BROTHERS

The city never slept, it simply changed faces. By day, it wore polished shoes, office shirts, expensive watches, and rehearsed smiles. Cars crawled through crowded intersections while businessmen argued over phone calls and street vendors shouted over one another for customers. By night, the city became honest, the expensive suits disappeared, the smiles disappeared, the masks disappeared, all that remained was what people truly were. People were hungry, angry, desperate, dangerous. And every Saturday night, somewhere in that city, Samuel disappeared into it. Nobody knew where he had gone, nobody except Samuel, not his coworkers, not his neighbors, not the old woman downstairs who constantly asked when he planned on getting married, and certainly not his twin brother. Exhavier hated secrets, especially when they came from Samuel. The twins had spent twenty-two years sharing almost everything. Birthdays, Schools, Punishments, Food, Bedrooms, Dreams, Fights, Failures. They had once broken the same arm on the same day trying to jump from a rooftop onto a pile of cardboard boxes behind a supermarket. Samuel had landed first. Ex had landed on Samuel and both landed in the hospital. Their mother had cried but their father laughed. The memory still made Ex smile. Back then, life had been simple. Now it wasn't. The apartment they shared sat above a small mechanic shop near the southern district. The place was old and the walls cracked. The plumbing complained every morning and the ceiling fan sounded like it wanted to commit suicide, but it was home, and home was enough. At least it had been, until Saturdays became suspicious. Ex sat on the couch staring at the television. The football match playing on screen had long lost his attention. His eyes remained fixed on Samuel instead. Samuel stood in front of the mirror adjusting a black hoodie. Again. The same hoodie, the same routine, every Saturday without fail. "You know," Ex finally said, "normal people usually tell their brothers where they're going." Samuel didn't turn around. "Good thing I'm not normal." Ex snorted. "You work six days a week." "Correct." "You barely drink." "Correct." "You've never touched drugs." "Correct." "You complain when movies have too much violence." "Correct." "You literally separate laundry by color." Samuel glanced over his shoulder. "I fail to see your point." "My point is you're painfully normal." Samuel laughed, A real laugh. The kind that made his eyes squint.The kind Ex hadn't seen enough lately. "You spend too much time thinking." "Someone has to." Samuel grabbed his keys from the table. "I'll be back." Ex narrowed his eyes. "There it is." "There what is?" "That sentence." "What sentence?" "I'll be back." Samuel sighed. "Oh no." "Oh yes." Ex sat forward. "Every Saturday for the last eight months." Samuel froze, Just slightly. Most people wouldn't have noticed but Ex did, because Ex noticed everything about Samuel. "Eight months" That tiny pause said enough. "I'll be back," Ex repeated. Samuel rubbed his forehead. "Ex." "Where do you go?" "Out." "Helpful." "Thank you." "With who?" "People." "Even more helpful." Samuel chuckled. Ex didn't. The silence stretched. For a moment, Samuel's smile faded. Something heavy appeared behind his eyes, Something tired, Something hidden. Then it vanished. "Don't wait up." He headed for the door. Ex stood. "Sam." Samuel stopped. The room suddenly felt smaller. "Yeah?" Ex frowned. There it was again, that feeling, the feeling that something wasn't right. That something was changing and that his brother was slowly drifting somewhere He couldn't follow. "I know you're hiding something." Samuel looked away. Only for a second. Then back. "I know." "Then tell me." "No." "Why?" A pause. Longer this time. When Samuel answered, his voice sounded strangely soft. "Because some things are safer when you don't know them." Ex's stomach tightened. "What does that mean?" Samuel smiled. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Goodnight, little brother." "I'm younger by four minutes." "Still younger." The door opened. Then closed. And Samuel was gone. Again. Every Saturday night, always gone, always returning before sunrise and always bruised. Always exhausted. Always pretending nothing happened. Ex stared at the door, something felt wrong, very wrong. And for the first time in eight months—He decided he wasn't letting Samuel leave alone, not tonight, not again. Two hours later, Ex was following him through the city, very poorly though. Stealth had never been one of Ex's talents, recklessness was. Samuel moved through crowded streets with practiced confidence. Ex stayed half a block behind. At least he tried to. More than once, he nearly lost him. The city lights reflected off rain-soaked pavement. Traffic rolled by. People laughed outside bars and