Chapter 7: Such A Good Brother
1010 Words
From above, he watched the scene unfold.
The gang of punks was closing in. He didn’t need to hear every word to understand what was happening — the laughter, the taunts, the way they circled Na Na like wolves around a rabbit. She took a step back, clutching her bag tight, her face pale with fear.
He saw everything — the way one guy dropped his arm, pinning her against the wall; another spun a bottle lazily in his hand, smirking; the others scanning the alley to make sure no one would intervene. The sight made his pulse spike, rage flaring in his chest like gasoline meeting flame.
> “Damn dogs… trying to take what’s mine again? You’ve got a death wish.”
He stood frozen, his mind hurling curses, but he didn’t rush down.
Two voices battled inside his head: one hissed, cold and sharp — Go now. Kill them.
The other whispered calmly — Wait. Act. Don’t break character.
He knew he had to keep the mask — the good boy, the injured victim. His reaction needed to win sympathy, not suspicion. That way, everyone would let their guard down.
The decision crystallized in seconds: he would tell Uncle Bảy.
Not to save Na Na, but to make sure those men were trapped — perfectly positioned for his revenge later.
Uncle Bảy arrived faster than expected, a few of the shop’s regulars in tow.
Shouts erupted. Boots scraped. A brief, violent storm of chaos swept through the alley.
The punks stumbled back, caught, grabbed, shoved. Na Na was pulled away — her hair messy, her face ghost-white, still trembling with shock.
He stood apart from it all, his expression cold, detached. Not out of fear — but calculation. Every twitch of their bodies, every trace of panic — he was memorizing it.
When things finally calmed down, Na Na was brought back to the shop. People rushed around — cleaning, comforting, fussing.
Upstairs, he lay back on the wooden bench, one hand resting over the bandage on his thigh, wincing just enough to keep up the act.
Na Na clung to him, voice shaking:
> “Anh Bảo… I was so scared…”
He drew his hand away, brushed her hair gently — the perfect gesture of a caring brother. But the touch lingered, deliberate, marking territory.
Inside his head, gears began to turn.
That night, he didn’t sleep.
He prowled the upstairs room like a caged tiger.
The yellow light flickered across cracked tiles and the curtains swayed in the wind. On the bed lay his changed clothes, still faintly stained — a ghost of old blood.
He reached for the small knife he had tossed into the trash earlier, ignoring his reflection in the puddle by the window sill.
Every movement was precise, methodical — the rhythm of a man preparing for something inevitable.
The plan hadn’t been born tonight. It had been replayed in his mind a hundred times before — calm, deliberate, not impulsive like when he slit open chickens or fish.
First, make them think they’re safe.
Then isolate them — somewhere empty, quiet.
Finally, make them pay — not just in pain, but in fear that would linger long after the wounds closed.
He imagined them lying there, helpless, staring up at something they couldn’t understand: the terror of being prey.
The next morning, he came down to the shop like nothing had happened. Only his eyes had changed — colder, sharper, fixed on nothing.
He spoke lightly to Uncle Bảy:
> “Those guys who harassed Na Na yesterday… I know where they usually hang out.”
The old man looked at him curiously.
He listed a few spots, his tone casual, unhurried. To everyone else, it sounded like concern — a boy wanting to protect his friend.
But in his head, the puzzle pieces were locking into place:
locations, timing, escape routes, their nightly habits — everything mapped out with chilling precision.
That night, he let half the mask slip.
He asked Uncle Bảy to go out with him, said he wanted to “settle things once and for all.”
His voice dripped with sweetness, just enough to sound like a plea for justice — and the old man believed him.
But Uncle Bảy was kind-hearted.
He refused. Said he’d already taught those boys a lesson, and that was enough.
Inside, fury twisted like a knife.
The plan was perfect — and now the old man’s sense of morality had ruined it.
He stormed out, jaw tight.
Uncle Bảy called after him, asking where he was going.
He only muttered,
> “Just taking a walk.”
And left.
What he didn’t know was that Uncle Bảy, worried he might run into trouble again, had quietly told Thiện — his older brother — to follow.
He walked straight toward the old alley where the punks usually gathered.
He’d been watching them for days — they were always there past midnight.
Even before seeing them, he could hear their laughter and the clink of bottles echoing down the narrow lane.
He smiled — satisfied.
Tonight, they would learn the cost of touching what didn’t belong to them.
As he turned toward the alley, a faint reflection caught his eye — in the convex mirror mounted on the corner wall.
A familiar silhouette trailed behind him.
Thiện.
His brother.
He froze for half a breath, then kept walking, pretending not to notice.
> “What the hell is he doing here? Did he… suspect something?”
The thought shot through his head, sharp as a blade — but he dismissed it just as quickly.
> “No. He’s just worried, that’s all. We’re both still being watched by those bastards. That’s it. He’s just being careful.”
Reassured by his own reasoning, he quickened his pace.
But beneath the calm surface, his mind was spinning — recalculating, adjusting, deciding how to deal with this unexpected complication.
He couldn’t let the perfect opportunity slip — not because of one meddling brother.
- Writer
