Askai gripped the back of the fallen chair and dragged it upright, sinking into it with a heavy, defeated breath. He didn't even notice his hands were trembling until he rested them on his knees.
A cold, expanding knot had formed in his stomach. Whatever was coming next, he had a chilling premonition that it would make everything they'd survived so far seem small, like practice for the real catastrophe.
"What else?" he asked, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, the sudden wave of emotion a physical punch. Jordan had been staring into his lap, his eyes empty and soulless, the raw toll of their life written across his face.
Askai ran a hand through his hair. He kept forgetting that things would be even worse for Jordan. Always had been.
"Hey, Jordi," he said, forcing a steady tone. "We are in it together. Whatever it is. Just say it."
"Last night, nobody showed up at the Motel even after the call, remember?" Jordan continued, his voice barely a rasp.
Askai thought back to the moment when he had handed the phone to Al, Motel Manager, forcing the call for help.
"I wasn't expecting those bastards to show up," Askai admitted. "Even in the past, they ran between their tails every time we had a confrontation."
"Things have changed, Askai. They were on their way last night, but they got ambushed. They say the men who hit them were professionals—military precision, full blackout. A couple of them are dead, and the rest… critical. There is no telling if they will survive another night except Zeke who is out of danger. Those who crawled out fled the city by morning. The whole gang was shattered. Gone in a single night."
"That's not…" Askai's voice faltered. He blinked, trying to reboot a mind that suddenly felt too slow for the storm breaking around him. "That's not possible."
But Jordan's face didn't shift. No denial or sarcasm. Just the raw, grim edge of someone who'd seen too much of the truth to sugarcoat anything now.
"Who would do something this stupid?" Askai asked, reeling back as if physical distance could help the pieces fall into place. "Taking out Zeke's gang? That's suicide. There'll be hell to pay. This isn't a one-and-done hit. Who were they? Karla's crew? Qurais's? Who had that bastard offended this time?"
Jordan shook his head slowly. "We don't know. That's the whole point. But it wasn't a turf move because it wasn't loud, Askai. It was clean. Calculated. That's not Karla's style—she likes spectacle. Qurais would've left a message—flayed bodies, tagged walls. This? This was silent, precise and left no trace."
Askai felt a deep, profound chill crawl under his skin.
West Nolan was a breeding ground for every vice the city had tried to bury. A hive of broken men, hollow dreams, and whispered deals. But it wasn't the wild west. Chaos wore a collar here—and it was owned by three names no one dared to cross: Moraine, Karla, and Qurais.
They weren't just gang bosses. They were institutions. And nothing—no mugging, no shipment, no bloodshed—happened without their blessing. The smaller gangs paid tribute, shared turf, and in return, they were allowed to exist. But if this ambush hadn't come from one of the three, then someone was breaking rules that had been carved in blood for decades.
Someone was shaking the foundations. And that made everything worse.
"Do you think Moraine's making a play?" Askai asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Jordan snorted bitterly. "Moraine doesn't need to. That man's buried deeper in East End's politics than half the damn council. He wouldn't dirty his hands with an unstable power vacuum unless the war was already won."
Askai ran a desperate hand through his hair. "Then who?"
"Someone who believes he is far above the West End and its hell. Someone who doesn't fear their retaliation. But it wouldn't matter anymore."
Jordan looked at him. Really looked at him, his gaze heavy with terrible knowledge.
"Because you know what truly scares me, Askai? They left no trace. The identity of the shooters is a ghost. It is now completely up to whoever Zeke points to."
Askai's heart plummeted, a silent freefall into something cold and hollow. His fingers, clenched tight until now, slackened against his sides. The grip he thought he had—on his dreams, on his escape, on the paper-thin version of a future he'd dared to imagine—was irrevocably slipping away. Not because he was weak. But because life, the city, and the very gods they ran from, didn't play fair.
Zeke wouldn't play fair.
This was probably Zeke's one and only chance in life where, with a single, vicious word, he could turn Askai's life upside down, making him hunted to the world's end. And knowing the man, he wouldn't miss it. Moraine might not have ordered the culling of his gang but he wouldn't shy away from using this as an excuse to take down the brothers. The loyalists of Uncle Tommie - who were Askai's last hope - would not be able to intervene either.
"Where is Zeke?" Askai asked, finally arriving at a decision that felt utterly inevitable.