music drifted from open windows. And still Samuel kept walking, further and further, until the city changed. The buildings grew older, the streets narrower, the people rougher. this wasn't a district Ex visited often. The atmosphere felt different, predatory, like everyone was waiting for something. They were watching and judging. Samuel turned down an alley, Ex followed and when he emerged from the other side—0He stopped cold. A warehouse stood ahead. it looked massive and abandoned, but dozens of cars surrounded it. People lined the entrance, large men, scarred men, dangerous-looking men. Money exchanged hands. Security checked visitors and the crowd buzzed with excitement. Ex blinked. "What the hell..." Then he saw Samuel walking directly toward the entrance confidently like he belonged there. One of the guards nodded and Samuel entered, no questions asked and no hesitation. Ex stared. His brain struggled to catch up. Samuel? His Samuel? The man who organized kitchen cabinets for fun? The man who hated violence in movies? The man who once apologized to a pigeon after accidentally kicking snow toward it? That Samuel? Inside that place? Something wasn't adding up, not even close. Ex moved closer. The noise grew louder, cheering and shouting. The sound hit like a wave. Then realization finally arrived. Underground fights. His eyes widened. No. No way. Samuel? Impossible. And yet—A sudden roar erupted from inside the warehouse. The kind of roar only a crowd could make after witnessing violence. Ex looked toward the entrance. Then toward the city behind him. Then back again. His heartbeat quickened. Questions burned through his mind. What was Samuel doing here? Why had he hidden this? How long had this been going on? The answers waited inside. And for the first time all night—Ex stepped toward the darkness. Unaware that before sunrise—Everything in his life would be destroyed. The first thing Ex noticed was the smell: sweat, blood, alcohol, money. Not the literal scent of money, but the atmosphere it created. The sharp tension of people who had wagered more than they could afford to lose. The warehouse was enormous inside. Rows of steel beams stretched overhead like the skeleton of some dead giant. Floodlights hung from makeshift rigs. Hundreds of people filled the space. Men in expensive suits stood beside tattooed gang members. Women in designer dresses laughed beside men who looked like they had spent half their lives in prison. Everyone's attention focused on the center: a fighting ring, not a boxing ring, not an MMA cage, just a raised platform surrounded by steel barriers. Raw, Illegal, Violent. Ex pushed through the crowd. Nobody paid attention to him. They were too busy watching two men beat each other unconscious. A fighter hit the floor, and the crowd exploded. Money changed hands instantly. Arguments erupted. Celebrations followed. Ex barely noticed. His eyes searched for one person. Samuel. Then he found him. And for a moment, Ex genuinely wondered if he was looking at the wrong man. Samuel sat alone in a corner. Wrapped hands, Focused expression, Bruised knuckles, A split lip, A small cut above one eyebrow. The look in his eyes wasn't familiar. It wasn't the calm, patient Samuel who spent hours helping neighbors fix broken furniture. It wasn't the Samuel who dragged Ex out of trouble every other week. This Samuel looked sharp, dangerous.Like a blade hidden beneath cloth. Ex stared.The realization settled slowly.His brother wasn't visiting underground fights.His brother was fighting in them. A voice beside him interrupted his thoughts. "First time?" Ex turned. A bald man holding three betting slips smirked. "What?" "Your face." The man laughed. "You got the same expression everybody gets their first time." Ex looked back toward Samuel. "Who's that?" The man's eyes followed his gaze. Recognition appeared immediately. "Oh." A grin. "That's Black Saturday." Ex frowned. "Black what?" "Black Saturday." The man pointed toward Samuel. "That's what they call him." Ex nearly laughed. The nickname sounded ridiculous. Then he noticed the respect in the man's voice. not admiration. Respect. The kind earned through violence. "What kind of fighter is he?" The man looked surprised. "You serious?" "Yeah." The man whistled. "You really are new." He leaned closer. "Kid, Black Saturday is one of the nastiest fighters in this city." Ex blinked. No. That couldn't be right. Not Samuel. The bald man continued. "Nobody knew where he came from." "He showed up about a year ago." "Started beating everybody." "Didn't talk." "Didn't brag." "Just kept winning." Ex looked toward his brother. The image didn't fit. It simply didn't fit. "And tonight?" Ex asked. The man's grin widened. "Tonight is special." "Why?" "The heir is fighting." The crowd suddenly erupted.People began moving toward