Time lost its meaning. I lay in the sticky, stinking darkness, and every distant sound—the wail of a siren, the honk of a car, a scream from the street—made my heart clench into an icy lump. I was shaking. It was a dull, uncontrollable tremor, born from the remnants of adrenaline and an all-consuming, primal terror.
In my head, like a broken record, the same images played on repeat:
The driver, his head lolling lifelessly, a crimson stain spreading across the windshield.
The second guard, collapsing to his knees, his face twisted in pain.
And the third... the one who had lured them away, the one whose eyes had flashed with regret at his impending death, yet whose gaze remained full of determination.
Had he survived? What about the second one? Or was I the only one left alive after the attack? The thought sent a new wave of nausea surging to my throat, mixing with the thick stench of rot. I barely suppressed the urge to vomit.
Just as despair was about to completely flood my consciousness, I heard footsteps again—and there were many of them.
They're back.
The thought pierced my mind, and I curled up even tighter, pressing myself into the sticky bottom of the bin, holding my breath, praying to all the gods I had never believed in. Then a voice cut through the air—one I would recognize out of a thousand. A voice that made my entire body shudder, but this time not from fear, but from something else.
"I said, search EVERY INCH!" a man roared, his voice ringing with cold, primal fury. "He must be here somewhere!"
Father.
The footsteps headed straight for my hiding place. The lid of the bin flew off with a deafening clang, and blinding daylight flooded in. Standing above me was Justin Hammer. His impeccable suit was stained with something dark, his usually perfectly styled hair was disheveled, and his eyes, locked onto me, burned with a wild, terrifying fire.
"Dad?" I croaked involuntarily. The word escaped on its own.
For a fraction of a second, his face showed incredible relief—so intense that he seemed to stop breathing. The mask of the ruthless magnate cracked, revealing a loving father who had finally found his child. Then the mask slammed back into place, and the relief gave way to rage—no longer directed at his own people, but at the bastards who had dared to touch his son.
He didn't answer. Instead, he plunged his hands into the bin, not caring about the stench, the filth, or the sticky garbage bags. His hands dug through the trash until they found me. In the next instant, he yanked me out of that foul prison and crushed me against him with such force that my ribs creaked. His expensive Italian suit instantly soaked up the stench of decay, but he didn't care. He just held me, his face buried in my hair, and I could feel his body trembling slightly.
With rage.
"Zik..." Justin exhaled, his voice breaking. "Son..."
And in that moment, the dam I had built inside to keep from losing my mind collapsed.
I broke down.
I sobbed, clinging to my father's jacket. A grown man, who had been through hell, wept like a child because the terror had been too real, too close. I remembered the men who had died protecting me, the face of the last one—his regret, his resolve. I remembered my own sticky fear when the lid of the bin had opened... the realization of my worthlessness, helplessness, and weakness. The understanding that it was the end.
My father said nothing. He just stood there, holding me tightly, one hand awkwardly stroking my hair. It wasn't just comfort—it was a silent promise: "I'm here. You're safe now."
The tears gradually subsided, replaced by occasional, convulsive hiccups.
As the fog of shock began to clear, I finally looked around without letting go of his shoulder. The alley was packed with men in dark tactical gear, their sleeves bearing the faint logo of a hammer—the private security of Hammer Industries. They moved quickly, quietly, and efficiently: cordoning off the area, examining shell casings, one of them taking photos. But none of them approached or even looked our way.
Justin, sensing that I had regained my composure, loosened his grip slightly but didn't remove his hands from my shoulders. He looked into my eyes.
"Let's get out of here," his voice was hoarse. "It's over. Let's go home."
"Yeah..." I managed to say, lowering my gaze. I felt ashamed—a grown man, falling apart like that. I wasn't used to expressing emotions this way. In my past life, I had fought in the streets because that was the kind of neighborhood I came from—if you didn't fight back, you'd get trampled. My own father, when he was drunk, used to beat me so badly I couldn't walk. I knew pain and fear well, but this kind of hysteria...
Justin didn't comment. He just placed a hand on my shoulder and led me out of the alley. His men silently parted, forming a living corridor. Another black sedan, identical to the first, was already waiting at the entrance. My father seated me in the back and sat beside me. A convoy of armored vehicles then set off.
We were silent the entire way. I stared out the window at the passing city, but I saw nothing. My mind was a ringing void I was afraid to peer into. And there was also this new, burning feeling—shame and bewilderment.
Justin's silence was heavy, but it wasn't threatening. The silence of my past father had been different—it was the calm before the storm, a prelude to drunken beatings, the kind of silence that made you brace for impact. This silence... was calming. Justin didn't try to talk or ask stupid questions like "Are you okay?" He was just there. And it felt right.
