In the back alleys of New Delhi, a man stepped into a shop, drenched in rain. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes glowed with malice.
The shopkeeper, a young woman around twenty, looked up from behind the counter. Her light brown skin shimmered under the dim light streaming through the window.
'A stranger... the boss told me to lay low these days,' she reminded herself.
"Welcome."
The word had barely left her lips when the man reached into his coat and drew a Glock. It gleamed coldly in the light. She didn't even see him pull the trigger. All she felt was pain—and then even that faded, swallowed by the darkness clouding her eyes. She collapsed to the floor. Dead.
Holstering the gun, the man walked over to the lifeless body and crouched beside it. A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Blame yourself for being born this way," he muttered.
Then he stood and left, just as he had come—without anyone noticing.
Half a world away, Jordan Giovanni was sleeping soundly, covered in a sateen sheet.
After his parents died in a car crash, he inherited everything they had built. Both doctors, they'd amassed a fair amount of wealth through years of work and smart investments. But on the tenth of September, when Jordan was only ten, their luxury sedan was crushed by a speeding truck while they were returning from a trip to their summer home in the Hamptons. When he was found, Jordan was buried beneath the wreckage, completely unharmed—much to the surprise of the rescue team. This, however, was quickly ignored when they saw the scattered remains of his parents. Fortunately, Jordan had been unconscious then; otherwise, he would've been traumatized for life.
Now eighteen, Jordan lived alone in
The Elysian, a luxurious apartment complex in the quieter part of Manhattan, with no close relatives except for an aunt he hadn't heard from since his parents' funeral. He still remembered how she'd goaded him into handing over his shares in the companies his parents had invested in, claiming she was entitled to a part of their wealth. He didn't care about that anymore—those companies weren't doing well now, and Jordan had more than enough money under his name to live comfortably. Still, a quiet loneliness lingered in the back of his mind.
Rrring, rrring, rrring.
At precisely six o'clock, the alarm on his nightstand buzzed. Jordan groaned, pushed the sheets away, and swung himself off the bed. His hair—black with hints of brown—was reminiscent of his Italian lineage. His frame was lean but muscular, sculpted through years of daily workouts. His light brown eyes glinted with mischief, even as he dragged himself into the shower.
Freshly dressed, he opened the fridge and stared with a deadpan expression.
"Ketchup, ketchup, and more ketchup," he muttered with irritation.
Over twenty bottles lined the shelf—Trevor's doing.
He sighed.
Trevor Hale was his best friend. He'd been a lifeline for Jordan after the death of his parents. Five years ago, at the age of thirteen, Jordan was falling into depression. He'd spent countless sleepless nights having nightmares of the crash—of his parents blaming him for surviving alone. He knew they never would, but the nightmares slowly gnawed at him. He withdrew from his classmates, who were never that close to him in the first place. Everything felt distant. Meaningless.
One day, while he was sitting at his desk and pondering the meaning of life like some wise sage, Trevor had come up to him and smacked him on the back of the head.
"Idiot," was all he said.
But it was enough.
That one word snapped Jordan out of it. Despite how dumb it was, he felt as if he'd found purpose again—to beat that bastard's ass up. He'd walked up to Trevor and punched him in the gut. Trevor returned the punch, and their fight turned into a full-blown brawl.
From then on, they had fought so many times till they grew an inseparable bond. To Jordan, Trevor was a true friend—no, a brother.
After rummaging around for a while, Jordan finally found a sandwich wrapped in foil, tore it open, and devoured it in two bites. Tossing the foil away and wiping his hands, he grabbed his bag and stepped outside, ready for another day at school.
'Won't be long till I graduate,' he comforted himself as he began walking.
Though a sense of unease crept into his mind—as if change was approaching.
Jordan arrived at the nearest subway station and got on a train. He switched lines a couple of times and arrived at 125th Street, where it was quieter than the city center. From there, a local bus took him to Hawthorn Hills, a suburban district tucked just beyond the city's edge.
Northgate High School stood there—modest but proud. Jordan had chosen to go there for two reasons: the first was that he liked the peacefulness it offered, and the second was that Trevor had begged him to go to the same high school as him after they became friends in middle school.
Stepping out of the bus, Jordan went through the front gates. His fingers twitched with anticipation as he thought of how he'd clobber Trevor for stuffing ketchup in his fridge. He'd missed school for the last two days because he'd sprained his ankle. Trevor, being the good friend he is, had come to help him "catch up." All he'd done was shamelessly raid his fridge and, from the looks of it, tried to pull a prank by replacing the remaining food with ketchup bottles. The man was a master when it came to dumb pranks.
Jordan went inside and swiftly made his way to his locker. He stuffed his bag inside and grabbed a few books. Then he went straight to class just as the bell rang, signaling the start of the first period.
When he entered, he was met with the stern gaze of Mrs. Jackson, their homeroom teacher.
"Mr. Giovanni, you actually made it on time. Go sit yourself down," she said in a tone laced with mockery.
Jordan could hear some of the students snickering at him. He immediately noted their names.
'They'll pay for that,' he thought to himself with a smirk. What could he do, he was petty that way.
Jordan's desk was at the far left corner of the classroom, next to an open window. To its right, Trevor was sitting at his own desk with a smug smile painted all over his face.
"Morning sunshine, couldn't wait to see me huh? Sorry, but I don't swing that way, and I already got a girlfriend," Trevor joked.
Jordan was pissed. This bastard stole his food, took his money, wasted it all on buying ketchup, and still was shameless enough to make jokes as if he'd done nothing—despite knowing full well that he'd face an unavoidable beatdown at Jordan's hands.
"Really now, aren't you the one that follows me around all the time? And shut up about that fake girlfriend of yours," Jordan retorted.
To this, Trevor only responded with a light chuckle. Jordan's fists hurt—like really, really bad. If anyone else other than Trevor was on the receiving end of those punches, they'd be vegetables in an instant. Then his gaze lingered on Jordan for a moment before he suddenly became serious.
"Meet me after school," he said in a low tone, much to Jordan's surprise.
'Meh, it's probably nothing important,' he thought to himself as he sat down.
The day went on without much incident until it was time to meet up with Trevor—to hear what that idiot had to say.