★★Leon's POV★★



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The second I step out of that room, I feel it—the suffocating grip of my father's presence finally loosening. But it doesn't disappear. No, it never does. It lingers like smoke, clinging to me no matter how hard I try to shake it off.

I don't stop walking until I'm far enough from the house, away from the watchful eyes of guards, away from Damien, away from the weight of expectations pressing down on my chest. The backyard stretches into darkness, quiet except for the distant rustling of trees and the occasional chirp of crickets.

I take out a cigarette, lighting it with steady hands despite the storm inside me. I inhale deeply, letting the burn ground me, letting it settle the chaos that's been gnawing at my insides since I was a kid.

The monster I made.

I let out a bitter chuckle, shaking my head.

He acts like I had a choice.

The memories come flooding back, uninvited.

*Flashback*

Age 10

I remember the first time I held a gun. My hands were too small to wrap around the grip properly, my fingers barely able to pull the trigger. But my father stood behind me, his hand on my shoulder, his voice cold and firm in my ear.

"Again."

My arms ached from holding the weight of the pistol for so long. My ears were still ringing from the last shot. I didn't want to pull the trigger again. I didn't want to kill something just because he said so.

"Again, Leon. Until you get it right."

I hesitated. A mistake.

Before I could react, a sharp crack rang through the air as the back of his hand collided with my face. Pain exploded across my jaw, my head snapping to the side. I barely had time to process it before I tasted blood—warm, metallic, pooling in my mouth.

He didn't let go. His grip was iron as he seized my face, fingers digging into my jaw, forcing me to look at him through the sting of tears I refused to shed.

His eyes were cold. Empty.

"A leader never makes mistakes."

The words cut deeper than the slap.

A leader never hesitates. A leader never falters. A leader never shows weakness.

I swallowed the blood and the pain and nodded.

"Pull the goddamn trigger."

So I did. Again. And again. Until the recoil didn't shake me. Until I didn't flinch at the sound. Until I could kill without a second thought.

Age 14

Blood stained my hands for the first time when I was fourteen. Not figuratively—literally.

It wasn't my kill. Not yet. But I was the one who had to clean it up.

"If you're going to be a leader, you need to understand what it takes to maintain control."

That's what he said as I stood there, staring at the lifeless body of a man who had betrayed us.

"You either clean this up, or you join him."

I remember the way my stomach twisted, the bile rising in my throat. But I didn't hesitate this time. I learned my lesson. I rolled up my sleeves, got on my knees, and wiped away the evidence of the crime.

I told myself I didn't care. That it didn't matter.

And eventually, it didn't.

I take another drag from my cigarette, exhaling slowly as I stare out into the empty night.

The monster he made.

That's all I've ever been.

Not a son. Not a man. Just a weapon molded by his hands, sharpened by his discipline, designed to execute his will.

People fear me. They respect me. They follow me because I am ruthless, because I don't hesitate. Because my father made sure of that.

But in moments like these, when the noise dies down, when I'm left alone with my thoughts, I wonder—

Who would I have been if I wasn't raised like this?

Would I have been someone who hesitated? Someone who smiled more? Someone who knew what it felt like to be loved without it coming at a cost?

I flick the cigarette away, watching the embers fade as it lands in the grass. It's a pointless thought.

That boy never had a chance. He died the moment he picked up that gun at ten years old.

And all that's left is the monster.

The one my father wanted.

The one he still doesn't think is good enough.

I lean back, staring at the stars above, feeling nothing.

Nothing at all.

*End of Flashback*

Now, years later, I still feel the sting of that slap whenever I falter. His words are a constant drumbeat in my mind, a mantra I live by.

"A leader never makes mistakes."

I can't make a mistake.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

I don't know how long I sit there, staring at nothing. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. The cigarette burns out at my feet, but I don't bother lighting another. My thoughts keep circling the same drain, dragging me back down to a place I never escape from.

Then I hear footsteps. Light ones. Careful.

I don't turn my head. I already know who it is.

"Inaya," I say, voice low. "Leave."

She ignores me. Of course, she does. Instead, she lowers herself onto the step beside me, smoothing out her long skirt as she settles in.

I exhale sharply through my nose. "I said—"

"Did you know I'm going to a ceremony next week?" she interrupts, her voice as calm as if we were discussing the weather.

My jaw clenches. "Inaya—"

"For archery," she continues, cutting me off again. "It's a big one. They're honoring the top competitors, and guess what?" She glances at me with a smirk. "I'm in the top three."

I sigh, running a hand down my face. "That's great, Inaya."

"It is, isn't it?" She leans back, stretching out her legs. "And do you know what that means?"

I don't answer. She keeps going anyway.

"It means I get to wear a fancy dress, shake hands with some overly important people, and pretend I actually care about what they have to say." She grins. "Sounds exhausting, doesn't it?"

