THE IRON FIST đź‘Š
Chapter Eight: The Weight of Secrets
The bookshop still smelled of smoke, though the fire had died hours ago.
Ash clung to the ceiling like gray scars.
Silva swept broken glass into a pile with trembling hands. His mother quietly restacked what books survived, her silence heavier than the ruins. The glow in his fist had faded, but its memory still burned hotter than his skin. Every strike from last night replayed in his head—the clash of shadows, the blood, the scream that hadn't stopped echoing since.
He had saved her. Yes. But in doing so, he had revealed everything.
She knew.
Her eyes never left him now, watching as though weighing the boy she raised against the stranger who glowed with fire. Fear wasn't in her gaze, not entirely. It was something worse: awe mixed with sorrow.
The door creaked open. Silva froze. His father stepped inside, rain dripping from his coat. His eyes swept the wreckage—the splintered shelves, the bloodstained tiles. His jaw clenched.
"What happened here?" he demanded.
Silva's throat dried.
His mother's lips parted, but no words came. For the first time Silva could remember, she didn't know how to speak.
"Well?" his father pressed, voice sharp as steel. "I want answers."
Silva forced himself to meet the floor. "We were… robbed."
His father's eyes narrowed. "Robbed? By who?"
"I didn't see their faces."
It was a weak lie. And Silva's father, a man who had spent decades sniffing out corruption in Florida's government, could smell lies like smoke.
"You expect me to believe thieves broke into a bookstore? That they shattered shelves, cut through windows, spilled blood—and left with nothing?"
Silva's chest ached. His father wasn't angry yet. This was worse. His father was calculating.
"Enough secrets, Silva," he said quietly, dangerously. "If you're in danger, I need to know. If you've done something—" His eyes cut sharp. "—I need to know that too."
Silva wanted to scream the truth, to let the glowing fist blaze and show everything. But the words withered. To confess was to break something fragile beyond repair.
"I'm fine," he whispered. "Just let it go."
The silence stretched like a blade between them. His father's jaw set. He turned without another word and walked out, the storm's howl replacing him.
That night Silva sat on the roof, rain hissing against the tiles. The city glowed beneath him, glass and neon smeared across storm clouds.
He clenched his fist. Sparks flickered under his skin, faint but real.
Chosen. Savior. Curse.
The old man's words haunted him. His mother's prophecy weighed heavier: You are born to be a savior.
But how could he save anyone when he couldn't even face his father?
A shadow shifted in the alley below.
Silva stiffened, heart pounding. At first he thought it was The Hand returning—but the figure that stepped into the pale light wasn't cloaked.
It was Jared.
They had grown up together. Played ball in the street, shared secrets in the dark, laughed about heroes.
But tonight Jared looked… wrong. His eyes gleamed unnaturally, his movements sharp, deliberate.
He tilted his head up, smiling. Not the boyish grin Silva knew, but something thinner, sharper.
"Silva," Jared called softly. "You've changed."
Silva's stomach dropped. "What are you doing here?"
"Same as you." Jared stepped closer, shadows stretching behind him. "Looking for answers."
He lifted his hand.
A red-black pulse shimmered across his palm, oily and venomous, swallowing the light around it.
"I met someone," Jared whispered. "An old man. He said power wasn't meant to be begged for. It was meant to be taken. And he gave it to me."
Silva's breath caught. The same old man? No. This energy was wrong. Where Silva's fist burned like fire, Jared's hand bled corruption.
"Jared…" Silva muttered, "that's not a gift. It's poison."
Jared laughed. The sound was harsh, broken. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just afraid. Afraid of being replaced. You're not the only savior anymore. You're not special."
The air grew thick. For a moment Silva thought Jared would strike. Sparks crawled up his knuckles, begging for release.
But Jared lowered his hand, smirk curling like smoke. "Not tonight. You're not ready. But soon."
He stepped back into the shadows. His voice lingered as the darkness swallowed him.
"When the world kneels, Silva, it won't be to the Iron Fist. It'll be to me."
Silva sat frozen long after his friend disappeared. The rain soaked him, but he didn't move.
His chest hollowed.
Betrayal.
The boy who once dreamed beside him now carried a curse of his own—and instead of fearing it, he embraced it.
A rival. A storm in the making.
Silva stared at his glowing hand until his vision blurred. His mother's warning rang in his ears: Be careful. The world eats boys who think they can save it.
Now he understood.
The world wasn't just hungry.
It was already sharpening its teeth.
And one of those teeth wore Jared's smile.