From that day forward, Billy's old life vanished like smoke.
In the first week, he delivered drug packages to buyers who looked half-dead—eyes sunken, hands trembling, voices barely human.
One woman tried to trade her toddler for an additional vial of powder.
Billy froze, unsure whether to cry or vomit. He just wanted to leave.
The toddler clung to his mother, snot trailing from his nose, gripping a plastic toy caked in grime.
Is this what the mafia led to? People using their own children as currency?
Billy began to back away.
But then he remembered Mario's words: Fail a mission, and you die.
So, he clenched his jaw, handed over one vial of product, and walked away.
He collected debts from men twice his size. Some begged. Some threatened. Some cried.
Mario had told him to break their legs if they refused. Luckily, it never came to that. The moment they heard the name Phoenixes, they folded and paid.
Every night, his mother asked where he'd been.
"At a friend's house," he'd say.
She'd narrow her eyes, skeptical, but never pressed further.
He wished he could just get it all off his chest—tell her everything. But even though it hurt, he couldn't. He loved her too much.
Even though his life had changed overnight—and the weight of it was overwhelming—Billy never failed a mission.
Not once.
***
The next morning, he awoke to the smell of sizzling bacon and scrambled eggs.
"Good morning, Billy," his mother said as he walked into the kitchen.
"Morning," he replied, sliding into his seat.
She placed a plate in front of him and sat across the table.
"You hardly ever wake up this early."
"Yeah," he said, picking at his eggs.
They talked for a few minutes—about life, friends, family.
Billy tried to sound normal, like he wasn't constantly worried about his survival.
But then his phone buzzed.
A message from Mario:
"You've done well so far, Billy. But that work doesn't suit the Thief of Belmond. I have a job for you. Meet a Capo of mine at the Grand Plaza. Immediately. Oh, and one more thing—Whenever you see Violet at school, don't speak to her. You're not allowed to see her anymore."
Billy's heart sank. The girl of his dreams—who he'd held in his arms not long ago—was gone. And there was nothing he could do.
Billy let out a deep sigh, stood, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
"I gotta go."
She gave him a look—half worry, half suspicion.
"Alright," she said softly, watching him walk out the door.
***
Billy reached the plaza just as the sun hit the fountain's spray, scattering light across the white brick.
The place was alive—bookstores, cafés, and malls circling the square like vultures around a feast.
A man leaned against the fountain. Business suit. Hollow eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
He stepped forward.
"The Boss sent me. Name's Bleu." No handshake. No smile. "I'm here to explain your next assignment."
Billy tensed.
"There's an elite who owes the Phoenixes a lot of money. Tyler Watlington."
The name hit something in Billy's brain—familiar, but slippery.
"You're to collect what he owes," Bleu said, "and break his legs for stalling."
Billy blinked. Break his legs? What did that even mean? Was he supposed to use a bat? His fists?
Bleu handed him a slip of paper—Tyler's address.
"You have two days to finish." Bleu turned away, then paused. "He's a recluse. Doesn't answer the door. You'll have to get creative."
Billy stared at the paper.
"Great," he muttered. "Guess I'm breaking in, too."
***
Billy arrived at 517 Willowwood Road—a gated mansion, three stories high. Impressive, though not as grand as Mario's.
The tall black gates loomed ahead, slick and unforgiving.
Climbing them would be tough, but Billy tried anyway. He scrambled up, peeking over the top—
Woof. Woof.
A deep, thunderous bark shattered the silence. It wasn't just noise—it was an alarm.
A guard dog. Massive, with black fur and a white underbelly, pacing like it owned the place.
Billy climbed back down, head low. How was he supposed to get past that thing?
He sighed and turned away. School it was. He only had a few more days he could miss before they held him back.
***
Billy sat in Mr. Howard's Algebra II class, half-listening as formulas and calculations droned across the whiteboard.
His chin rested in his palm. His mind was elsewhere.
How do I get past the guard dog?
If he got close, the dog would bark—loud enough to wake Tyler.
But maybe that was the point. If Tyler opened the door to check, Billy could slip in.
Too risky. The dog would probably attack. And judging by its size, it could kill him.
Hmm… Maybe a gun?
No. Too loud. Tyler would hear it, maybe call the cops—or grab a gun himself.
He needed something quiet.
Then it hit him. A bow.
Billy smiled, satisfied with the idea—until a voice shattered his moment.
"Billy!" Mr. Howard screeched. "Why aren't you paying attention?"
Billy blinked.
"Finals are coming up, and you're daydreaming. Are you trying to get held back? You already failed kindergarten. Seventeen, turning eighteen, and still a junior. You want to fail again?"
The class snickered.
Billy clenched his teeth, face burning. He hated being humiliated in front of everyone.
But he calmed himself. After I finish the mansion job, he thought, I'm putting thumbtacks in Mr. Howard's chair.
