CHAPTER 2
1015 Words
Mark ran through the drizzling street.
He sprinted toward the Agency’s gate like a dog with a leash tied around his neckline.
The busy street blurred and the cold bit into his skin and lungs.
Another rebellion was raised by a group of power-hungry mud bloods who had refused to bow to the agency despite a warning from Cindy.
They were already spreading chaos and fear throughout the city and, once again, he would be the messenger of death.
He barged through the gate into the Agency building, ignoring the security.
All those serving the agency had clearance into the outpost.
One of the security men sneered as he passed.
“Hope you wiped your paws before coming in, stinking half-blood.”
Mark didn’t respond.
He was used to such insults, biles, stares and disgust.
The only thing worse than being hunted was being tolerated.
He reached the inner room where the agency convened.
The room was filled with pure blood in ceremonial black suits and ties.
“You bring news?”
The president of the agency asked with a voice, cold and flat.
“Yes, sir,” Mark replied.
“The New York pack is gathering and is preparing to rise. Cindy advises an immediate strike.”
“Of course she does,” someone muttered, and the whole room erupted in deep murmurs.
Mark stood still like a statue, letting their disdain wash over him.
The President leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
“And what do you think, half-blood?”
Mark hesitated. This was the first time the Agency had sought his opinion; he was never asked what he thought.
“I think,” he began, carefully, “if you kill another pack, more will arise. You’re not ending rebellion, but you’re feeding it.”
Gasps and growls erupted in the room and one man rose halfway to his feet.
“Watch your tongue,” another man warned.
The President raised a hand for decorum.
“You speak boldly.”
“I speak honestly,” Mark replied.
“Honesty from a mud blood is more dangerous,” the president said.
“Even useful, when tempered by obedience.”
“I serve the Agency,” Mark said evenly. “I serve through Cindy.”
That calmed the room to an extent and the Warden smiled thinly.
“Then you’ll deliver our answer to her. The New York pack must be silenced. Tell her Kingpin expects it done before the next moon.”
Mark gave a stiff nod and left, fists clenched.
He didn’t run this time. Rather, he walked very slowly and quietly like a man walking solemnly to his coffin.
He found Cindy by the old train tracks outside the city ruins, waiting patiently beneath the rusted structure of what had once been a bridge.
He always knew where to find her, or maybe he just always ended up where she wanted him.
“Did they listen to you?” she asked, her voice silk over steel.
“They gave an answer,” Mark said. “They want New York to be silenced.”
She smiled faintly. “Good.”
“It’s not good,” he said, jaw tight. “It doesn't have to be this way. There is still a chance to save them.”
“The agency has the final say. It could be worse if Kingpin gave this command.”
“No,” Mark said, watching her closely. “You’ve seen the way they treat me and the way they talk about anyone with mixed blood. You think the Council’s justice is fair?”
Cindy looked away for a moment, her silence was rare and dangerous.
"The agency seeks to restore balance and unity among the bloodlines."
Mark scoffs. "Balance, yes. Unity, not so sure. The agency wants to rule the bloodlines under one authority, which is very impossible."
“I believe in survival, Mark. And you should too,” she said finally.
The district was thick with tension and clouds bruised the sky as if nature itself mirrored the weight of the moment. Cindy stood at the helm of the ridge, her guards lined behind her in disciplined glinting dark armor, faces set like stone. She watched Mark with her arms folded, expression cool and calculating.
Below them, beyond the valley mist, New York lay hidden in a silence unaware of the impending chaos. The mudbloods had fortified their lines, refusing to acknowledge the council's decrees. And as Cindy’s patience thinned by the minute, Mark stepped forward, not flinching beneath the collective gaze of her guards. His voice was low and authoritative. “Let me try a more diplomatic way. A direct assault will only scatter their power and ignite more resistance. Allow me to convince the leader to stand down his men."
Cindy’s jaw tightened. The mudbloods weren’t simply rebels, they were power-hungry opportunists, feeding on chaos and threatening the order built by centuries of blood and alliance. But she looked at Mark and saw, not naivety, but strange certainty. She trusted him more than she should.
“Two hours, Mark” she said coldly. “No more. If the resistance remains silent, we take it, brick by brick and burn their pride with them.”
Mark gave a small nod, and without another word, turned toward the street as her guards parted way for him. No one dared spoke.
He mounted his motobike and rode towards the resistance. His coat caught the wind like a flag of freedom, drizzles of rain were splashing across his face. That dude, Vincent Gray, he didn't like him at all. Years ago after being banished by his bloodline, he had roamed through New York seeking alliance; and had finally found a stronghold to raise his resistance of men who weren’t fighting for freedom but for their selfish ambitions; and in their idiocy, believed the agency had grown too soft.
Yet he rode on because somewhere in his gut, past the fear and the doubt, lived a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, something different could be born out of all this blood.
- Writer
