The café table had been violently shoved aside, metal legs screeching against the linoleum floor. Apannii stood now, his previous composure abandoned, face contorted with a rage that seemed to ripple beneath his skin. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his features, turning his expression into something almost inhuman.
Amias felt warm blood trickling down his neck, soaking into the collar of his jacket—evidence of the bullet that had grazed his cheek moments before. The pain was there, sharp and insistent, but distant somehow, as if happening to someone else. His mind had found a strange clarity in this moment of absolute danger.
Capari remained still beside him, face impassive, giving nothing away. The contrast between the cousins was stark—Capari's practiced deadpan against Amias's newfound calm, both facing death with different versions of the same courage.
"You know," Apannii said, voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he rolled his neck with deliberate slowness, each crack of vertebrae punctuating the silence, "you've really fucking frustrated me tonight."
Kenzo shifted impatiently behind him. "Apannii, stop playing around, bro. Just kill them."
The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and absolute. Apannii went perfectly still. Then, slowly, he turned to face Kenzo, a chuckle building in his throat—not mirthful but menacing, a sound that seemed to bubble up from some dark wellspring.
"Are you," Apannii asked, each word measured and precise, "telling me what to do?"
Kenzo's scarred face twitched with sudden uncertainty. "Nah, man, I'm just saying—"
The revolver cracked across Kenzo's face before he could finish, metal meeting flesh with a sickening thud. Kenzo stumbled backward, blood spattering from his newly reopened wounds. He caught himself against the counter, one hand rising instinctively toward his face.
"Don't," Apannii warned, voice soft now, almost gentle. "Sit down."
For a heartbeat, rebellion flashed in Kenzo's eyes. Then, slowly, he lowered himself into a nearby chair, hand dropping to his lap, blood freely flowing down his chin.
"Good boy," Apannii said, satisfaction coloring his tone. He turned back to his captives, attention settling once more on Amias and Capari.
Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering against the windows in an accelerating rhythm. The sound formed a strange counterpoint to the tension inside—nature's indifference to human drama. Water streaked down the glass, distorting the streetlights beyond into wavering smears of amber and white.
Apannii rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, gaze dropping to the floor momentarily before rising again to meet Amias's stare. Everything about him had slowed, become more deliberate. The manic energy of moments before had crystallized into something colder, more focused, infinitely more dangerous.
"Let's play a game," he said, voice low and measured. "Russian roulette's been spoiled by... unfortunate circumstances." His eyes flicked briefly to the gun in his hand, disappointment evident in the downward turn of his mouth. "So we'll try something new."
He moved closer, each step unhurried, almost casual. "I have a bit of a quizzlet for you both." The gun twirled lazily between his fingers. "If you answer wrongly, you get shot. If you answer correctly, you don't." A smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth. "Simple, yeah? Nothing complicated."
The overhead lights flickered briefly as thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm growing closer. In that momentary dimming, shadows deepened across Apannii's face, hollowing his cheeks, darkening his eyes.
"First question." He stopped directly in front of Capari, studying him with clinical detachment. "Where does Central Cee live?"
Capari stared back, expression unchanged, revealing nothing. Seconds stretched into painful silence.
Apannii raised an eyebrow. "Five," he began, voice almost conversational.
Capari didn't flinch.
"Four."
No reaction.
"Three."
Not even a blink.
"Two."
Still nothing.
"One."
The gunshot exploded through the café, deafening in the confined space. Capari's scream followed immediately as the bullet tore through his thigh, blood immediately darkening his jeans in an expanding circle.
"We move up to a higher difficulty now," Apannii announced, watching with detached interest as Capari clutched his leg, teeth gritted against the pain. "You get shot in the torso next, and you'll more than likely die. Let's hope I don't hit an organ." A pause, his head tilting slightly. "No promises, though."
He turned to Amias, the gun coming to rest against his sternum. "Your question. Where does Central Cee live?"
Amias met his gaze steadily. "London. West London."
A flicker of annoyance passed across Apannii's features. "Hmm. Tricking the game." He tapped the barrel against Amias's chest. "Well, I suppose I wasn't specific enough. But don't do that again."
He stepped back to Capari, who was now rocking slightly, blood seeping between his fingers as he pressed them against his wound.