***
The lunch bell rang.
Billy left the classroom and spotted Ben in the hallway.
"Hey Billy," Ben said, turning. "I haven't seen you since prom night. Where've you been? It's been a week!"
Billy gave a tired look. "Had to help my mom around the house."
They caught up as they walked, until Ben grinned and nudged him.
"So… how'd things go with Violet?"
Billy smiled faintly. "We had a good time."
"Did you seal the deal?" Ben teased.
Billy's cheeks flushed. "No, man—she's not like that."
Ben laughed, but Billy's eyes drifted. Violet had just turned the corner.
Without thinking, he grabbed Ben's arm and rushed into the cafeteria.
Violet saw him walk away. Her head lowered.
***
At their usual table, Ben rambled about his weekend playing his favorite video game, Elden Legends 2.
Billy didn't hear a word. His mind was elsewhere.
A bow. That's what I need.
But where would he get one? Shops wouldn't sell to him. His mom wouldn't buy one. He didn't know anyone who had one.
I'll make one, he decided.
He lifted his head, feeling a flicker of resolve—then caught Violet's gaze from across the cafeteria. She looked down, still embarrassed.
Billy turned back to Ben.
"You know," Ben said, "I haven't seen Ethan since prom night. He must've been really mad about everything."
Billy chuckled.
"You should've seen how he chased me, Billy—it was hilarious."
Billy laughed, then grew serious. "Yeah… but when he comes back, it's probably going to be bad."
They kept talking, gossiping, joking.
***
After school, Billy got to work—on his assignment.
He walked to the Belmond Super Market and bought some elastic rope, using money he'd earned from earlier missions.
Then he searched for wood—something flexible, something that could bend without snapping.
Birch.
He remembered reading once that birch was good for bows. Belmond Park had a few.
So he grabbed a saw from his father's old shed and headed out.
The first tree was too thick. The second—smooth, pale, and just the right size—fit comfortably in his hand.
He sawed. Plop. The branch hit the grass.
Billy bent it gently. It flexed well. He took it home.
In the garage, he trimmed the branch, stripped the bark, smoothed the surface, and carved out grooves at each end for the rope. After hours of work, he had something that looked—maybe—functional.
Next: arrows.
He trimmed sticks from the trees in his yard, carved points at the ends, and attached plastic fletching from toy arrows he'd bought. They wouldn't kill, but they'd do for practice.
***
That evening, Billy returned to Tyler's mansion.
He brought a few apples and climbed onto the rooftop of a house nearby. The guard dog was asleep.
He scanned the distance, then placed an apple on a rooftop northwest of his position—roughly the same range as the dog.
He aimed. Released.
The arrow whizzed through the air—then dipped, landing short.
"Oh," he muttered. "Forgot about the drop."
He aimed higher. Still missed. Closer this time.
He kept shooting until he lost all his arrows. Then he climbed down, collected them, and tried again.
Progress. But no consistency.
Eventually, tired and sore, he went home.
***
The next morning, Billy returned to the rooftop.
He was close to maxing out his allowed school absences—but he didn't care. This mission had to be finished tonight.
So he skipped class and kept shooting.
Arrow after arrow. Miss. Hit. Miss. Hit again.
Little by little, he improved. Three hits in a row. Then four. Then five. Eventually, he hardly missed at all.
He smiled, sweat on his brow, fingers sore, heart steady.
Finally. "Tonight I finish this," he whispered, clenching his fist.
He went home and scavenged for arrowheads.
Glass shards from beer bottles in the dumpster. Sharp pieces from shattered windows downtown. He wrapped and tied them to the tips of his arrows, crude but sharp.
By nightfall, he was ready.
***
Tyler's mansion loomed in the distance. Billy stood in the dark, bow in hand, arrows glinting faintly in the moonlight.
Billy climbed the same rooftop where he'd practiced for days. But this time, he turned his bow toward the guard dog.
The dog sat in the center of the gated front yard, eating from a metal bowl beside a doghouse labeled Barky.
Billy pulled out an arrow tipped with jagged glass. He drew the bowstring back. Aimed at the dog's head.
His hands trembled. Sweat pooled in his palms. He kept glancing at the name—Barky.
He sighed. Lowered the bow. He didn't want to do it. The dog hadn't done anything. Why did it have to be part of this?
He searched for another way. There wasn't one.
So he drew the bow again. His body shook.
The dog looked up, eyes meeting his. It didn't even look angry—just tilted its head, almost playfully.
Billy tried to shut off his mind. Told himself it was just an obstacle. Something he had to overcome to survive.
Billy let go.
The arrow struck the dog in the chest.
"Shit," he muttered. "I missed."
The dog collapsed, trying to scream, to whimper—but no sound came. Blood and foam spilled from its mouth.
