Vicky beat me in a race so tell her thanks for the chapter I guess
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London, 4:30 AM.
London bled that night.
Not in the way cities usually do—not with the slow seep of poverty or the steady drip of injustice. This was an arterial wound, neighborhoods pulsing with violence, streets slick with proof that something had ruptured.
In Ladbroke Grove, three schoolgirls returning from a party stumbled upon what they first thought was a mannequin. The light caught on something reflective in the alley beside the chicken shop—probably just rubbish, they'd thought, or maybe someone's abandoned shopping. Tasha had nudged it with her foot, curious.
It rolled.
What had once been a face stared up at them, features warped and melted like candle wax, one eye fused shut, the other wide and cloudy. The skin bubbled in places, cracked in others, dark red where the acid had eaten deepest.
Their screams echoed off brick walls, bringing neighbors running. Too late to un-see. Too late for childhood.
In Kilburn, an elderly woman walking her terrier discovered a boy slumped against a garden wall. At first, she'd thought he was sleeping—these youngsters, always out all hours, no respect for proper rest. She'd approached with a stern word ready on her lips.
Then she'd seen the blood. So much of it, soaked through his white puffer jacket, turning it a deep, uneven crimson. His eyes still open, reflecting the darkness of the sky, seeing nothing.
Her terrier barked and barked while she stood frozen, her mind refusing to process what was before her.
On a Hackney estate, children kicked a football back and forth in the pre-dawn quiet, their parents still sleeping behind locked doors. The ball sailed over a low wall, and the smallest boy scrambled after it, dropping to his knees to retrieve it from under a bench.
His fingers brushed something soft and sticky. He peered under, curious.
A hand. Just a hand, severed at the wrist, a gold watch still ticking on its wrist.
They say you could hear his screams three blocks away.
….
In the van, everything felt distant, like it was happening underwater.
Dyno's head pounded, a migraine burrowing behind his left eye, digging deeper with each heartbeat. The percocet was wearing off, the comedown hitting him sideways, making the world tilt and sway. He popped another, dry-swallowed it, forcing it down his burning throat.
The vehicle lurched around a corner, and he braced himself against the dashboard, his vision swimming. Capari's voice filtered through the fog in his brain, something about targets, about moving quickly, about staying focused.
Dyno wasn't focused. He was flying.
He turned to Amias, who sat rigid in the back seat, eyes fixed on something invisible, something distant. The boy was still in shock, still processing. First kill, first real taste of this life. Dyno remembered his own—how the world had seemed to slow down, how everything afterward had been too bright, too loud, too much.
"You was tripping fam," Dyno said, his words slightly slurred, a grin stretching across his face. "Almost missed out on all this fun."
Amias didn't respond, just stared at his hands like they belonged to someone else.
Dyno laughed, the sound sharp and too loud in the confined space. "Boy's shell-shocked, bruv. Needs another rush to shake it off."
Capari's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Amias' gaze. "You good?"
Amias nodded once, his face betraying nothing.
Dyno twisted in his seat, fixing Amias with bloodshot eyes. "First one's always weird, you get me? Second one's easier. Third one's nothing. By the tenth..." He trailed off, laughing again, that same jagged sound that didn't quite fit inside the van.
Ekane leaned forward from the back seat. "Man's off his head. How many you popped tonight, bruv?"
Dyno shrugged, his movements loose, uncoordinated. "Lost count, innit? Enough to make this migraine feel like vibes."
The van slowed, pulling into a side street lined with council flats. Grey concrete against a greyer sky, windows like blank eyes staring down at them.
Capari cut the engine. "Right. Ninth floor. Flat 43. Last intel says three of Kenzo's top boys staying there since the raid on their main spot. We go in fast, we go in hard, we leave nothing but a message."
Dyno was already out of the van before Capari finished speaking, the cold air hitting him like a slap, sharpening his senses for a brief, crystalline moment. The pain in his head receded, replaced by a buzzing anticipation that made his fingertips tingle.
This. This is what he lived for. This rush before the storm.
