There are very few people in this world who can walk toward me without triggering every instinct I've spent a lifetime sharpening.
My brother is one of them.
Even now — after years, after distance, after betrayals we never dared name — watching him approach my vehicle stirs an old ache in my chest, one I haven't felt in a long time.
Because once, a long time ago, that same man walking toward me now…
was the only person who made me feel safe.
A strange memory comes rushing back with vicious clarity, uninvited.
A memory I haven't touched in years.
I let it wash over me.
Memory
The training yard was cold that morning.
Sharp wind sweeping sand into my eyes.
Gunpowder still clinging to the air from the last round of practice.
I remember being sixteen — old enough to understand the weight of a gun, young enough to hate everything about it. I remember the ache in my wrists, the ringing in my ears, the heaviness of expectation pressing against my skull like hands trying to mold me into something I didn't want to become.
My father's voice still echoes in my head:
"Again. Again, Michael. Until silence becomes your enemy."
Silence.
My only friend.
I lowered the gun, exhausted. My palms stung. My heart hammered. I tasted metal, bitterness, and fear — not fear of the weapon, but fear of what it meant. Of what it demanded from me.
And then I saw him — J — standing a few meters away, leaning against a wall with that infuriatingly calm posture he always had. As though nothing in this world could shake him. As though he was immune to Father's pressure, immune to the violence we were raised in.
His eyes softened the moment he saw my face.
"Little bro," he called out, pushing himself off the wall and walking toward me, "you're gripping the gun like it's poison."
"It might as well be," I muttered.
He chuckled — a low, warm sound that I used to find comforting. "You always were dramatic."
"It's not drama," I snapped, lowering my voice as Father's guards lingered nearby. "I don't want this life, J. I don't want guns or blood or… any of this. I just want a quiet life. Quiet business. No killing. No noise."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think any of us get to choose our lives?"
"You do," I shot back. "You're the heir. You're the one trained for this. Father trusts you with everything. Why do I have to be dragged into this mess too?"
He sighed then, and for a long moment he just looked at me. Really looked. As if trying to understand a language he didn't speak but desperately wanted to.
I hated the frustration tight in my throat. The burn behind my eyes.
I hated how helpless I felt.
"Father wants me to kill someone, J," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Just to prove I can. He wants me to take a life for sport. What kind of madness is that?"
J stepped closer. His hand settled on my shoulder, firm and steady.
"You're not wrong," he said quietly. "He is going mad. And he's dragging us with him."
For the first time, I saw something in his eyes — something sharp, protective, furious.
"Listen to me," he said, tightening his grip. "You don't want this. You never have. And that's fine. That's good. You're kinder than me, Michael. Not softer — kinder. There's a difference."
I swallowed hard, unsure.
He continued, "Which is why I'll take the burden for you."
"What?"
"I'll do it," he said simply. "The killing. The dirty work. All of it. I'll shoulder what you can't. That's what big brothers do."
A small, startled breath escaped me.
"J… you can't—"
"I can," he cut in. "And I will."
My voice trembled. "He'll know. Father will know—"
"No, he won't," J whispered, leaning in, his eyes gleaming with mischief and danger. "Papa thinks you and I are interchangeable. Two pieces of the same gun. But he forgets I've always been smarter."
I frowned. "What are you planning?"
"A trick," he murmured. "Just a little trick to get him off your back. I'll handle the target. You'll fire the gun into the ground, pretend you missed. And I will get rid of the evidence before Father even steps outside."
I blinked, stunned. "You would… kill for me?"
He smirked. "I'm not as kind as you, little bro. Killing doesn't shake me like it shakes you. Let me carry this one. Let me carry all of them."
I felt a pressure in my chest — foreign, heavy, overwhelming.
"Why?" I whispered.
His expression softened in a way I rarely saw.
In a way that told me there were still pieces of him untouched by our father's darkness.
"Because you're my brother," he said simply. "And as long as I'm here, you'll never have to get blood on your hands."
For the first time that day, I breathed.
Really breathed.
And for a moment — a rare, fragile moment — the world felt safe.
Because J was next to me.
Because J was on my side.
Because J made promises and kept them.
Back then, I believed him.
Present
The memory fades with a slow exhale, dispersing into the night like smoke.
I feel Anna beside me, frozen stiff in her seat. She doesn't understand the storm she's sitting next to — both inside the car and walking toward it. Her breath trembles, barely audible, but I hear it. Her fingers curl around each other anxiously.
I don't take my eyes off J.
He stops a few feet from the hood of my car, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted like he's sizing up an old toy he's not sure he still wants.
Older.
Sharper.
Different, but familiar in all the dangerous ways.
His presence draws the attention of my men instantly — guns rise just a fraction higher, shoulders stiffen, eyes sharpen. They know enough to fear him, but not enough to understand him.
Anna shifts beside me.
I say nothing.
Because the moment I open my mouth, I lose something — even if just a fraction — and fractions matter in moments like this.
J smiles.
Not the warm smile from my memory.
Not the protective one.
Something else entirely. Something darker. Something amused.
"Long time, brother," he calls out.
My lips curl into a slow, measured smile.
Nothing ever fully surprises me anymore, but this… this comes close.
Unwanted, unplanned, and yet undeniably thrilling.
Because if J is here, after all these years, then the game I've been trying to avoid…
has finally begun.
Anna turns to me, her eyes wide with fear and confusion.
"Michael…" she whispers. "Who is that?"
I don't answer.
Not yet.
I simply open the door and step out into the night, letting the cold air bite at my skin, letting the tension tighten every muscle in my body.
The crowd of my men part instinctively, as if the universe itself knows better than to stand between two forces like us.
J's gaze never leaves mine.
I can still feel the echo of that memory — his hand on my shoulder, his promise to carry my burdens, his vow to protect me. And somewhere deep beneath the layers of power, ambition, and bloodshed we've accumulated since then… I know a part of that promise still exists.
But the years have changed him.
They've changed me.
And our reunion is not built on safety — but on the fragile line between loyalty and rivalry.
"Are you not going to say hello?" he asks, stepping closer.
I tilt my head, observing him the way a predator observes another predator.
"Hello, J."
His smile widens — satisfied, knowing, dangerous.
The city lights flicker across his features, painting him in sharp edges and shadows. He looks like a memory and a threat wrapped into one.
Behind me, Anna watches through the glass, hands pressed against her seat.
Concern.
Curiosity.
Fear.
All tangled into one.
She has no idea what I'm capable of.
She has no idea what he is capable of.
She has no idea what she's stepped into.
And as I face my brother for the first time in years, I realize something unsettling:
My life was already spiraling the moment Anna entered it.
But with J back…
Everything is about to get far more complicated.
Far more dangerous.
Far more interesting.
I take one step forward, meeting him in the center of the street as the night hangs heavy around us.
"Why are you here?" I ask quietly.
His answer is a slow, deliberate smile.
"Because, little brother…"
He leans in.
"…you're losing control."