The café was dim and warm, a pocket of quiet tucked away from the chaos of the world outside. Trevor stepped in, the bell above the door giving a soft chime that barely stirred the air. He scanned the room—low lights, soft jazz, the scent of cinnamon and roasted beans—and then he saw him.
Table 3.
The man sat with his back straight, hands folded around a ceramic mug. He looked nothing like the monsters in Trevor's life. No smirk. No menace. Just a quiet, steady gaze that met Trevor's with something close to understanding.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with pale blond hair that curled slightly at the ends. His features were sharp but not cruel—more like someone who'd seen too much and learned to carry it gently. A faint scar traced over his right brow, but it didn't harden his face. If anything, it made him look more human.
"Trevor," the man said, voice smooth and low, like a cello string. "I'm glad you came."
Trevor hesitated. "You're Mr. Blair?"
The man smiled—not wide, not forced. Just enough to soften the edges of his face. "That's what I go by. But names are just coats we wear. You can call me Blair."
Trevor slid into the seat across from him, still unsure whether to brace for danger or lean into curiosity.
"I know you've been through hell," Blair said, wrapping his hands around his mug again. "And I know you don't trust easily. That's good. You shouldn't. But I'm not here to hurt you."
Trevor's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you here?"
Blair leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. "Because someone finally noticed. Someone who believes you. And they want to help."
Trevor blinked. "Help me? Why?"
Blair's smile faded into something more serious. "Because what happened to you wasn't just cruel—it was calculated. And the people behind it? They've done it before. You're not the first. But you could be the last."
The words hung in the air like steam from their mugs.
Trevor's fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "So what now?"
Blair reached into his coat and slid a small envelope across the table. "Now, you decide if you want to know more. If you open that, there's no going back to pretending this is just about high school drama. But if you're ready to fight for your truth—really fight—then we'll stand with you."
Trevor stared at the envelope. It felt heavier than paper should.
Trevor slid his thumb under the envelope's flap and cracked the seal. Inside was a single sheet of thick, matte paper—black, with silver lettering that shimmered faintly under the café's low lights.
"You are formally invited to join the Black Skulls Initiative.
Your skills, resilience, and circumstances have not gone unnoticed.
Table 3 was your first test. You passed.
Welcome to the next phase."
At the bottom, a symbol: a stylized skull with a crown of thorns and circuitry woven through the jaw.
Trevor blinked. Then looked up slowly.
"You're joking," he said flatly. "This is a joke, right? Like, some kind of edgy improv skit?"
Blair didn't flinch. "No skit."
Trevor let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You're telling me this—this gang—wants me to join? What, do I get a leather jacket and a cool nickname? Maybe a secret handshake?"
Blair sipped his coffee, calm as ever. "You get protection. Resources. A way to fight back. And thode stuff you mentioned. "
Trevor stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "This is insane. If this is real, it's illegal. If it's not, it's cruel.
You brought me here for this crap.Either way, it's a fast track to prison—or worse."
Blair set his mug down gently. "You're not wrong. But you're not seeing the whole board."
Trevor narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Blair leaned in, voice low but steady. "The Black Skulls aren't what you think. They're sanctioned. Quietly. Strategically. The government knows. In fact, they fund us."
Trevor stared at him, stunned. "You're saying the government is backing a gang?"
Blair's smile was faint, but real. "Not a gang. A counterforce. We handle what the system can't touch. People like Lena? They slip through cracks. We seal them shut."
The café suddenly felt colder. Trevor sat back down, slower this time, the envelope still in his hand.
Blair leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes steady on Trevor.
"There are ten," he said. "Ten syndicates that run this city from the shadows. Politicians, police, media—they all orbit these groups whether they know it or not. Some call them gangs. Others call them families. I call them what they are: governments without elections."
Trevor blinked. "Ten?"
Blair nodded. "Each with its own code, its own territory, its own way of keeping power. And Lena's brother? He runs the third most powerful of them all."
Trevor's stomach turned. "You're serious."
"Deadly," Blair said. "They call themselves O.G.—short for Ordo Gravis. Latin. Means 'The Heavy Order.' They don't deal in street-level chaos. They deal in reputation, blackmail, and silence. They're the ones who make sure the other gangs don't get too loud. And Lena's brother, Darius, is their current head."
Trevor's voice was barely a whisper. "She never even mentioned him."
"She wouldn't," Blair said. "That's how O.G. works. They don't flaunt power. They whisper it. And when Lena turned on you, it wasn't just personal. It was strategic. You were a test. A message."
Trevor's hands curled into fists. "So I was just… a pawn?"
Blair's gaze didn't waver. "You were a target. It seems there's something about you that they know about. Right now? You're a variable they didn't account for. And that makes you dangerous."
He reached into his coat again and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. On it were ten names—each one a symbol, a sigil, and a codename.
> 1. The Crowned Sons – Old money, older secrets.
> 2. The Hollow Saints – Religious façade, criminal core.
> 3. O.G. (Ordo Gravis) – The enforcers of silence.
> 4. The Crimson Vultures – Arms dealers and mercenaries.
> 5. The Moth Syndicate – Tech, surveillance, and digital warfare.
> 6. The Ash Circle – Arsonists, saboteurs, and chaos agents.
> 7. The Velvet Knives – High society assassins.
> 8. The Iron Choir – Prison networks and underground courts.
> 9. The Pale Market – Traffickers of people and influence.
> 10. The Black Skulls – Us. The ones who fight back.
Trevor stared at the list, the weight of it pressing down like a stormcloud.
Blair studied him for a moment then leaned closer. "Look," He began. "What she did to you was straight up nasty and humiliating. She made yo lose your pride and I can give it back only if you trust me and accept."
Trevor leaned back in his seat, the weight of the letter still heavy in his hand. His thoughts spun in circles—ten gangs, Lena's brother, some shadow war with the government dipping its fingers into the dark. It sounded like something out of a dystopian novel, not real life. Not his life.
He stared at Blair, eyes narrowed. "This is all too much. I'm not a fighter. I'm not some vigilante." His voice cracked slightly. "I'm a kid who got screwed over by the system and now you're telling me to join a war? Why me?"
Blair didn't flinch. Instead, he reached for his coffee again, took a sip, and then looked Trevor squarely in the eye.
"Because they already took their shot at you," Blair said quietly. "And you're still standing."
Trevor opened his mouth, but Blair continued.
"You're right to be unsure. Most people would run. But most people don't get back up. And you did."
Trevor blinked. His throat tightened.
Blair leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "That's why I'm going to teach you. How to fight. Not just with your fists—but with your mind. Your instincts. You'll learn how to read a room, how to control the narrative before it controls you. And yeah—how to hit back if it comes to that."
Trevor's breath caught in his chest.
"Because you need to know this, Trevor: the people who hurt you? They're trained. Protected. Hidden behind lies and power. If you want a chance—not just at revenge, but at truth—you've got to level the field. And I can help you do that."
He slid a plain black key across the table. "Training facility. Underground. Quiet. No one will know unless you bring them. We start tomorrow. If you show up."
Trevor stared down at the key. It wasn't flashy. No neon signs. Just weight. Like it belonged in the hand of someone about to change their life.
He didn't pick it up yet.
But he didn't walk away either.