Crystal Avenue. 9:06 pm.
The night was still young, yet Katherine felt centuries older. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the thin crack of moonlight slicing through the blinds. Her reflection in the dresser mirror looked foreign — eyes swollen, lips trembling, hair clinging to damp skin from a shower that hadn't washed away her shame.
Mila stirred in her crib, a soft whimper escaping her tiny lips. Katherine rushed over, pressing her hand against the baby's chest, whispering,
"Shh… mommy's here, mommy's here.", The words caught in her throat — she wasn't sure if she was trying to soothe her daughter or herself.
From the living room below, she heard muffled footsteps — Jason's heavy stride, steady and unhurried. He hadn't left after Stephen and Antonio went out. Instead, he lingered in the shadows of the house like a storm cloud refusing to pass.
Katherine picked Mila up, pressing her daughter's warmth against her chest. She breathed her in, desperate for the comfort of innocence. Yet the weight of her choices pressed harder. Antonio's lips... Jason's eyes... Stephen's voice telling her "I love you".
The staircase creaked.
Her pulse jumped. She turned her head sharply, clutching Mila tighter as Jason appeared at the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his gaze soft but searching.
"You look like you haven't slept in weeks.", Jason murmured.
Katherine swallowed, her lips parting but no words came out.
"Don't worry. I'm not here to cause trouble.", Jason said. His voice was low, calm — almost soothing, but his presence filled the room like smoke.
Katherine lowered her eyes, brushing her cheek against Mila's hair.
"Trouble already lives here.", she whispered, more to herself than him.
Jason stepped closer, slow and deliberate. He stopped a few feet away, keeping his distance, but his eyes never left hers. For a long moment, silence stretched between them — a silence heavy with guilt, curiosity, and something Katherine didn't want to name.
Her chest tightened as her thoughts spiraled.
'If Stephen knew… if Antonio pushed further… if Jason stayed longer…'
Katherine closed her eyes, swaying gently with Mila in her arms, whispering a lullaby she barely remembered. But her voice cracked, and the song dissolved into a broken hum. Jason shifted his weight, exhaling softly.
"You don't have to sing it alone.", Jason said gently.
And in that moment — with her child against her chest and her husband's brother in the room — Katherine realized her heart was no longer her own.
157. PINE STREET.
69 Mimic. 9:10 p.m.
The club that spoke volumes without ever saying a word. It was packed like the world was ending tomorrow. Stephen and Antonio drifted through the crowd as the deep electric bass thundered, rattling walls as if it were summoning the whole of San El Zorro.
Inside, the chaos glowed. The retro lights pulsed against smoke-filled air, lasers sliced through the darkness, and the atmosphere crackled like static. Adults shed their skins, reverting into reckless, untamed kids.
Bouncers loomed at every corner—ground floor, second floor, even the velvet-rope V.I.P lounge. Eyes watched everything, but no one cared.
The dance floor was a storm, bodies colliding, sweat dripping, laughter and screams blending with the music. Some clung to the bar counter, barely conscious, while others surrendered completely—collapsed on the floor, yet still part of the rhythm.
Antonio guided Stephen to the elevator,
"Where are we going!?", Stephen shouted over the pounding bass, his voice nearly swallowed by the music.
"You'll see soon enough!", Antonio shot back, grinning like he knew a secret.
They slipped into the elevator, Antonio jabbing the button and letting the heavy doors slide shut behind them.
Instantly, the noise dulled. The bass faded into a distant throb, muffled by steel walls. For the first time since they walked in, Stephen could hear his own breathing.
"It's loud in there.", Antonio muttered, smoothing back his hair like nothing unusual just happened.
"Yeah, this place makes Jack's look like a church.", Stephen said, a crooked grin tugging at his face.
Antonio leaned against the rail of the elevator, a sly smirk curling across his face.
"[Laughing] Let's just hope Amanda didn't hear you.", Antonio said cunningly.
The elevator doors slid open with a low chime.
This floor was a different world—darker, quieter. The pounding bass from below was reduced to a faint pulse, like a heartbeat muffled through walls.
A narrow corridor stretched ahead, lined with poles where strippers moved with slow, hypnotic grace. Neon highlights flickered across their skin, the glow reflecting in Stephen's uneasy eyes.
Beside each pole, heavy curtains draped over narrow doorways, concealing whatever vices unfolded on the other side. From behind one, the faintest laughter slipped out—low, hushed, dangerous.
Stephen swallowed hard, an invisible weight settling on him. Every instinct screamed he shouldn't be here, yet the wrongness carried a twisted allure. For one fragile moment, the forbidden felt like the only thing that made sense.
Antonio, calm as ever, walked casually down the corridor as though it were a hallway in his own home. Stephen followed reluctantly, his steps echoing in the dim light.
At the end, a pair of massive bouncers flanked a metal door scarred with scratches and dents, its surface painted matte black. Their eyes tracked the two men, unblinking, unreadable.
"Hey guys, service for me and my brother.", Antonio said smoothly, flashing that easy grin he always wore when walking into danger.
One of the bouncers didn't move, didn't blink—his eyes locked on Stephen like he was trying to peel him apart layer by layer. The other slipped a phone from his pocket, the blue glow lighting up his face in the dim hallway. His thumb scrolled deliberately, pausing only once.
"Y'all not on the list.", Bouncer 1 said flatly, his voice low and heavy,
"Nah—I'm friends with the owner's son.", Antonio said confidently, his tone dripping with certainty,
"That don't mean shit.", Bouncer 2 snapped.
"OK, look—how 'bout you call him and tell him.", Antonio suggested smoothly, Both bouncers glanced at each other, a silent exchange passing between them like static.
