This is wrong
The thought arrived late, like most things that mattered.
Gherm felt it in his knuckles first. The dull resistance of bone, softened by swelling. Wet. Giving way more easily than it should have. He had the man by the collar, his arm locked, keeping him upright long after his legs had decided they were done participating.
The face beneath his fist barely resembled one anymore. An eye had collapsed inward. The nose no longer pointed in any meaningful direction. Blood pooled in the grooves of skin that used to have definition.
This is wrong
His fist came down again.
He wasn't angry. That was the problem. Anger would have explained the rhythm, the consistency. Instead, there was only habit. Muscle memory. The body was doing what it had learned to do when authority needed to be made undeniable.
Somewhere behind him, someone shifted their weight; they held their breath. Gherm didn't turn. He didn't need to. His people knew better than to interrupt before the lesson finished teaching itself.
This is wrong
The man tried to speak. What came out was a noise, not language. A plea stripped of words. Gherm waited, not out of mercy, but expectation. When nothing intelligible followed, he struck him again. Not any harder. Just cleaner.
The sound it made this time was different. Something structural was giving up.
That would never heal properly on its own. Not without the help of a heka. He noted it distantly, the way one might register damage to furniture.
"This is wrong," his mind insisted again, quieter now. Less convincing.
He ignored it.
Another weak whimper reached him—from the floor nearby. A second body lay there, twisted and unmoving, disheveled and exhausted, breathing shallowly but still alive. He did not look at it for long.
"Get it out of here," he said.
The voice that spoke carried neither heat nor a drop of triumph. He felt blank. His order was obeyed immediately. Two made men moved in, efficient, careful not to look too closely at the body they were lifting. Respect took many forms. Avoiding unnecessary sights was one of them.
This was his arrangement. Protect what was his, which would ruin people whose names he would never learn. The math had been done long ago.
And he was not under any illusions about heroism.
"Kyren."
The voice cut through the room cleanly.
There it is. The alias—Kyren Micaiah. The name every person present knew him by. It called to him like a cold, sharp knife.
His arm locked mid-motion. The relief came immediately, unwelcome and undeniable. An excuse. A reason to stop without admitting he wanted to.
He released the man's collar. The body hit the ground with a wet, hollow sound and did not try to get back up. Kyren straightened and flexed his hand once, then wiped the blood on his coat.
The coat darkened, but he didn't care.
Neither did he give a second glance at the body.
"Speak."
His voice was steady. Flat. As if nothing of consequence had happened.
"The underboss wants to see you," the messenger said. Controlled. Careful. He kept his eyes level and his hands visible. Smart, the guy knows how to speak with criminals like him.
Kyren exhaled slowly.
Almost everyone in the family knew that Kyren took violence too far, and that was a fact, not gossip. But the underboss rarely met him, even if he killed a person he was supposed to interrogate. Their form of communication was either through messengers or through the consigliere.
Why now?
He turned then, fixing the messenger with a long, unreadable look. The man didn't falter. That earned him a fraction of respect.
Kyren didn't answer; he simply nodded and walked. He didn't hurry.
His men fell in behind him without instruction.
As he walked, he raised his hand. And a long, thin sword appeared in his grasp. The handle had intricate engravings that made it almost look magical.
Calling it a sword was generous; its blade was little more than a shimmering thread, yet it glowed brighter than molten metal as he lifted it.
The thread-thin blade flared with blue radiance as Kyren brought it down in a swift, merciless arc. The strike cleaved neither flesh nor stone. It cut space itself.
Reality parted like drawn curtains, and a blue portal bloomed in the emptiness he had carved.
The sword was a vestige—an artifact forged from the remains of a fallen heka. Kyren was one too, a heka, though his power was far too obscure for others to discern.
He drew a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit it, and took a slow drag before stepping forward.
The portal would not remain open for long. Kyren dismissed the sword and stepped through, smoke trailing behind him as his red eyes caught and reflected the portal's blue glow.
Not all of his squad followed him. Only two entered the blue with Kyren. The rest stayed behind, obeying orders without question, lifting the other broken man and carrying him away as the portal closed like a held breath.
The messenger had already departed.
Tobacco greeted Kyren as he knocked and entered the underboss's office. A tall man with a bulky build stood within. He was not smoking, though half a cigar rested in the ashtray. As Kyren entered and his men remained outside, the underboss drained the last of the alcohol in his glass.
"Mr. Micaiah," he spoke coldly.
Kyren didn't speak; he was rather confused by the way he was addressed. The underboss usually calls him capo, or by his first name if other caporegimes are present.
The underboss did not ask him to sit; he slid in an envelope instead.
"Operations are shifting. You bring attention. That's a liability."
It was blunt and stripped of excess. He appreciated the tone, though he knew exactly what it implied—death.
People like him were not dismissed; they were resolved. Yet the underboss even telling him this meant they had other plans.
Without much choice, he took the envelope.
"Colt Holloway," He read, the paper had his photo, and a new address in a western country.
"New identity. Relocation. Funds arranged. You leave in eight hours."
Kyren looked at another folder on the table, but hedid not touch it. Details of his new identity and legal papers, he was sure.
He watched the underboss instead. The man's breathing was even. His hands rested flat on the wood. No tremor. No concealed movement toward a drawer.
But why?
Gherm was more than happy to be released from the family, but why was it happening?
Killing him would be cleaner. Fewer variables. No loose ends walking out the door with knowledge.
He could only think of one factor: his powers remain a mystery, and no foe had lived after a battle against him, even a heka of higher order.
Letting him walk was cheaper, and they knew he didn't care if he wasn't a caporegime.
He reached for the folder at last.
The documents were thorough. A different birthplace. Employment history. Tax records. A driver's license already issued under another face that still resembled his own enough to pass.
This had not been drafted overnight; they had been planning it.
He closed the file.
"If I refuse?"
The underboss did not hesitate. "Then you remain a factor."
And factors were addressed. No matter how costly it got.
Gherm nodded once. There was no offense in it. Only acceptance.
He felt it then, rising despite himself. A quiet, restrained relief that pressed against his ribs. The possibility of mornings without waiting for a call. Evenings that did not end in a basement with someone begging through broken teeth.
The feeling embarrassed him.
This is wrong.
Or maybe it wasn't.
He placed the folder under his arm.
"I'll transfer access," he said. "But I will leave on my own; nobody follows."
The underboss gave a single nod.
"Eight hours."