the ring.Excitement spread like wildfire. The bald man laughed. "Speak of the devil." A spotlight illuminated the platform, Then another. Music blasted through the warehouse. The crowd roared. A man climbed onto the ring. Expensive clothes. Perfect haircut. Confident smile. The type of person who had never heard the word no. Jefferson Veyron. Ex didn't know his name yet. But he immediately hated him. Something about the man's face irritated him. Maybe it was his arrogance. Maybe it was the way he looked at the crowd. Like they existed for his entertainment. The announcer raised a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen!" The warehouse erupted. "Tonight!" More cheering. "Tonight our undefeated heir returns to defend his crown!" The crowd roared Jefferson's name. Jefferson smiled,Waved,Enjoyed it.Ex felt his stomach twist. Then the announcer spoke again. "And standing across from him..." The room grew quieter. "...the ghost of Saturday night himself." The spotlight shifted. Landed on Samuel. For a moment, the warehouse held its breath. Then all hell broke loose. People screamed, shouted, whistled. The noise became deafening. Samuel stood, removed his hoodie, walked toward the ring. Not nervous, not excited. Just focused. Like this was another day at work. The crowd parted for him. Respectfully. Almost carefully. And suddenly Ex understood something. The people here feared Samuel, not because of who he was but because of what he could do. The realization unsettled him, deeply. Samuel climbed into the ring, across from Jefferson. The contrast was immediate. Jefferson looked polished. Manufactured. Samuel looked real. The scars. The bruises. The calm expression. Years of hardship sat on him like armor. Jefferson smiled but Samuel didn't. The announcer left and the referee entered. The crowd buzzed. Ex found himself moving closer, close enough to hear. Jefferson cracked his neck. "You know," he said, "my father offered you a future." Samuel remained silent, Jefferson smirked. "You could've made serious money." Nothing. "You could've had sponsors." Nothing. "You could've had protection." Finally, Samuel spoke. A single sentence. "I don't belong to anybody." The smile vanished from Jefferson's face. For the first time all night—He looked annoyed. The referee stepped back. The crowd held its breath. The bell rang. Jefferson attacked immediately. Fast. Aggressive. Violent. A powerful right hand exploded toward Samuel's head. Samuel slipped. Countered. A sharp punch landed clean. The crowd reacted instantly. Jefferson stumbled. Ex's eyes widened. That punch had been perfect. Not lucky. Perfect. Jefferson charged again. Samuel moved again. Another counter. Another clean strike. The crowd became louder. Jefferson became angrier. Three minutes later—the heir was losing. Badly. Blood dripped from Jefferson's nose. One eye was swelling. His breathing had become ragged. Meanwhile, Samuel remained composed, not untouched, but controlled. Every movement was efficient. Every strike felt calculated. Ex watched in disbelief. His brother wasn't surviving. His brother was dominating. The realization hit him harder than any punch. He didn't know Samuel. Not completely, not anymore. And maybe he never had. Then Samuel landed a devastating combination, Jefferson crashed onto the platform. The warehouse exploded. People jumped barriers. Money flew through the air. Shouting erupted from every direction. Jefferson struggled. Tried to stand; Failed. The referee counted. Eight. Nine. Ten. The fight ended. Samuel won. The crowd lost its mind. Ex barely heard them, because his attention had shifted elsewhere. To a group of men standing above the arena. Watching, not celebrating, not angry, just watching. expensive suits, cold faces, powerful people. And at the center—An older man with silver hair. Sharp eyes. No emotion whatsoever. While everyone else reacted to the fight—He watched Samuel. And somehow, Ex knew. Without being told. Without understanding why. That man was dangerous. Very dangerous. The older man turned. Spoke quietly to someone beside him. Then walked away. The people around him followed. Jefferson remained in the ring. Humiliated. Samuel climbed down. Calm as ever. But for the first time—Ex noticed something strange. Samuel wasn't happy. He wasn't celebrating. He wasn't enjoying the victory. He looked concerned, like he'd just seen something he didn't want to see, like winning had made a problem worse. And as Samuel began heading toward the warehouse exit—Ex suddenly remembered why he'd come. To confront him, to demand answers, to understand. He started after him. Never realizing that somewhere in the darkness beyond the warehouse—A group of armed men had already begun preparing an ambush. And before the night ended—One brother would die. And the other would wish he had.