"Alright.", Bouncer 1 rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. "But if you bullshitting—I'm gonna throw you out myself."
"Tell him, Big Anton is here.", Antonio said, his voice steady. "Wait here.", Bouncer 1 muttered, stepping inside.
The hinges groaned as the door cracked open. Warm light spilled out, along with the low hum of voices, muffled laughter, and the faint smell of expensive cigars. The door shut.
That left Stephen and Antonio standing under the cold gaze of Bouncer 2, who still hadn't blinked.
"You sure this is a good idea?", Stephen asked, his voice low and edged with concern.
Antonio didn't look at him—his eyes stayed locked on the metal door as if he could see through it. The smirk never left his face.
"Good idea?", Antonio repeated. "No. But the right one? Definitely."
Stephen exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've got a messed-up definition of 'right,' hermano."
The black door shifted again, opening wider this time. A burst of golden light spilled into the corridor, brighter now, revealing a glimpse of velvet curtains and the faint silhouette of people moving inside. Cigarette smoke curled out lazily, mixing with the sweet, sharp sting of whiskey in the air.
The bouncer stepped back through the doorway, his face unreadable. He gave Antonio one long, silent nod.
"Boss's son says you can enter.", bouncer 1 said.
Antonio turned to Stephen, his grin widening. "See? Told you.",
Stephen and Antonio stepped through the heavy door, and instantly the atmosphere transformed.
Gone was the raw, gritty chaos of the club below. Here, it was something darker—refined, yet villainous. A paradise for men who carried both money and danger in their pockets.
The room stretched wide, carved into sectors that each whispered luxury and vice. Multiple snooker tables glowed beneath hanging lamps, games unfolding with sharp clicks of ivory balls and quiet laughter. Strippers and hookers strutted across the floor in stilettos, weaving between tables, their movements rehearsed yet intoxicating.
At the center, a massive V.I.P. bar dominated the space. Its polished mahogany gleamed under soft amber light, stocked with bottles that looked as expensive as they smelled—cognac, whiskey, champagne, lined like trophies.
On the far right, a raised lounge wrapped in ornate railings shimmered in gold detail. Bouncers in tailored suits guarded the steps leading up, their eyes scanning the floor below. Behind them, men with heavy watches and heavier secrets leaned back in plush chairs, cigars smoldering between their fingers. Curvy women draped themselves across their laps like ornaments, laughing into their ears.
Smooth, slow jazz oozed through the air, an eerie counterpoint to the indulgence around them. It coated the room in something surreal, as if sin itself had a soundtrack.
Stephen and Antonio exchanged a look, both unspoken and uneasy. Neither knew what was about to unfold, but each felt it—the prophecy of something looming, heavy in their stomachs, crawling just beneath the surface.
This wasn't just another floor of the club. This was the heart of it.
352. SINISTER ROAD.
Kyalami Theaters. 9:20 pm
Tokyo, Michael, and Marcel lingered outside Kyalami Theaters, the glow of neon wrapping around them like an untamed current. Saturday night thrummed with life—streets packed shoulder to shoulder, car horns bleeding into laughter, and the giant billboards towering over Sinister Road blazing with promises of movies, drinks, and sins waiting to be bought.
From afar, skyscrapers cut into the sky, their lights bright enough to mimic a second dawn. Marcel shoved popcorn into his mouth, kernels crunching between his teeth. Beside him, Michael leaned into the shadows, taking a slow drag from his joint, smoke curling into the air like it belonged there.
Tokyo let out a sharp exhale, eyes cutting sideways at both of them. She rolled her eyes, but in the reflection of neon, it was clear—something heavier than annoyance lingered behind the gesture.
"Cain is a good merchant, but has horrible taste in movies.", Tokyo said plainly.
"Well, it was your idea to go watch a movie.", Marcel said with certainty, pointing at Tokyo with a greasy popcorn finger.
"[Scuffs] I'm still gonna pretend like you don't exist.", Tokyo shot back confidently.
"What did I do… to deserve this much disrespect?", Marcel's voice cracked, his chest tight with heartbreak.
"Existing.", Michael said nonchalantly.
"Well looks like Abigail is busy—she won't pick up her phone.", Tokyo said, eyes narrowing as she scrolled.
"Wasn't she with Kyle?", Michael asked, brow raised.
Tokyo scrolled back a bit on her phone. "Yeah… last time I saw both of them, they were at the park."
"Hmm… y'all on the same page as me?", Marcel asked, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Tokyo smirked. "Yeah—nope. Trust me, you don't wanna fall for a Jack."
"Fall for a with a Jack?", Michael repeated, brows knitting in confusion.
Tokyo gave him a look of mock pity. "Wow… you really don't know who Amanda Jack is? You must live under a rock."
Marcel let out a shaky laugh. "Oh, I know her… she's scary as fuck."
Tokyo rolled her eyes. "Please. Amanda's cool as fuck.", Then Tokyo's phone rang, cutting through the moment. She sighed, flashing a crooked smile. "Looks like my sped taxi's here."
"Damn… you weren't even gonna tell us you're leaving?", Michael said, his tone edged with disappointment.
Tokyo started toward her sped taxi. "Since Abigail's busy, I thought it'd be best if I went home."
Michael and Marcel stood frozen as Tokyo slipped into the backseat, gave her driver the details, and shut the door. Just before the car rolled away, she shot Michael a playful wink. Tokyo leaned back, already picturing her pillow—completely unaware that by the time she walked through her front door, she would find an uncle she never knew existed… and sleep could be the last thing on her mind.