Rafael had spent three days searching for the boy, yet found nothing. It was as if he were chasing a ghost—someone who didn't exist at all. Even when he asked customers at the family shop during his shifts, not a single person had seen the boy. The only thing he knew about the boy was that he had a scar on his neck.
An idea slipped into his mind. Memories of his time with the mafia resurfaced—missions, blood, shadows. There had been one assignment where he was told to track down a notorious underworld thief, a man who stole weapons from powerful cartels and sold them to their enemies. If Rafael could find that monster, then this boy couldn't stay hidden for long.
Nobody had ever seen the thief's face, so finding him was almost impossible—almost. But not for Jason. He set a trap: a crate filled with weapons, left out in the open like easy prey. The thief took the bait, and Jason caught him.
Now, as Rafael, he decided to use the same strategy.
The wanted poster claimed the boy was a skilled money thief. He'd stolen from the chief and even from the chief's son, slipping into their homes only when they were away. That pattern gave Rafael an opening—an opportunity he wasn't going to waste.
The day after tomorrow was the annual commemoration for the young men drafted into the army. He'll have to strike. He won't be able to resist this, Rafael thought as he sat alone in his shop.
The place was almost always empty now. Hardly any customers came by anymore—everyone in the village was too poor to afford much of anything.
That evening, Rafael made his way home, walking slowly along the quiet path. When he reached his door, he knocked once… then again.
No answer.
Rafael waited a few more seconds, listening for footsteps or a familiar voice. Nothing. A knot tightened in his chest. He tried the handle, and the door creaked open—the latch hadn't even been locked.
Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Too quiet. Then he saw her.
Sara, his mother, lay collapsed on the floor beside the small table. Rafael's breath caught, but he felt no shock. This wasn't the first time he had come home to find her like this.
"Sara…" he murmured softly, kneeling beside her.
With practised care, he slipped his arms beneath her frail body and lifted her. She was lighter than she'd been last month. Too light. Carrying her to the bed, he pulled the thin blanket over her and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her breathing was shallow, uneven.
The disease had been gnawing at her for months. No one knew what it was—Rafael didn't, and neither did the handful of doctors in the village. All they could offer were guesses, herbs, and sympathy. None of it helped.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his mother's pale face. She deserved better than this… better than a son who couldn't even afford proper treatment.
"I'll find a cure," he whispered, voice trembling. "I swear it. Whatever it takes."
And for that, he needed money. The thought of the wanted boy flashed in his mind again, sharper now, urgent. Catching him meant a reward. And a reward meant hope.
Rafael stood, fists tightening. He swore to catch the boy for her sake.
The day of the commemoration finally arrived.
Night had fallen over the village, casting long shadows across the narrow streets. Every villager had gathered in the town centre, each holding a lantern whose dim glow flickered against sorrowful faces. Mothers clutched each other, fathers stared at the sky, and the air was thick with whispered prayers to the gods—to protect the sons who had been taken by the draft.
Rafael watched from afar.
Draped in a black cloak, he blended into the night. A small knife lay hidden in his pocket, its familiar weight a silent reminder of his purpose. Below him, the villagers feasted halfheartedly, offering their final blessings before the ceremony began. Even the chief was present, moving solemnly among the crowd.
Rafael, however, wasn't there to mourn. He perched atop a tall tree at the edge of the village, high enough to see everything—from the town square all the way to the chief's large house.
His eyes scanned the darkness.
Minutes passed. Then more. Just when he began to wonder if the boy would strike elsewhere, a flicker of movement caught his eye near the chief's home. A shadow slipping through the doorway.
He couldn't see who it was—but he knew.
Rafael dropped from the tree, landing silently, and sprinted across the darkness. He kept to the edges of homes, avoiding torchlight, moving like smoke between buildings. Nobody noticed him—not with their attention fixed on the ceremony.
He reached the chief's house in under a minute.
Two guards lay sprawled at the entrance, blood pooling beneath their necks. Rafael's grip tightened around the knife. There was no turning back now.
He slipped inside.
The interior was chaos—furniture overturned, drawers ripped open, shelves ransacked. Footsteps echoed somewhere deeper in the house. Rafael moved silently, eyes scanning every shadow.
As he passed through the bed chambers, he froze.
There—standing in the middle of the room—was a boy no older than fourteen. A short sword hung at his side, stained red. In front of him, a girl knelt on the ground, trembling. She had blood smeared across her arms, her cheeks, her dress. Tears streamed down her face.
"Stop," Rafael commanded.
The boy turned sharply, eyes narrowing as he spotted Rafael in the doorway. "Who are you?" he asked, voice rough, guarded.
Rafael didn't answer. His gaze locked onto the jagged scar running down the boy's neck.
Target confirmed.
"Target acquired," Rafael muttered.
He lunged.
Steel flashed. The boy reacted instantly, snatching his short sword and meeting Rafael's charge with a fierce clash of metal and momentum. Sparks flew as blade met blade, knife against steel. Neither yielded an inch.