As my mind cleared, it reluctantly began to work. This hadn't been a random shooting, nor an attempt at kidnapping for ransom—it was too messy for a simple kidnapping and too professional for street gangs. A sniper shot to the driver, followed by suppressing fire—their goal had been to capture me for something bigger.
Did the attackers want to kidnap me, Justin Hammer's son, to pressure him? Who would dare do such a thing? Competitors? Terrorists? In this world, the list was nearly endless, and the realization sent another chill down my spine, unrelated to shock.
The car smoothly stopped at the front entrance of the mansion. Justin got out first and opened my door before leading me to the threshold, where a pale Albert was already waiting.
"Go take a shower," my father said, his voice returning to its usual commanding calm. He looked me up and down—dirty, covered in garbage—and a crooked smirk appeared on his lips. "And quickly. You reek like an old garbage truck."
I took a few steps inside and instinctively turned around. The smirk was gone. His gaze darted somewhere into the distance, beyond the mansion, becoming as hard as steel and filled with icy malice. I wouldn't want to be in the shoes of those who had dared to anger him.
The bathroom greeted me with sterile cleanliness and silence. A sunken black marble tub, a spacious shower with a tropical rain effect... My clothes—expensive school uniform—were ruined, soaked in filth, and, as I only now noticed, someone else's blood on the sleeve. I needed to get rid of it all.
Wash it off—or at least try.
I stepped under the shower's water curtain, and scalding streams poured over me. I stood there, letting the water wash everything away, but the cleaner my body became, the more I felt the dirt inside. The sticky fear mixed with shame covered me completely, from head to toe. A shower wasn't enough...
I filled the huge tub and sank into the scalding water. Helplessness. That was the most disgusting feeling. In my past life, in street fights, I had always been able to fight back, run, do something. There, I had been an active participant, not a passive victim. But here, against men with automatic rifles, all my past experience meant nothing. I had been a mere boy led to the slaughter.
I closed my eyes and submerged my head under the water for a few seconds, trying to stun myself, to push these thoughts away.
When I resurfaced, Albert was standing in the steam-filled room. He wasn't looking in my direction but was gathering my dirty uniform from the floor. A stack of fresh clothes lay on the ottoman beside me.
"Your father ordered me to dispose of... these clothes," he said evenly. "What happened today, young master... it was terrible. But you survived, and that's what matters. Don't let fear defeat you. Neither your father nor... those who protected you would want that." With these words, he bowed and silently left.
And he was right.
I had survived.
I slowly lifted my hand from the water and looked at it. An ordinary teenager's hand: slender fingers, smooth skin. Unconsciously, I reached for my cheek, where the driver's blood had landed. The blood of a man who had died protecting me.
And in that moment, the fear inside me suddenly exploded into blind rage.
How dare they?
Corner me like a rat?
Kill my men right in front of me?
Did they think I was an easy target?
A convenient pawn to pressure my father?
My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached, and my vision darkened. Power—that's what I needed! Those bastards had nearly broken me, nearly turned me into a trembling creature afraid of every rustle!
Shaking with fury, I punched the marble wall. Pain seared through my knuckles, but I barely noticed. Enough! No more being a victim, Zik!
I jumped out of the water, hastily dried myself with a towel, and, putting on only underwear, left the bathroom, ignoring the frightened maid. The soft cashmere sweater Albert had left? Not today. My goal was the wardrobe in my room. I threw it open and found what I was looking for—a spare set of school uniform...
As I buttoned the last button, the door to my room opened without a knock. My father—okay, he deserved for me to call him that—stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Justin froze, raising an eyebrow in surprise as he looked at me, dressed in the uniform, and at my bloodied hand.
"What's going on here?" There was confusion in his voice. "Where are you going?"
I turned to him, adjusting my cuffs, rubbing my bruised knuckles.
"To school, Father, if you don't mind." He had expected to see tears again, but instead, he saw his own rage reflected in my eyes. "Don't worry about me. Just handle the problems, and I won't let you down."
The tension in Justin's shoulders eased, and he smiled widely, genuinely.
"I think," he said, raising his glass, "they won't punish you for being a little late." His gaze lingered on my hand for a moment. "And the problems..." His smile turned predatory. "Don't doubt it—I'm already handling them." He turned and left.
The day that had begun with a trip to school ended with my rebirth. Ezekiel Hammer, the naive genius boy, had been left in that garbage bin. Someone else had emerged.
And this new me was going to survive.
And take revenge.