I huff out something that could almost pass for a chuckle. "Yeah. Sounds terrible."

She nudges me with her shoulder. "You'd hate it."

She's trying to pull me out of my head. I know that. And the worst part? It's working.

The tight coil in my chest loosens just a fraction.

We sit in silence for a while, the night air cool against my skin. I glance at her, this little sister of mine who, despite growing up in the same ruthless house, still somehow has softness in her.

"You shouldn't be out here," I murmur. "Not around me."

She scoffs. "Why? Because you're brooding?"

I look away. "Because I don't want you to see me like this."

"Like what?" she challenges. "Human?"

I exhale slowly. "Weak."

Her brows pull together, and she shakes her head. "Leon... you're not weak. You just think you are because of him."

I go still.

She turns toward me fully now, her voice quieter but steady. "I know you carry his expectations like a chain around your neck, but you are not him."

I say nothing, but she doesn't stop.

"He built you into the perfect leader—the perfect soldier. But that's not all you are. You care, Leon. Even if you don't want to admit it. You care about people more than he ever did."

I let her words settle. They don't erase the weight I feel, but they chip away at it, just a little.

"You should stop thinking so much about what he wants you to be," she adds. "Because you're already better than him."

Better.

I don't know if I believe that.

But I believe her.

Finally, I turn to look at her. There's something fierce in her eyes, something unshakable. I never want her to lose that. Never want her to carry what I do.

I clear my throat. "I'm proud of you, Inaya."

Her lips part slightly, surprised. I don't say things like that often.

"For everything," I continue. "For... being you."

She gives me a small smile, one that actually reaches her eyes. "And I'm proud of you too, you know. Even if you are a little dramatic sometimes."

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Go to bed, Inaya."

She smirks. "Only if you do."

"Not happening."

She rolls her eyes but stands up anyway. Before she leaves, she places a hand on my shoulder, just for a second. It's a simple gesture, but it anchors me in a way I can't explain.

Then she's gone, slipping back into the house.

I sit there a little longer, staring up at the sky. The night doesn't feel as heavy anymore.

Maybe I'll never be free of my father's shadow. Maybe I'll never fully shake what he made me into.

But for tonight, my little sister reminded me—

I don't have to be him.

And maybe, just maybe, I never will be.

The weight in my chest doesn't lift, not really.

I let Inaya's words sit with me for a few minutes longer before pushing them aside. They don't change anything. They don't fix anything.

I do what I've always done—I shut it all out.

I push myself up from the steps, flick my cigarette to the ground, and grind it beneath my boot. Then I head back inside, straight to my office.

The space is cold, dimly lit, and just as suffocating as the rest of this house. The scent of old leather and faint cigar smoke lingers in the air. I sit at my desk, flicking through documents, reports, anything to keep my mind occupied.

Work. Work is easier than thinking.

But, of course, I'm not left alone for long.

The door swings open without a knock.

Damien and Antonio stroll in like they own the place.

"Ever heard of knocking?" I mutter, not looking up.

Damien smirks, dropping into the chair across from me. "Would it make a difference?"

I ignore him, eyes scanning over the paperwork in front of me. Antonio steps closer, arms crossed. He's not one for bullshit.

"We have a mission," he says, his voice steady.

I finally glance up, meeting his gaze. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning," Damien answers, stretching his legs out. "Bright and early."

I exhale sharply, shutting the file in my hands. "Details?"

Antonio takes over. "Cartel group. They were supposed to trade a shipment of narcotics with us, but the shipment's gone. Vanished. Along with the payment they owed."

I already know where this is going.

"Our dear old man is pissed," Damien adds, grinning like this is all some joke. "And when he's pissed, guess who gets sent in to clean up the mess?"

I lean back in my chair, running a hand down my face. "Let me guess—negotiation isn't an option?"

Antonio shakes his head. "Not this time. They stole from us. You know what that means."

Yeah. I do.

It means blood. It means sending a message.

My father doesn't tolerate thieves. If we don't handle this properly, we won't just be dealing with him—we'll be dealing with every other group that thinks they can take advantage of us.

"You in?" Antonio asks, though we both know the answer.

I nod once. "Yeah. I'm in."

Damien grins, standing up. "Good. Pack your shit. It's going to be a fun one."

I don't share his amusement.

Antonio gives me one last look before following Damien out. "Get some sleep, Leon."

I don't respond.

Sleep? I don't remember the last time I actually got any.

Instead, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk, fingers laced together. My mind is already shifting—calculating, planning.

Tomorrow morning, we collect a debt.

And if they don't pay in cash—

They'll pay in blood.

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Leon has childhood trama damn bru.

This chapter was a rollercoaster of emotions.

Do you guys think the mission will go smoothly, or no?

*Favorite candy?*

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