…
The door exploded inward under Dyno's boot, wood splintering around the lock. The flat beyond was dim, curtains drawn against the morning light. He moved through the darkness like he owned it, a knife already in hand, adrenaline burning through his veins.
A figure emerged from a doorway to his right—tall, startled, reaching for something at his waistband. Dyno didn't hesitate. He charged, slamming his full weight into the man, driving him back against the wall with enough force to crack plaster. The air left the man's lungs in a harsh whoosh, his eyes widening with shock, then narrowing with recognition.
"You—" he began, but Dyno didn't let him finish.
From another room, a shout. The metallic click of a safety being switched off. Dyno spun, using the first man as a shield just as the shot rang out. The body in his grip jerked, a wet sound escaping his lips as the bullet meant for Dyno tore through him instead.
Dyno didn't pause to watch him fall. He was already moving, ducking low, closing the distance between himself and the shooter in three rapid strides. The gun swung toward him again, but too late—Dyno's knife found flesh, sinking deep between ribs with a sound like puncturing fruit.
The shooter's finger spasmed on the trigger. The bullet went wide, embedding itself in the ceiling as he crumpled, the knife still buried to the hilt in his chest.
Behind him, Capari and Ekane swept through the flat, checking rooms, securing exits. Amias stood in the doorway, his face pale under the harsh hallway lights.
"Clear," Capari called from the back bedroom.
Dyno yanked his knife free, wiping the blade on the dead man's shirt with casual disregard. He glanced up at Amias, that same manic grin splitting his face.
"See? Easy."
…
In a building across the estate, Dyno kicked open another door.
Inside, chaos erupted. Two men scrambled for weapons, a woman screamed, glass shattered. Dyno moved with the unnatural speed of someone riding a chemical high, no hesitation, no fear. He grabbed the closest man by the throat, momentum carrying them both toward the window.
Glass exploded outward. The man's scream cut through the morning air, sudden and terrified, then abruptly silenced as he hit the concrete six stories below.
Dyno turned back to the room, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek where the glass had caught him. He didn't feel it. Couldn't feel much of anything except the electric current of violence singing through his nerves.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, still keeping one eye on the cowering woman in the corner.
A message from Sanchez: Stevo's gone. Caught one in the chest.
Dyno pocketed the phone, a sound that might have been a laugh escaping his throat.
"Damn," he said, his voice oddly light. "One down for us, what—ten for them? Fair trade, I'd say."
The woman whimpered. Dyno's head snapped toward her, eyes focusing with effort.
"Don't worry, love," he said, his words slurring slightly. "Not here for you. Just send a message to your man when he gets back, yeah? Tell him Dyno says hello."
He backed out of the flat, leaving her trembling among the broken glass and smears of blood, her eyes wide with a fear that would never quite leave her.
…
In a corner shop on the edge of the estate, Taiwo held a knife to a shopkeeper's throat. Not that he was robbing without intent, this man was a reputable supplier throughout Ladbroke.
"Empty the till," he hissed, pressing the blade harder against quivering flesh. "All of it. Now."
The man fumbled with shaking hands, tears streaming down his weathered face. Behind the counter, a door creaked open. Taiwo's eyes flicked toward the sound, expecting another adult—a wife, maybe, or an employee.
Instead, a small figure darted out. A boy, no older than ten, clutching a kitchen knife that looked too large for his tiny hands.
"Leave my dad alone!" he screamed, voice high with terror and determination.
Before Taiwo could react, the boy lunged, driving the knife into his thigh. It wasn't deep—a child's strength behind it—but the shock of it made Taiwo stumble back, cursing.
"What the fuck?" he spat, swatting the knife away. "You little—"
The shop door banged open. Dyno stood silhouetted against the morning light, his eyes taking in the scene with eerie calm.
"Problem?" he asked, stepping inside.
Taiwo gestured at the boy, who now stood protectively in front of his father. "Little shit stabbed me."
Dyno's face didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. He moved with sudden, terrifying purpose, crossing the space between them in two strides. His boot connected with the child's chest, sending the small body flying back against the counter. The boy crumpled, a cry of pain escaping his lips.