"Next question, Capari. Where does Amias's mother work?"
Capari's breathing had become labored, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought against the pain. "St. Mary's," he grunted, voice strained. "St. Mary's Hospital."
"Amazing," Apannii nodded, satisfaction evident in his tone. He turned back to Amias, moving with exaggerated slowness now, savoring each moment.
"Your question," he said, voice dropping even lower, forcing everyone in the room to strain to hear him. "And this question is only for you, since I'm sure your cousin here doesn't know the answer."
The rain drummed harder against the windows, water now streaming down the glass in sheets. A leak had developed somewhere in the ceiling, droplets falling with metronomic precision onto the linoleum floor—plink... plink... plink—marking the passage of time.
"Now that your mother can't go back to her apartment," Apannii continued, pressing the gun deliberately against Amias's leg, "where will she go? The exact address."
Amias stared at him, silent, unmoved. The fear that should have been there—that would have been there just hours before—was conspicuously absent.
"Where will she go?" Apannii repeated, leaning closer. "The address."
Still nothing.
"Where?" The word came sharper now, patience beginning to fray.
Amias remained silent, expression unchanged.
"Where?" Apannii hissed, pressing the gun harder against Amias's thigh. "Don't you know if you keep taking long, I might just have some fun with your mother before I kill her? Just like that girl."
A small chuckle escaped Amias's lips—soft, unexpected, startling in the tense atmosphere.
Apannii's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, is that funny?" he asked, voice dangerously soft.
Amias met his gaze with unwavering intensity, the hint of a dark smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes had changed, something cold and calculating now residing behind them.
"Where will she be?" Apannii grabbed Amias by the collar, yanking him forward, pressing the gun against his temple.
"Where?"
"Where?"
"WHERE?"
The world around Amias began to blur, reality folding inward as his mind catapulted him elsewhere—
Lake Travis, Texas
Ten years old
His first swimming meet.
The chlorine burns his eyes, the water roars in his ears. He's behind the pack, anxiety tightening his chest, making his limbs feel leaden. The pool stretches before him, seemingly endless, each stroke more difficult than the last.
Through the churning water, he catches glimpses of his father at the edge of the pool—Raymond Mars, standing tall and imposing, his mouth forming words Amias can barely hear above the splashing and his own thundering heartbeat:
"Kill 'em, son! Kill 'em!"
The words filter through the water, distorted yet clear in their intent. Not encouragement but command. Not pride but expectation.
Amias reaches the wall, executes the turn his coach has drilled into him a thousand times. Muscle memory takes over where confidence fails. His feet find purchase, and he propels himself forward with sudden power.
"Kill 'em, son! Kill 'em!"
His father's voice follows him through the water, driving him on. The other swimmers become obstacles rather than competitors—things to overcome, to defeat, to destroy.
His lungs burn. His muscles scream. But he keeps pushing, harder, faster, driven by something beyond simple competition now.
"Kill 'em! Kill 'em!"
The wall approaches. One final burst of speed. His hand slams against the touch pad. First place.
He breaks the surface, gasping for air, a fleeting smile crossing his face before his eyes widen in horror at what he sees—
The pool is red, filled with blood. Bodies float on the crimson surface—Ekane, Dyno, Taiwo, faces he knows from the block, from his dark life in London. All dead. All floating. The water thick and warm around him.
His father walks along the pool's edge, smiling with pride. "Well done, son."
Amias stares at him, horror mingling with a terrible understanding. Then, in an instant, his father's expression changes—surprise, pain, betrayal. Raymond Mars topples forward, falling into the pool, dead before he hits the water.
The moment his father's body touches the surface, the blood recedes, drawing away from Amias like a tide pulling back from shore—
Reality slammed back into focus. Apannii's face inches from his own, eyes wild with rage, spittle flying from his lips as he screamed the same question: "WHERE WILL SHE BE?"
Amias stared into those eyes—the eyes of a man who had killed his friend, who had threatened his mother. And he felt nothing. No fear. No dread. Just a cold certainty of what needed to be done.
"It doesn't matter where my mother is," Amias said, voice steady and low, each word precise as a blade. "You'll be dead by this evening. What's the point in telling you?"