THE IRON FIST đ
Chapter Nine: The Enemy Within
The storm outside had quieted, but inside Silva's chest, the thunder never stopped.
Sleep never came. Every time his eyes shut, he saw Jared's smileâtwisted, foreign, stretched across a face he once trusted more than his own.
By morning, the air in the house was heavier than smoke. His mother moved about the kitchen silently, her eyes puffy from the night before. His father hadn't come home.
Silva ate nothing. The taste of betrayal sat heavier than food.
At school, whispers followed him. Students laughed in corners, some too loud, others too quiet. But Silva barely noticed. His eyes scanned for Jared.
When he finally saw him, his blood turned to ice.
Jared walked down the hall as if he owned it, shoulders back, smile smug. But it wasn't the swagger that froze Silvaâit was the way people unconsciously stepped aside, like shadows bending out of his path.
And his eyes. They gleamed faintly red, a sick glow only Silva seemed to notice.
Their gazes met. For a heartbeat, the hallway vanished. It was just themâtwo boys who once dreamed of heroism, now standing on opposite edges of something monstrous.
Jared winked. Then he turned and disappeared into a crowd of laughter.
After class, Silva found himself in the alleyâthe one between the two buildings, the one where he'd once been prey. Now, he stood taller, shoulders squared. His fists burned faintly yellow beneath his skin.
He remembered Mr. Chennai's words: Strength is nothing without control. Rage is a blade that cuts its master first.
But control slipped through him like water. Rage was all he had. Rage at Jared. Rage at the Hand. Rage at a world that turned friends into enemies.
"Losing focus, boy?"
The voice rasped behind him.
Silva spun. The old man was there againâthe one who first told him he was chosen. His skin looked older now, his eyes sunken deeper, as though he carried centuries of war in his bones.
"What do you want from me?" Silva demanded.
The old man stepped closer, staff tapping the ground. "To remind you. Power is a gift, yes. But also a chain. Do not drag it where it should not go."
Silva's fists trembled. "Jared⊠he's changing. Someone gave him something. Something dark."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Then it has begun."
"What has?"
"The serpent." His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Hand has many ways of spreading rot. Sometimes they plant seeds in men with weakness in their hearts. Those men become vessels. Weapons."
Silva's chest tightened. "Jared is my friend."
The old man's gaze hardened. "Then your friend is dead."
Silva shook his head violently. "No. I can stop him. I have to."
"Stop him?" The old man's voice cracked like thunder. "Or kill him? There is a difference, boy. And soon, you will be forced to choose."
He leaned close, breath heavy with the weight of ages. "The enemy is not only outside. The enemy is within. Sometimes within your very blood."
And then, as suddenly as he appeared, the old man was goneâmelted into the shadows like smoke.
Silva stumbled home, heart pounding. His fists still glowed faintly, but he wished they didn't. He wished he could scrub it away, return to being just a boy with a dream.
But there was no turning back.
When he opened the door to the bookshop, the lights were off.
"Mom?" he called.
Silence.
He stepped inside carefully. The air was wrongâcold, sharp, metallic.
Then he saw it.
On the counter, carved into the wood with a blade, was a symbol.
A hand.
Crimson-stained.
And beneath it, in letters carved deep enough to bleed splinters:
"THE FRIEND WILL STRIKE FIRST."
The lights flickered. Silva's breath hitched. For a moment, he swore he saw movement in the corner of the shop, a shadow that slithered against the wall.
He raised his fists, sparks leaping, ready for battle.
But the shadow was gone.
Only silence remained.
He looked again at the carved warning, blood pounding in his ears.
The friend will strike first.
His mind reeled. Was it Jared? Or worseâwas Jared just the beginning?
The air felt like it was closing in, crushing his chest. He realized then the cruel truth:
He wasn't just fighting strangers in alleys anymore.
The war had entered his home. His blood. His heart.
And the enemyâŠ
was wearing his best friend's face.