Xavier stepped into his apartnt. The stench hit first—iron, rot, and sweat. Blood pooled across the tiles, bodies sprawled like broken dolls. The walls, the furniture, the ceiling—it all wore the stain of death.
He stood there for a mont, surveying the carnage, then walked to the kitchen. A clean knife glead under the dim light. He picked it up, the cold weight heavy in his palm, and called out, "Lyra."
A door creaked open. Lyra padded out, hair still damp, clinging to her neck, her new clothes neat and dry. She looked refreshed, like she’d just washed off the stench of slaughter.
Xavier’s gaze fixed on her. Too hard. Too long. For a second, his thoughts weren’t about corpses or blood. They slipped. His body betrayed him. He clenched his jaw, trying to will the heat down, but it was still there, evident and inconvenient.
Lyra was indeed soone Xavier found attractive from the first ti he had seen her in the prison.
Lyra tilted her head, sharp eyes narrowing. "What?"
He blinked, snapped himself back. "Cut ." He held the knife out. "Tear my clothes. Make it look like I was attacked."
Her lips curled. "No."
"Lyra," he said, voice low, calm but firm. "I need this."
She crossed her arms. "I’m not hurting you no matter what you say."
Xavier smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Fine. How about this—when all of this is done, I’ll take you out. Amusent park. Gas, food, whatever the hell you want. Full day."
Lyra blinked. She didn’t show much emotion usually, but her ears twitched just enough. "...You’re serious?"
"As serious as the corpses rotting on my carpet."
She stared at him for a long mont, then finally stepped forward, taking the knife. Her movents were careful, precise. She dragged the blade across his shirt, slicing fabric, leaving shallow lines along his skin. Just enough blood. Just enough to sell it.
When it was done, she handed the knife back. "Don’t forget your promise." And then, without another word, she walked out, slipping next door to Viola’s apartnt.
Xavier exhaled, set the knife aside. Then he crouched near one of the dead assassins, pressed his hands into the still-warm blood, and sared it across his palms, dragging red stains into his torn clothes. After that, he dropped to the ground among the corpses, rolling across the gore, painting himself in the chaos.
When he was satisfied, he pulled out his phone. And with one tap, he went live.
The screen lit, and within a second the viewer count shot up. Thousands. Then hundreds of thousands. By nineteen seconds, millions. Comnts rained down in a blur:
"What the fuck happened?!"
"Xavier are you okay???"
"Is that blood? Oh my god—"
"Call the cops!!"
"Who did this?? Tell us!!"
Xavier let his breathing co out ragged, voice trembling as he angled the cara around the room. Bodies. Blood. Shredded walls. "I... I was sleeping, and then I heard... noises. I got up and..." He swallowed hard, letting the fear drip in his tone. "They attacked . I—I don’t even know who they were."
The comnts blew up, waves of rage and panic. His na spamd over and over, people begging, demanding answers.
Xavier dragged his blood-streaked hands across his face and leaned into the cara. "I don’t know who’s behind this. But... I’m not pressing charges. I forgive whoever did this. Whoever sent them."
Silence rippled through the comnts for a second. Then the feed exploded again—fury, devotion, threats toward whoever dared touch him. Xavier just sat there, battered clothes, blood on his skin, playing the part to perfection.
The stream went on for barely fifteen minutes before Xavier ended it, but the ripples turned tidal almost instantly. News anchors scrambled mid-broadcast, cutting into regular programming with "breaking news" banners. Social feeds split wide open—clips of Xavier’s trembling voice, the pools of blood, the corpses in his apartnt. Hashtags stacked one after another, climbing to global trends in seconds.
Crowds outside police stations and city halls swelled within the hour. Protestors scread into gaphones about justice, about protection, about the system failing its brightest star. Others just stood there crying, holding up holo-screens playing his bloodstained face on loop. The streets outside his building clogged with fans holding signs, candles, whatever they could grab.
Reporters hamred the city’s security bureau, demanding statents. Officials tried to cool things down, but every word only poured more gasoline into the fire.
And then—an anonymous video dropped. Dark screen. Distorted voice.
"I am... one of them. One of the underworld."
The world froze to listen.
The voice laid it all out, calm and venomous. The confession, the bounty placed on Xavier’s head, the broken commandnt, the betrayal. Screens flickered with receipts, contracts, surveillance clips, and transaction logs—hard evidence impossible to fake. Every trail led back to one na.
Alexander Sterling.
The distortion didn’t even try to hide the malice in that na.
"Sterling gave the order. Sterling financed it. Our job is to complete the job. We have nothing personal with Xavier. And now, Sterling should answer for it."
The video ended. Followed by silence. And then, chaos ensued.
Every platform detonated. Xavier’s fans were no longer just furious—they were rabid. Calls for justice turned into calls for blood. "Death penalty." "Public execution." "Drag him out in chains." The mob didn’t just want Alexander arrested—they wanted him displayed, humiliated, destroyed.
Politicians were forced into ergency sessions, debating law versus public demand. Comntators tried to cool tempers but were drowned out by the roar of millions unified in rage. Sterling’s na was plastered across every screen, his face pulled from old photos and stamped with blood-red filters, his every scandal dragged out and magnified.
By the end of the night, Alexander Sterling wasn’t just a man anymore. He was the world’s enemy number one.
Xavier wat he’d everything on the big screen and gave himself a pat. He was impressed by himself.
"This is just the beginning. I am going to end your lineage, Sterling."
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