"No!" the father screamed, lunging forward. "Please! He's just a child!"
Dyno wasn't listening. He towered over the fallen boy, bringing his foot down again, this time on ribs small enough to snap like twigs. The child's screams turned to wet, gasping sobs.
Amias burst through the door, taking in the scene with horror. "What the fuck, Dyno?!" he shouted, shoving the older man back.
Dyno stumbled, then straightened, something wild and unfocused in his eyes. He looked at Amias, then at the crying child, then shrugged as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Right," he said, gesturing to the door. "Let's head back."
Capari stepped in behind them, his face impassive as he surveyed the damage. He glanced at the shopkeeper, who had gathered his son in his arms, rocking the sobbing child.
"Watch yourself, innit," Capari said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Might want to take him to hospital. Broken ribs and that."
The shopkeeper just stared at him, grief and hatred etched into every line of his face.
Outside, Amias grabbed Dyno's arm. "The fuck is wrong with you?" he hissed. "He's just a kid!"
Dyno shook him off, that strange, vacant smile still playing on his lips. "Told you, fam. This is fun. When you've been in it long as me, you stop seeing people. Just obstacles. Just things."
Amias stepped back, something cold settling in his gut as he looked at Dyno—really looked at him—and saw nothing human looking back.
…
The apartment complex loomed against the midday sky, a grimy tower of concrete and lives stacked atop each other. They took the stairs at a run, footsteps echoing in the stairwell, adrenaline pushing them higher, faster.
Dyno led the charge, his movements growing more erratic with each floor they climbed. The percocet was hitting him wrong now, mixing with the comedown from earlier pills, the lack of sleep, the violence still singing in his blood. His vision tunneled, expanded, tunneled again. The migraine behind his eye had spread, wrapping around his skull like a crown of thorns.
None of it mattered. He felt invincible.
Sixth floor. Seventh. Eighth.
"Slow down," Capari called from behind, his voice a distant echo in Dyno's ringing ears. "We need to be smart about this. They're all alert right now, ready for us."
Dyno wasn't listening. He burst through the door to the ninth floor, his momentum carrying him into the railing. For a moment, he teetered on the edge, staring down at the dizzying drop to the concrete below. Then he righted himself, laughing wildly.
"Come on!" he shouted, already moving toward flat 43. "They're waiting for us!"
Capari cursed under his breath. "Dyno, wait—"
But Dyno was already at the door, his boot raised. The door gave way on the second kick, the sound reverberating through the walkway like a gunshot.
"What the fuck?" Capari hissed, drawing his knife as he ran to catch up. "That was the wrong door, you just woke up the whole fucking place for nothing!"
—
Three hours earlier, in a flat, Jaime had been awake despite the early hour. The beat he was working on just wouldn't come together—something off in the bassline, some element missing that he couldn't quite identify. He'd been at it since midnight, headphones clamped over his ears, fingers dancing over his laptop's keyboard, trying to coax the right sound from the digital void.
Behind him, the flat was quiet. His three younger brothers slept peacefully in the bedroom they shared—Elijah, 15, with dreams of becoming a footballer; Marcus, 12, whose teachers said he had a gift for numbers; and Tyler, just 8, still believing in a world where good always triumphed over evil.
Their parents were three years in the ground—a car accident on the M25, sudden and senseless. Jaime, barely 18 at the time, had fought tooth and nail to keep his brothers out of the system, to keep their family intact. He'd dropped out of college, taken three jobs, learned to stretch pounds into meals that would feed four growing boys.
It wasn't enough. Never enough.
That's when his cousin Leon had stepped in, offering help in the form of cash that came too easily, opportunities that lived in the shadows. Leon moved weight across three postcodes, had connections, respect, protection. He made sure Jaime and the boys had what they needed—rent paid, food on the table, clothes on their backs.
The cost was silence. Looking the other way. Occasionally letting Leon use the flat as a place to crash when things got too hot elsewhere.
