[Third Person POV]
The hospital smelled of antiseptic, sharp and sterile, a smell that clung to the air like a reminder that life and death balanced on thin strings here. Outside the windows, dawn was creeping into the city, painting the skyline with pale gray. The storm of the night before had passed, but the world felt no lighter.
In one of the dimly lit rooms, Kyle stirred awake. His body ached with bruises, his clothes still faintly stained from the blood of battle. He had refused treatment for himself—every cut, every gash, he had ignored. His body healed faster than most, but his heart… his heart was bleeding in ways no doctor could stitch together.
Beside him, in the narrow bed, lay Arjun.
[Kyle's POV]
I opened my eyes to the soft beep of machines. My first instinct was to fight, to move, to strike—but then I saw him.
Arjun.
Pale, thinner than I remembered even from last night. Tubes ran into his arms, machines breathed for him, and his chest rose and fell with agonizing slowness. His hair was damp with sweat, his lips cracked.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Memories of the warehouse hit me like knives. His blood on my hands. His voice telling me not to blame myself. His smile—damn it, his smile—while he was dying.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, staring at him. "You're still here," I whispered. "You didn't leave me."
But I knew. A part of me knew he was closer to the other side than to this one.
And it was my fault.
Every man who had followed me into that warehouse, every body now lying cold… it was because of me. Because I wanted more. Because I wanted control. Because I let myself believe we could build something in this rotten city.
I clenched my fists until my knuckles cracked. The rage inside me was gone now. All that was left was emptiness.
[Third Person POV]
The hours passed in silence. Kyle didn't move from that chair. Nurses came and went, checking vitals, murmuring to each other about the boy in the bed and the one in the chair who refused to leave.
News traveled. Word of the massacre spread through the district like wildfire. By noon, families of the dead Black Vultures arrived at the hospital, their cries echoing in the halls. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters—all broken by the loss of sons and siblings who had followed Kyle into the underworld.
[Kyle's POV]
I heard them. God, I heard them.
The wailing, the screams, the anger.
A mother grabbed me by the shirt, her nails digging into my chest. "You promised me he'd be safe! You told me you'd protect them!" Her tears struck my face harder than any fist.
I didn't fight her. I didn't move.
Another father spat at my feet. "Leader? You're no leader. You're a butcher. You sent children to die!"
I stood there, frozen, as each word carved me apart. They were right. Every single one of them.
The faces blurred together. Anger, grief, despair—and all of it aimed at me.
"I'll bring him justice," I tried to say, but my voice cracked, hollow.
They didn't want justice. They wanted their sons back. And I couldn't give them that.
[Third Person POV]
When evening came, Kyle forced himself to stand. He touched Arjun's arm gently, his voice low. "I'll be back. You hold on, alright? Just hold on."
He walked out of that hospital room with his chest heavy and his eyes burning. Outside, some of the survivors from the fight were waiting. Bruised, bandaged, hollow-eyed. They looked to him for words.
But what words could he give them?
"Come," he said, his voice flat. "We've got funerals to arrange."
---
The funerals stretched for days. Half the Black Vultures had been cut down, their bodies returned to grieving families who cursed the life that had claimed them. Kyle stood at each burial, silent, his black clothes a shadow among the mourners.
At one graveside, a younger sister pushed against his chest with trembling fists. "Why him? Why not you?"
Another mother turned away from him altogether, refusing even to let him touch the coffin.
And at every funeral, Kyle bowed his head, placed a hand on the coffin, and whispered apologies no one else could hear.
The district had once looked at the Black Vultures with a mix of fear and respect. Now, whispers turned bitter. Parents called them reckless. Shopkeepers shook their heads. They were no longer heroes standing against Razorbacks and Iron Fangs. They were just boys, dead too soon.
And Kyle bore the weight of it all.
[Kyle's POV]
Each coffin lowered into the ground carved another piece out of me. I could still remember their voices, their laughter on the hostel rooftops, their dreams of ruling the streets. Now they were nothing but ashes and names on gravestones.
At the last funeral, I couldn't hold it anymore. I dropped to my knees, my hands digging into the wet earth. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I should've protected you. I should've known."
No one answered. Only the wind carried my words away.
I stayed there long after everyone else left, the cemetery empty, the sky black again. I swore something to myself that night: never again.
---
[Third Person POV]
When Kyle gathered the survivors the following evening, they looked at him with tired eyes. Some had broken arms, others limped, one still coughed blood. They were not the same boys who had once called themselves Black Vultures with pride. They were broken remnants.
Kyle stood before them, his face calm, though the storm inside him roared.
[Kyle's POV]
I looked at them—at the faces of the few who had lived. They weren't smiling anymore. The fire was gone.
I drew a deep breath. "It's over."
Murmurs rose. Confused. Hesitant.
I raised a hand, silencing them. "Listen. We started this because we wanted to protect ourselves, to protect what was ours. And we did. But this…" I gestured at their wounds, at the bandages, at the empty spaces where our brothers should have stood. "…this is not worth it. We've lost too much."
One of them, Ravi, shook his head. "Boss… they'll come again. Razorbacks, Iron Fangs—they'll smell weakness."
"Let them," I said, my voice hard. "We're done. No more fights. No more gangs. From now on, you walk away."
Silence fell. They looked at me like I'd just torn the last piece of pride from their chests. But I knew—it was the only way to save them.
"Live your lives," I told them. "Don't die for me."
And with those words, the Black Vultures ended.