The price of vengeance

There are cities that never sleep, cities that dream, and then there are cities like Norellion—where nightmares rule the streets and the sun only shines because even hell has a sky. Norellion was a city of power, pulsing with crime, choking on corruption. Its veins were the highways that led to mansions of politicians who slept in silk and trafficked in silence. Justice was a whisper buried beneath police reports that never saw the light. The police, the lawyers, the leaders—they all smiled the same way: with money in one pocket and blood on the other hand. But for Max Kael, this city wasn’t a problem. He didn’t flinch at the gunshots outside his window or the sirens that sang lullabies in the night. He didn’t mind the city’s poison, because he had already built his immunity. A college student and martial arts prodigy, Max had studied every fighting style known, and mastered them like they were born in his bones. His room was a shrine to silent victories—trophies stacked like ancient relics, medals glinting under the dim glow of a rusted ceiling fan. But his pride wasn’t in the wins. It was in the people in the pictures. He stood before the photos on his cracked wall—portraits of faces now gone. His mother, his father, his older brother—all swallowed by the very city that now lay quiet outside. "Morning, guys," Max whispered, touching the glass of a frame with a calloused finger. "Wish you were here… or maybe it's better you're not." The voice of his uncle broke the moment. “Max!” came a gruff tone from the kitchen. He turned to see Uncle Joran, dressed in his worn-out police uniform, badge tilted, sidearm holstered. A good man trapped in a bad system. A cop too honest to rise, too stubborn to quit. “Try not to break anyone’s spine at college today,” Joran joked, biting into burnt toast. “No promises,” Max grinned. They exchanged a quick fist bump, and then Joran was gone, swallowed by the shadows he was sworn to uphold. College life was Max’s strange oasis—where he could blend in, at least for a few hours. And there was Bill. His best friend since high school. Bill was fragile, soft-spoken, and beautiful in a way that made people pause. Delicate face, long lashes, that boyish innocence that some mistook for femininity—and that made him a target. Max had been his shield ever since the first time someone tried to break him. They were brothers in all but blood. But today, something was different. After class, the two strolled toward the campus ice cream cart under a heavy sky. Bill laughed at Max's story about a failed karate contest where the mat gave out under his opponent. That laugh—sweet and tired. But then they came. Luca. Sienna. Derik. Naomi. Sons and daughters of power, children of politicians who could rewrite laws with a signature. Dressed in designer arrogance and entitlement, they blocked the path with venomous smiles. “Well if it isn’t the girl-faced freak,” Luca sneered at Bill. Max stepped forward, jaw tightening. Bill grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.” “They need to learn—” “They don’t need anything. But you do. You need to stay safe, Max.” Max paused. The look in Bill’s eyes wasn’t fear—it was acceptance. Of what this city does. Of what Max could lose by striking back. Bill bowed slightly. “I’m sorry if my appearance offends you.” Sienna scoffed. “You think that’s enough?” Bill fell to one knee. Max's heart shattered. The laughter echoed as they walked away. “Why?” Max snapped, dragging Bill up by the arm. Bill smiled. That same damned smile. “Sometimes fighting doesn’t solve everything, Max.” But even as he said it, Max saw it. The crack in his voice. The tremble in his hands. Max walked Bill home in silence, shoulders tense with rage he couldn’t release. When they reached Bill’s apartment, Max gave him a long look. “You sure you’re okay?” Bill nodded. “Go home. I’ll text you.” Max left. At home, Max threw his bag across the room and opened the fridge. Empty. As usual. He collapsed onto the couch, letting his eyes fall shut—until a cold chill ran down his spine. He reached for his phone. 17 missed calls. 8 unread messages. All from Bill. His fingers shook as he tapped the last one: > Max… help me… they… they’re here. He barely had time to scream before the news alert flashed on the screen: BREAKING: Local politician’s home invaded. Reports of homicide and s****l assault. Victim: Teenage boy. Suspects unknown. The image that followed was a picture of the building. Bill’s building. Max dropped the phone and ran. He didn’t stop for traffic. He didn’t stop for breath. The city blurred around him. The building was surrounded by yellow tape, sirens and onlookers. Police officers blocked the entrance. Max pushed through, but one caught him. “Back off, kid!” A voice cut through—Uncle Joran. “He’s with me! Let him through!” But Max was already gone, running past the officers, blood thumping in his ears. Then he saw him. Bill. On the stretcher, face bruised, lips trembling. Eyes blank. His clothes torn. His soul… shattered. Max ran to him and fell to his knees, gripping his hand. “Bill… I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.” Bill turned slowly, meeting his eyes. But the smile was gone. Forever.