It was a price Jaime paid with gritted teeth and sleepless nights, telling himself it was temporary. Just until his music took off. Just until he could provide for his brothers the right way.
The knock at the door came at half past 3 or so. Jaime looked up, surprised. Leon had a key, and no one else would be calling at this hour.
He removed his headphones, the unfinished beat still looping softly from the speakers. From the direction of the door, Leon's voice carried:
"It's cool, fam. Open up."
Jaime stood, stretching muscles stiff from hours hunched over his laptop. As he moved toward the living room, something on the coffee table caught his eye—the dull metal gleam of a handgun, casually left beside a half-empty can of Sprite.
"Bro, you left your gun on the table," Jaime called, irritation coloring his voice.
Leon's reply was muffled by the door between them. "It's aight, it's just Mooks."
Jaime sighed, reaching for the weapon. He knew enough to check that the safety was on before moving it to a drawer—away from curious hands, especially Tyler's.
That's when he heard it—the scream. León's voice, suddenly high with panic, cut off as abruptly as it had started.
Then the door burst inward. Leon flying in right with it.
The man who entered first was thin, eyes wild, movements jerky and uncoordinated. Behind him, others filed in—more controlled, equally dangerous.
"Wassup, bloods?" the first man grinned, his gaze darting around the room before settling on Leon, who had backed against the wall, hands raised.
Jaime froze, the gun still in his hands, momentarily forgotten. In that split second of hesitation, chaos erupted.
The man—Dyno, someone called him—lunged for Leon, a knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. Jaime tried to shout, to move, but it was like wading through molasses, everything happening too fast and too slow all at once.
Leon's scream cut through the apartment as the knife found its mark. Behind Jaime, a door opened—Elijah, sleepy-eyed and confused, then wide-eyed with horror as he took in the scene.
"Get back!" Jaime shouted, finally finding his voice. "Get the others and get back!"
Elijah disappeared, Jaime followed quick, the bedroom door slamming behind him. The noise seemed to draw Dyno's attention away from Leon, who had slumped to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
"More of them?" Dyno grinned, his eyes unnaturally bright. "Let's see, shall we?"
He started toward the bedroom door, moving with that same jerky, unnatural energy. One of the others—twisted with a conflict Dyno didn't seem to feel—called after him.
"Wait, fam! We ain't even tryna get to them!" he shouted. "Dyno!"
But Dyno wasn't listening. He slammed against the bedroom door, which Elijah had tried to barricade. It gave way on the second impact, wood splintering around the hinges.
Jaime moved without thinking. The gun forgotten in his hand suddenly remembered, safety already off, finger finding the trigger with instinctive certainty, heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.
In the bedroom, his brothers huddled against the far wall. Elijah stood in front, arms spread protectively, his young face set in determination that couldn't mask his terror. Behind him, Marcus clutched Tyler, the youngest boy's face buried against his brother's chest.
Dyno paused in the doorway, taking in the scene with that same manic grin. "Scared, fam?" he taunted, knife gleaming in the dim light.
Jaime raised the gun, hands steadier than they had any right to be. "Get away from my brothers," he said, his voice low and dangerous, a tone he'd never heard from himself before.
Dyno turned, seemingly unbothered by the weapon pointed at his chest. His eyes—bloodshot, pupils blown wide—found Jaime's, and something like recognition flickered in them.
"The big brother, yeah?" he laughed, the sound scraping against the walls like broken glass. "Trying to be the hero?"
Behind him, the younger man appeared—the one who'd tried to call Dyno back. "Dyno, come on, this ain't part of the plan—"
Dyno ignored him, taking a step toward Jaime, knife still raised. "Know what happens to heroes in this life, fam?"
Jaime's finger tightened on the trigger. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat stretching into eternity. He saw everything with crystal clarity—the sweat beading on Dyno's forehead, the bloodstains on his jacket, the wild emptiness in his eyes.
"Last chance," Jaime said, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "Back the fuck up."
Dyno took another step forward. "Make me."
The shots exploded in the confined space, deafeningly loud.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.