Justice wears blood

The city never slept—but that night, it watched. Rain fell like judgment, washing over broken streets and silent buildings. Inside a small government quarter, a man stood firm against the weight of fear. He was known for one thing—honesty. A rare thing. A dangerous thing. And tonight, it cost him everything. He had refused them. Refused the money. Refused the power. Refused to stain his hands for men who ruled through fear. Outside, engines growled. Doors slammed. Shadows moved. Inside, a 20-year-old boy stood frozen—his name was Aarav Veyron. A name that would one day echo in whispers, soaked in blood and justice. Right now, he was just a son. “Stay inside,” his father had said. But fate doesn’t listen. The door shattered open. Voices. Screams. Chaos. Aarav saw it all—too fast, too brutal. His father, still standing, even as they struck him down. His mother… her voice breaking into silence. And his little sister—just 14—terrified, trembling, clinging to life as the world around her burned. Aarav tried to fight. He failed. A flash of steel. A deafening crack. Pain—unbearable, tearing through his body. He fell. Blood spread across the floor, warm… endless. The last thing he saw was his sister’s eyes—wide, shattered, begging him to stay. Then darkness. ⸻ But death didn’t take him. It left him behind. Broken. Burning. Breathing. Because some people don’t survive tragedy… They become it.