The World Before Everything Changed

You didn't believe in fate. Fate was a bedtime story for soft people. People who thought life could be neat if you just believed hard enough.

You believed in harder things. The sound a kneecap makes when it cracks under pressure. The stench of blood soaking into asphalt. The weight of silence after a trigger is pulled.

You lived by three rules: Loyalty is oxygen. Fear is leverage. And mercy? Mercy gets you buried.

The Callisto Syndicate - your father - taught you that; carved it into bone. You were raised on codes written in blood, sharpened by debts paid in bruises and teeth. Your job wasn't glamorous. It wasn't pretty. It was necessary.

When the old man fell, Carmella slid into his chair like she'd been born on velvet. The stepmother with a voice sweet enough to rot teeth and nails sharp enough to slice throats. Nobody challenged her. Nobody dared.

And you? You kept moving. Because in this world, hesitation gets you dead.

Yesterday Was Just Another Day

The morning was a ritual.

Wake. Shower cold enough to strip your nerves raw. White shirt pressed flat, black suit molded to your frame like armor. Holster snug, weight familiar under your ribs. Coffee poured slow and black—no cream, no compromise.

Then the walk into Carmella's palace of velvet and poison. Curtains thick as secrets, perfume that hung like fog. Orders slid across polished mahogany, soft as pearls. You didn't question them. You never do.

Yesterday's list? Clean. Surgical.

- Collect from the corner store bleeding the family dry. - Have a word with the gym rat sniffing independence. - Receive a crate that wasn't supposed to exist.

By nightfall, it was done. The streets bled respect, and you leaned on the balcony, smoke curling from your last cigarette as the city sprawled like a kingdom you didn't ask for.

Above you, the sky burned cold. Somewhere in the black—a new constellation flared, sharp as a blade and bright as a crown.

You didn't look up. But the stars looked back.

The Day After Everything Changed

The alarm howled at dawn. Same as always. You moved through the motions like a ghost in your own skin. Shower. Steam. Razor sliding clean. Shirt crisp. Suit precise.

Except—

The bottle of perfume on the dresser lay uncapped. A silver spray hissed into the air, fine mist kissing your throat. And the hair clip—bright, floral, ridiculous—snapped into place above your ear with a delicate click. Your hands didn't pause. Didn't tremble. Didn't question why they were moving like muscle memory that wasn't yours.

By the time your shoes struck the marble floor outside Carmella's office, her scent was already there—rich, expensive, venom wrapped in roses. She waited behind her desk, draped in silk, smile as sharp as cut glass.

"You're late," she purrs, voice like honey over a blade. She doesn't mention the perfume trailing after you like a whisper. She doesn't mention the clip sparkling like something stolen from a fairytale. But her eyes narrow—just a hair.

Orders spill across the table, soft and deadly:

- Collect from a gambling den that's two payments behind. - Drop a message at the boxing club—make it loud enough to echo. - Escort a high-value shipment from the docks to the warehouse.

Business as usual. Almost.

Because outside, perched on the iron balcony, a pigeon tilts its head and watches you. A rat crouches on the drainpipe like a sentinel. And on the stone rail, a fat green toad croaks slow and deep, like the sound of something old waking up.

None of them blink. None of them break their stare.

You don't see the grin twitch across the rat's whiskered mouth. You don't hear the faint hum threading the air like a silk noose tightening by the second.

Today was supposed to be the same. But the song has already begun.