The sky burned in shades of orange and crimson as the sun slowly sank behind the towers of the city. From above, the streets looked like veins filled with restless life—cars, lights, people rushing somewhere, all unaware of how fragile their existence really was.
Rio Orlando cut through the traffic on his sleek black Ducati, the engine growling beneath him like a living beast. The wind tore through his hair and pressed against his chest, but he welcomed it. The faster he rode, the more the world blurred, and for a few precious moments, everything felt quiet inside his head.
This was the only place where he felt free.
Not his father's mansion.
Not his university.
Not the endless halls filled with silent guards and watchful eyes.
Just the road.
Rio leaned forward, gripping the handlebars tighter as he accelerated. Neon signs flashed past him, reflections dancing across his helmet visor. Every red light he ignored felt like a small act of rebellion. Every sharp turn was a reminder that he still controlled something in his life.
Behind him, two black SUVs followed at a careful distance.
Bodyguards.
Always there. Always watching.
His father, Richard Orlando, never took chances when it came to his only son. The Orlando family was too powerful, too rich, too deeply rooted in dangerous circles for Rio to ever be truly alone. From the moment he was born, his life had been guarded like a priceless artifact.
And Rio hated it.
He hated the suffocating protection.
He hated the way people spoke to him carefully, like he might break.
He hated that his life was already planned before he ever got to live it.
He wasn't a glass doll.
He was just a man who wanted to breathe.
Rio glanced at his rearview mirror. The black SUVs were still there, their headlights glowing like predator eyes in the growing dusk.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Let's see how good you really are," he muttered under his breath.
Without warning, Rio took a sharp right turn, leaving the main road and diving into a narrow street lined with old buildings. The sudden move forced the SUVs to brake hard. Tires screeched as they struggled to follow him.
Rio didn't slow down.
The city here was different—narrow lanes, flickering streetlights, cracked sidewalks. This was not the polished part of town his father preferred. This was the real city, where secrets lived and rules were weak.
He twisted the throttle and disappeared into the maze of streets.
The chase lasted only a few minutes, but it felt longer. Each corner he took, each alley he slipped through, increased the distance between him and his unwanted escort. Finally, when he glanced back again, the road behind him was empty.
No SUVs.
No headlights.
No guards.
Only darkness and silence.
A strange thrill rushed through him.
For the first time that evening, Rio was truly alone.
He slowed his bike, letting the Ducati roll gently down a dimly lit street. Something about the air felt different here—heavier, colder. The city noise faded, replaced by a strange stillness.
Then he heard it.
A sound.
A voice.
At first, he thought it was his imagination. But then it came again, clearer this time—soft, trembling, filled with fear.
The chase thrilled him. Heart hammering, adrenaline coursing, he weaved through alleyways, the tires of his Ducati gripping the asphalt with near-magical precision. For the first time in years, he felt untouchable. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered a warning he refused to acknowledge.
It started as a flicker—a shadow crossing the corner of his vision. Then, a fragment of a sound: a scream. Not distant, not muffled. Clear. Terrifying. A child's voice, cracked and broken by fear:
"No, no, no… please don't do this… Please don't… it hurts… ahhh… M… Mom!"
Rio froze mid-turn, the throttle slipping from his grip. His vision blurred. The wind stopped cutting through his hair; the streets, the buildings, the sky—all faded into a haze. And then, like a cruel puzzle snapping into place, the memory returned.
It hit him with all the force of a tidal wave. The scene, the chaos, the smell, the sickening red of blood—he was back there, witnessing the nightmare he had buried deep in his mind.
Two black Mercedes gleamed under a dim light. Between them, a man—or what remained of one—was stretched on the cold asphalt, a grotesque display of suffering. Monsters, not men, circled him. Weapons glinted, cruel smiles etched on faces that knew no mercy. They tore into him slowly, deliberately, prolonging pain for their amusement. He had stood there, frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Rio's chest constricted as the memory played itself out in relentless detail. The man's weak, unfocused eyes staring at nothing, the soft, cruel laughter of the attackers, the claw-like weapon scraping across raw flesh—every second was burned into his mind. He remembered the pincer. The cold, merciless gleam of metal ripping away strength, dignity, life itself. And then, the moment that had haunted him most—their eyes had met his, and he had understood the most horrifying truth: he was being watched.
