigarette, smoke curling between them. "Six years ago, Luca worked for me. He was sharp. Dangerous. Loyal—until he wasn't."
Elijah's brow furrowed. "You mean until he realized you're a criminal?"
The man chuckled. "Morals? Please. He didn't leave because I was a criminal. He left because he wanted something I wouldn't give him—a way out for someone else."
---
The words lodged in Elijah's chest. "Someone else?"
The man's smile sharpened. "A boy. About your age back then. Fragile. Helpless. You, perhaps? No… no, you came later. But Luca—he had a soft spot for lost causes. He made a deal with me: betray my operation, hand over my enemies, and I'd let the boy go."
Elijah's pulse stumbled. "You're lying."
The man's eyes glinted. "Am I? You've known him what—weeks? Months? You think you've seen his darkness, but you haven't even touched it."
---
The door opened briefly. One of the guards entered, dropping a folded piece of paper on the table before leaving without a word.
The man slid it toward Elijah. "Go on. See for yourself."
Hands still bound, Elijah unfolded it awkwardly. His throat tightened as his eyes landed on the faded photograph—a younger Luca, standing next to a boy with bruises on his arms and terror in his eyes.
Written across the bottom in smudged ink: "Paid in full."
---
"Where did you get this?" Elijah demanded.
"I kept it," the man said. "A souvenir of the day Luca bought his freedom with someone else's soul."
Elijah's voice was sharp. "You're twisting it."
"Maybe," the man admitted with a smirk. "Or maybe he's been twisting himself around your heart, waiting for the right time to use you too."
---
Elijah's chest felt too tight. His mind spun with fragments—Luca's silences, his sudden anger when Elijah asked about the past, the way he looked at him as if waiting for something to break.
The man leaned forward. "He's coming for you, you know. But not because he loves you. Because he can't lose twice."
Elijah's voice was barely a whisper. "You don't know him."
"Don't I?" the man said, standing. "We'll see how much you still believe in him… when he's the one holding the knife."
---
The door slammed shut, leaving Elijah alone with the photograph.
His hands trembled as he stared at it. He wanted to rip it apart, to scream that it was a lie. But deep inside, a tiny, poisonous question had already taken root:
What if it wasn't?
---