Billy scrambled down the rooftop. Climbed the tall black gate. Dropped into the yard.
The dog convulsed in front of him.
Billy's chest ached.
He knelt beside it.
"I'm sorry, Barky," he whispered, trying to keep his breath steady and his eyes from watering.
Then he pulled out his pocket knife and drove it into the dog's temple.
Silence.
He exhaled—long, slow.
***
Then he stood. Walked to the front door. And began to pick the lock.
Click.
Billy heard the latch and gently pushed the door open. Inside, a vivid red carpet stretched across the floor, dulled by a thin layer of dust. The walls were painted a tired yellow. Ahead was a doorway to the kitchen, another to the right leading to what looked like the living room, and a staircase to the left climbing to the second floor.
Photos lined the walls—Tyler in a baseball uniform, pitching, running, batting. They were everywhere.
It was late, and Tyler was probably asleep. But the lights were on. Weird. Maybe he was one of those adults afraid of the dark?
Billy crept through the first floor. Nothing but kitchen supplies, crumbs scattered across the floor, and more baseball memorabilia.
He moved toward the stairs, climbing slowly, one step at a time. Then—
***
Ring Ring!
His phone blared.
Panic surged through him as he fumbled to silence it. Too late.
A door creaked open upstairs.
Billy rushed quietly to the second floor, ducking around a corner. His multitool kit was still in his back pocket. His bow gripped tightly in his left hand. Two glass arrows left. His hands trembled.
Tyler stepped out of his room, yawning.
"What was that noise?" he asked aloud, as if used to talking to himself.
He wandered downstairs to a glass cabinet just right of the front door. Inside: a baseball, a photo of Tyler mid-swing, and a metal bat. Each item bore the signature: Tyler Watlington.
Tyler placed a hand on the glass. His eyes softened, distant. Sorrow flickered across his face.
Billy's eyes widened.
How did I miss that cabinet? That bat could break Tyler's legs. But how to get it without being seen?
Tyler was up now—and he was a large man. Billy's average frame wouldn't stand a chance in a brawl.
He crept to a vantage point on the second floor, where he had a clear shot. He nocked an arrow, pulled back, aimed at Tyler's right thigh.
Ring Ring!
"Shit," Billy whispered.
Tyler's head snapped up. He began creeping up the stairs.
"Who's there?"
He opened the glass cabinet and grabbed the bat.
Billy's heart pounded.
If he hits me with that, I'm done.
Tyler spotted the edge of Billy's bow peeking around the corner and charged.
Billy released the arrow.
It struck Tyler's right knee.
"Ahhhh!" Tyler cried out, collapsing.
Billy exhaled, relief flooding through him. He approached as Tyler clutched his leg, groaning.
"You owe the Phoenixes money," Billy said.
Tyler panted. "I know… but I don't have it. I gambled it all away."
"Then give me something of equal value."
"All I have is my old baseball stuff!"
"That'll do."
Billy stared at him. Recognition clicked.
Tyler Watlington. The top professional player for the Belmond Pirates.
"Oh yes," Billy murmured. "This will do quite nicely."
Tyler looked down at the arrow in his knee, and Billy picked up the bat.
"Please, man!" Tyler begged. "I'll do anything—I'll pay double, triple one day. Just give me time. Please don't break my legs!"
Billy's face was empty.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's either you or me."
Then he swung.
Once.
Twice.
The sound of bone cracking echoed through the house. Tyler screamed, slobbered, cried.
Billy took the bat, the ball, and the signed photo. Then he left Tyler there—broken, bloodied, but alive.
***
On the walk home, Billy checked his phone. It was Ben who'd called.
He dialed back. "Sorry I missed your call, Ben. What did you want?"
"Oh Billy!" Ben said, practically vibrating. "Did you hear? Elden Legends 3 is dropping in June! It's gonna be the best summer ever!"
Billy went silent.
"Billy? You there?"
"You spam-called me… over a video game?" Billy screamed.
Ben laughed. "Don't be like that! It's Elden Legends 3!"
Billy cursed under his breath as he walked, but eventually, the two shared a laugh.
That night, though, when Billy went to bed, he tossed and turned—unable to rid his mind of the image.
The dog's life, vanishing from its eyes.
***
Somewhere in Belmond, in a compound not far away, a teenage boy sat across from an older man.
They were in the dark, with just enough light to catch the bottom of their faces—and the white streak that stood out against the boy's otherwise jet-black hair.
"Well," the man said, leaning back, "let's see if your genius strategy actually works, kid."
"Oh, it will," the boy replied, his voice light—almost playful—but with something cold beneath it. "They won't see it coming. It will be glorious."
"And it'll happen soon. Tomorrow is prom night."
Their laughter echoed through the compound—sharp, menacing, and full of promise.
What were they planning?