The terror of that instant, the sense of being caught, of being marked—he felt it all again. His legs had refused to move, his body had betrayed him, and the memory now made the Ducati beneath him feel impossibly heavy, as if the bike itself were anchored in some unseen trap.
He barely had time to react before the image of the child's scream merged with his present reality. The world tilted, the sound of screeching tires pierced the fragile bubble of his mind, and he felt himself losing control. The Ducati wobbled violently, and the streets around him became a blur of asphalt and shadow.
When consciousness returned fully, it was in fragments. He was lying in his bed, soaked in sweat, heart hammering so violently it felt as if it would burst through his chest. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of his fear. And beside him, Richard Orlando leaned forward, concern etched into every line of his face.
"How do you feel now, son?" Richard's voice was calm, controlled, yet threaded with a tension that made Rio's nerves quiver. "What happened? Are you hurt anywhere?"
Rio tried to speak, to describe the nightmare that had overtaken him, but the words refused to form. Instead, a trembling whisper escaped his lips:
"M… Mom…"
Richard's eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion and something else—something unreadable—crossing his features. "What did you say?" he asked softly, leaning closer.
But Rio couldn't answer. The memory had left him stranded in a maze of fear and uncertainty, each thought tangled with the next. He could feel the weight of the vision pressing down, threatening to crush his mind. The images of the tortured man, the merciless predators, the child's screams, and the sudden, chilling awareness that someone was watching—it all collided in a storm inside him.
Time passed in jagged fragments. Richard tried to soothe him, but Rio remained trapped, suspended between past horror and present reality. Even the familiar walls of his mansion, the polished floors and opulent decor, felt alien, hostile. Shadows seemed deeper than they should be, the soft hum of air conditioning now a background to a creeping, relentless dread.
It wasn't just a memory. It was a message. Somewhere, in some dark corner of the city, someone had been waiting, watching, and now, by sheer misfortune or design, Rio had become part of a story far bigger than himself. Arthur. The name had surfaced in rumors, whispers of a figure so dark, so dangerous, that entire blocks fell silent when his men passed. And now, the threads of fate had tied Rio to him in ways he didn't yet understand.
Even as he tried to push it away, the remnants of the flashback clung to him like a second skin. He saw the faces again, heard the laughter, felt the cold gleam of metal against flesh. Every detail was alive, vivid, unavoidable. And beneath it all, an unshakable certainty: he had been marked.
Richard's hand rested on his shoulder. "Son, listen to me," he said firmly. "Whatever it was, it's over now. You're safe."
But Rio knew better. Safe was an illusion. The memory of what he had witnessed was more than trauma—it was a warning. The calm, methodical cruelty of those men, the precision of their violence, the almost ritualistic way they inflicted suffering—it was not random. It was a message, and it was meant for someone.
Somewhere, hidden in the shadows, someone had noticed him. Observed him. And they would not forget.
Rio's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of memory, the fear, the adrenaline, the mysterious words that had slipped out of him. "Mom…" The sound haunted him, as if the syllables themselves carried a secret he was not yet ready to understand. It made him more aware, more vulnerable, more alive to the dangers surrounding him.
Night fell fully over the city, turning streets into rivers of darkness. In the distance, the faint glow of headlights suggested movement, patterns that only the most careful observers could interpret. And in those shadows, watching, waiting, Arthur's presence loomed—silent, calculating, inevitable. The young heir, free-spirited and defiant, had stumbled unwittingly into the orbit of something far darker than the trivial constraints of family, privilege, or bodyguards.
The lesson was already clear to Rio, though his mind struggled to grasp it fully: witnessing horror did not end with the horror itself. It continued in memory, in fear, in every quiet moment that followed. And sometimes, it carried consequences far beyond the imagination of anyone who survived it.
He did not yet know how deep the connection went, how many lives were intertwined with that one brutal, senseless night. But one thing was certain: the past had found him.
And it would not let him go.