I closed my eyes as the envelope Damian tossed smacked against my cheek. I didn't flinch or utter a word; I merely watched it fall to the floor, then stooped to retrieve it, curiosity feigning disinterest.
"These are the documents you'll need. You'll attend the same school as my sons," Damian said casually, his eyes sharp but unyielding. "I am not sending you there to study—you'll be disguised as my youngest child." He sank into his chair with a nonchalant grace.
I said nothing. I never did. My gaze merely met his before he gestured for me to leave his office. I walked out, envelope in hand, devoid of emotion. Ten years have passed since that night, and since then, fear has been a stranger to me. The only thought etched in my mind is escape—from this living hell.
I opened the envelope as I stepped out of the house, eyes instantly catching the name inscribed: Xena Calyza Fontanilla. My face twisted in disgust. I shoved the paper back into the envelope and continued walking. Staying in Damian's hellish empire was suffocating enough; now I was expected to masquerade as the child of his enemies? Disgusting. I am not a monster like him.
One reason he presented me as his child was to silence Daddy—make him believe I was gone. During the years I spent under his roof, he tried to poison my mind. He didn't know, however, that my memories were intact, untouchable. For ten years, I watched him lie, weaving the threads of my training into a plan to one day kill him. He manufactured Xena to assassinate my father, but as any dog eventually turns on its master, the monster he forged would be his undoing in the most excruciating way.
I stuffed the envelope into my jacket pocket and approached Damian's men, preparing for the night's shipment to Mr. Hipolito. Ten crates of high-caliber firearms, bound for the rebels in the mountains of Casiguran, Aurora. Not critical intelligence, yet Mr. Hipolito—a politician allied with these insurgents—was a threat only Damian could control.
"Everything ready?" I asked Sebastian.
"All set, Xena. Just need to swap the containers so they won't be scrutinized during delivery," he replied. I nodded and left. Any error in the shipment and there'd be bodies, no doubt.
This is Damian Fontanilla's empire—a clandestine dominion of drugs, human trafficking, assassinations, and illegal arms trade. Corrupt politicians cloaked in patriotism bow to him, their campaign funds sourced from his wealth, their immunity contingent upon his survival. At ten years old, I awoke to this world. The grotesque acts surrounding Damian became routine; over time, I learned to avert my gaze while cleaning up his messes. Every night my hands were stained with blood, I told myself I was merely cleansing the world of worthless, thieving politicians. Morally wrong, yes—but survival demanded pragmatism.
My father raised me as a cheerful, kind girl, but one night was enough for Damian to sculpt me into a predator. A demon is needed to kill a demon. I call it sacrifice.
I continued to the camp where Damian's child assassins trained. Orphans and street kids, forced into servitude—fed, clothed, then broken to become killers. Like me, they were deceived, taught to embrace violence to survive.
"The world we live in favors the wealthy. If you don't learn to fight, you'll be crushed, trapped, and die," I would often repeat in my mind. At five, I saw life's grim realities, and they became my gospel. Damian's cruelty became a lens through which I rationalized my own dark purpose.
I watched the trained children spar, their punches and kicks precise. No fear betrayed them; they were conditioned. Observing them was a ritual of mine.
A vibration startled me. My phone. Ezekiel.
I answered instantly. "Ezekiel," I murmured, eyes on the grass beneath my feet.
Ramon Ezekiel Valle—the man I shot that night, my guardian in this inferno. Everyone else knew him as Ezekiel Cortez, but only I knew his true name. Only I trusted him.
"I need you here, Xena. Someone tipped off the cops about the plantation. We don't have time. We must get the shipment out—Damian will slaughter anyone left behind," his voice rushed through the line.
I swore under my breath. Another fool sabotaging Ezekiel's operation. "I'm on my way," I said, ending the call, sprinting.
Damian's Rizal opium plantation—Ezekiel's location—and another in La Trinidad, Benguet, teeming with marijuana. European syndicates smuggle seeds; Damian's growers plant them. Protection is brutal, especially for heroin production. I texted Sebastian to send reinforcements, then vaulted onto my motorcycle, strapping two pistols to my thighs. No helmet, no hesitation—every second counted.
The shortest route to the plantation brought me to chaos. Cops swarmed the property; Damian's men had fallen, but Kiel maintained the exit. I navigated under fire, returning shots when necessary, moving with practiced precision. I reached our team's position and found Kiel commanding the extraction of drugs and weapons.
"Cops closing in—stay sharp," I warned a team member before following Kiel inside the lab.
The operatives moved crates as I guarded the exit, firing whenever a threat emerged. A cop peeked from behind a tarp—I emptied my pistol. Ammo dwindled, but I adapted, grabbing a rifle from a crate.
"Alright, motherfuckers. Here comes Xena," I whispered, gunfire echoing, clearing the rear while crates were loaded.
"Three boxes left!" a man shouted. The last crate was loaded when a bullet grazed my left arm. Pain flared, but I ignored it, focusing on survival. Kiel started the van; I jumped in, keeping the door open to cover our retreat.
"Let's go," I commanded, firing at pursuing officers.
We escaped. I bandaged my arm with a handkerchief, tying it tightly.
"Is that all?" Kiel asked coldly, glancing in the rearview mirror. I ignored him.
A demonic voice spoke behind me. "You'll face something more painful soon. Don't cry."
"Stay safe. Don't assume it's me," I retorted, sliding my jacket back on, keeping my exposed shoulder hidden. He laughed—a sound straight from hell.
"Where do you find your courage, Xena?"
I kept silent, heart hammering, aware of his proximity and breath against my neck.
He whispered, "I hope you won't die soon."
"Go easy, Leo. I'm just a girl," I muttered, forcing a faint grin.
Back in Damian's office, shattered vases scattered across the floor bore witness to our report from the plantation. As expected, he was furious.
"Idiot!" he roared. "Millions worth of property, gone! How did the cops find out about the poppy fields?"
He pulled a revolver from his desk drawer, pressing it to Kiel's temple. "This skull should cover the losses from your incompetence."
Kiel remained stoic, eyes blank. I glanced at him, fear rising, but his look said: stay calm.
"All drugs and men were saved. Only the plants were lost. It's a fair exchange," I stated, keeping my voice steady despite the terror curling in my stomach.
Damian's glare softened briefly before he exhaled, spinning his revolver on the desk. "Leave. Clean up all my losses, or I'll reclaim your lives," he growled.
Kiel sighed; we left. Silent. I headed to my room, cleaning my wound, when a bold presence pressed against me, pinning me to the wall.
Leo's touch was infuriatingly intimate. His lips brushed my neck, a deliberate provocation.
"Will you kill me?" I snapped, disgusted.
"I want to, Xena," he murmured, eyes locked on mine, lips lingering. "But first… you must finish what you came to do."
He grazed my skin with his lips. Kissing it like a lustful animal. I recoiled, hitting him sharply with my head and he staggered back, laughing at my scowl.
"Disgusting," I spat, walking away.
Even now, he had ruined my day—but at least, I still lived.