The city didn’t sleep that night; it lurked. Every streetlight flickered like a dying eye, every alley whispered rumors of blood. The Royal estate stood alone on a hill of iron gates and polished stone, a beacon of wealth surrounded by armed men. Inside its gilded halls, the storm was already here.

The penthouse reeked of expensive cigars and violence. Kai Zeke leaned against the bar, tattoos crawling up his neck like black vines, his sharp suit clinging to a frame built on muscle and cruelty. He swirled a glass of bourbon lazily, his grin as cold as the ice inside it.

Across from him, Rods Ronald lounged in a velvet armchair, an untamed beast dressed in silk. His scarred knuckles rested on a cane tipped with silver, his stare as heavy as a loaded gun.

“Kid thinks he’s untouchable,” Rods muttered, his voice rough like gravel dragged across steel.
Kai exhaled smoke, slow and deliberate, the tendrils coiling upward like serpents. “He’s a Royal,” he said finally. “That bloodline breeds wolves. Dangerous ones.”
“Wolves get hunted,” Rods sneered.

The two men traded glances thick with history. The Zeke family, masters of smuggling routes and underground trade, and the Ronald family, kings of vice and velvet cruelty, had always been predators lurking at the Royals’ throne. Tonight, they plotted not as rivals, but as predators circling the same prey.

“Thomas is a fortress,” Kai said, his voice dropping low. “But that boy? Owen? He’s soft. Young. He bleeds.”
Rods chuckled, dark and humorless. “Then let’s spill him. Make the old man watch.”

Kai stubbed out his cigarette, and the smoke curled like a ghost over the table where Owen Royal’s photo sat, marked with a red circle. Their laughter was soft, but it reeked of death.

Beneath the streets, past layers of stone and iron, a single wooden door opened into another world. The Council Chamber was ancient—arched ceilings carved with symbols of long-dead clans, torches flickering shadows onto polished obsidian walls. The table was a monolith of black oak, scarred with generations of power. Around it sat twelve cloaked figures, each head of a Vigilante Clan family, their insignias sewn into dark robes.

At its head sat Lesley Royale.

His age hadn’t softened him; it had sharpened him into something unearthly. His silver hair framed a face carved from stone, his eyes like shards of broken glass. His hands, heavy with rings, rested on the table like a king’s executioner’s block.

The Vigilante Clan was not a myth; it was the skeleton of the city’s underworld, twelve families woven together by centuries of blood and conquest. At their peak, they were warlords. Today, they were legends in designer suits. The Royal family, descended from merciless conquerors, had ruled the council for generations. Families like the Zekes and Ronalds had challenged their throne, but none could dislodge them.

Lesley’s rise had been soaked in blood. Once the ruthless leader of the Royals, he had built empires on fear. Now, though he’d stepped aside for Thanos Royal—his distant cousin son who’d married Norma—Lesley’s reach had only deepened. As Chairman of the Vigilante Council, his word was law over all twelve families. Even Thomas bowed to him.

“Four families whisper of unrest,” murmured a cloaked council member.
Lesley’s head tilted slightly. “Let them whisper,” he said softly. “Whispers don’t kill kings.”

Silence followed, sharp and suffocating.

Uncle Ben Royale leaned forward, a gentleman in a black suit, his calm presence dangerous in its own right. He was the clan’s strategist, a man who united twelve volatile families into one disciplined force—a shadow army that could burn the city to ash if commanded. His voice was smooth as silk, but cold.

“If Owen is the target, it isn’t a random play,” Ben said. “They’re testing us. If he dies, it shows weakness. It invites a war we may not want yet.”

Lesley’s eyes narrowed. “Then make sure he doesn’t die. Not yet.”

The room felt like a tomb. Every man and woman there had killed, ordered deaths, toppled rivals. Yet when Lesley spoke, no one breathed wrong.

The Royal estate’s study smelled of whiskey, ash, and ink. Newspapers were spread across the polished desk, headlines screaming chaos: AMBUSH IN ROYAL TERRITORY. Every word, every leak, had been carefully orchestrated by Owen. His grief for Allen was real, but it had hardened him, sharpened him into something dangerous.

John leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his scarred face lit by firelight. “You’re painting a target on your back, boy,” he muttered.

Owen’s pen didn’t stop moving. “Good,” he said. “Let them come. I’ll know who’s brave enough to try.”

John’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He’d seen killers rise before, but this was different. The boy wasn’t just reacting—he was planning. Calculating.

“You’ve got your father’s temper,” John said finally.
Owen glanced up, his eyes ice-blue in the dim light. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m worse.”

In a warehouse drowned in shadow, a blade scraped against a whetstone, each stroke slow and deliberate. The assassin worked in silence, his face hidden behind a black mask. Beside him, a wall was plastered with photos—Owen Royal circled in red ink, angles of the Royal estate, guard rotations, alley escape routes.

A gruff voice came from the corner. “You sure about this? That’s a Royal.”
The assassin didn’t look up. “He’s not his grandfather. Yet.”

He loaded his gun with calm precision, the metallic clicks echoing in the stillness. “By the time they realize he’s dangerous, I’ll already have put him in the ground.”

The other man shifted uneasily. “This’ll start a war.”
The assassin’s laugh was dry as dust. “War’s coming anyway.”

The sound of the gun chamber locking in place echoed like a death knell.

Back at the council chamber, Lesley rose from his chair. Even in old age, his movements were deliberate, controlled, the weight of a thousand decisions hanging off every step. He stood before the council, hands clasped behind his back.

“We are not prey,” he said softly. “Not to Zeke. Not to Ronald. Not to anyone.”

His words reverberated like a commandment. The council bowed their heads, and in that moment, their unity was terrifying. Twelve families, twelve armies, all bound to one man’s will.

Ben watched silently, his sharp mind already plotting. His alliances stretched like a spider’s web across the city. If Lesley was the immovable king, Ben was his strategist—a ghost in a thousand wars, now preparing for one more.

Somewhere in the shadows, Owen’s photo sat marked for death. The assassin waited. Rivals plotted. The council tightened its grip.

In the dark, a storm was rising. And it wasn’t clear whether Owen Royal would survive it—or become it.

Chapter 5 End