THREE DAYS LATER

Run.

Phei's lungs were on fire, raw and shredded with every desperate gasp. His legs were lead weights soaked in acid, muscles tearing with each pounding step.

Blood poured from a gash above his eye, hot and thick, streaming down his face in sticky rivers that flooded his mouth with the metallic tang of iron when it seeped past his mangled lip—split open like overripe fruit, pulsing fresh crimson with every heartbeat.

Run. Don't stop. Don't think. Just fucking run.

His bare foot—ripped free sometime in that first savage ambush, when they'd hauled him kicking and screaming from the alley, boots smashing into ribs until he broke loose—crashed down on jagged concrete.

Shards of glass and rebar bit into his sole, agony exploding up his leg like a lightning bolt, nearly buckling his knee.

The other foot, still trapped in that one ridiculous high-end sneaker Sierra had teased him about, slipped on loose gravel slick with his own blood.

He slammed into a crumbling wall to stay upright, chest convulsing in heaving sobs for air that wouldn't come.

For one agonizing second, he was frozen there in the gloom of a gutted building, fingers clawing at the rough brick, scraping skin raw as he fought to drag oxygen into lungs that felt collapsed and drowned in blood.

His reflection leered back from a fractured window—shattered glass framing a nightmare.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He looked like a corpse dragged through hell.

His cheek was a bloated, purple-black mass, skin split open from the brass knuckles that had caved it in.

His lip hung in tatters, shredded and weeping blood in thick drops that splattered his chin.

His shirt—that overpriced designer rag Sierra had chosen for their date, their first real one beyond the penthouse walls—was ripped to shreds at the collar, soaked in grime and gore.

Blood.

His.

Splattered across the fabric like a butcher's apron, crusting in dark patches where fists and bats had torn into him.

His hands wouldn't stop trembling—fingers twitching like dying spiders, knuckles split and bleeding from the few desperate swings he'd landed.

When the fuck had that started?

Move, you idiot. Move or die.

He shoved off the wall, lurching forward, each step a brutal war between his mutilated body and the terror screaming in his skull.

The construction zone sprawled like a slaughterhouse maze—buildings half-torn apart, exposing rusted guts of rebar like broken bones; skeletal frames of new towers clawing at the sky amid piles of debris; heavy machinery left to rust over the weekend.

This wasteland was earmarked for the academy's shiny expansion.

Soon, it'd be gleaming halls and pristine lawns.

Tonight, it was an abattoir.

And he was the bleeding quarry.

"OVER HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

The roar erupted from behind—too goddamn close, boots thundering on rubble—and Phei's body surged on pure animal panic. He bolted.

Not north, toward the academy. They'd sealed that off in the opening frenzy, corralling him like a wounded animal headed to the kill floor, driving him deeper into isolation. The main campus was half a mile away, but every feint that direction brought more shadows swarming out, cutting him off with snarls and swinging steel.

Seven of them.

Masked in black, faces hidden like executioners. Baseball bats gripped tight, studded with nails in some cases—he'd felt those teeth rip into his side during the first swarm.

Not street trash.

Not random sadists.

This was a ritual. Orchestrated. A pack hunt with choreographed cruelty.

The Seven Legacies.

The name burned in his mind as he dove between rusted shipping containers, flattening himself into the choking darkness, clamping down on breaths that came out wet and ragged, tasting of blood and vomit.

The seven of the ancient families of Paradise. The architects of this gilded cage, lording over it like gods. Their spoiled spawn—the Legacy brats—had owned Ashford Elite long before Phei crashed their party. Brett. Derek. Danton. The rest of the pack.

He'd seen the venom building. The predatory stares in hallways. Whispers dying like cut throats when he walked in.

Brett's smirks turning to something feral, promising dismemberment.

He'd been reckless.

Climbing too high, too visible, flaunting his rise.

But Sierra's smile had blinded him. Maya's chaos had tangled his focus. And the system's whispers of dominance had drowned out the primal truth: Apex predators gut challengers before they can bare fangs.

"Found the fucker's shoe—it's got blood all over it!"

Closer now. Fifteen feet? Boots scraping, voices hungry.

"He bolted this way! Into the containers—flush him out!"

Fuck. Fuck.

Hiding was suicide. They'd circle, probe, beat the shadows until he bled out screaming. Numbers, radios, familiarity with every choke point—they owned this ground.

His only shot was motion. Evasion. Pray for a tear in their circle, endurance to outbleed their bloodlust, some sliver of escape.

But the path they herded him down...

Past this killing field, beyond the last rotting husks, sprawled the Derek family estate. Ancient wealth. Iron gates and endless acres bordering the academy like a fortress surveying serfs.

That's the altar.

The seven masked wolves? Mere hounds to drive the prey.

The real butchers waited there—lounging in leather chairs, sipping whiskey, eyes glued to live feeds as he staggered and bled for their amusement.

Not tonight. Not like this.

Phei exploded from cover.

Weaving through containers like a ghost. Vaulting rubble that tore fresh gashes in his palms. Melting into every pool of shadow, drawing on old instincts from days of being nothing—invisible, hunted, helpless.

Back then, he'd been powerless meat.

Now?

Now he was armed with rage, but still outnumbered, outgunned, and leaking life from a dozen wounds.

His burner phone—that battered old relic he'd carried to shield the real one—was gone. Yanked away in the initial mauling, when they'd swarmed him in the alley, fists and boots raining down in a storm of cracks and grunts. He'd managed to wipe it first—thumb smashing the kill switch amid the chaos, erasing everything as they dragged him toward the real carnage.

Tiny mercy.

But no signal for help. No beacon. No cry to the world.

Sierra...

The thought knifed deeper than any bat—twisting in his guts, worse than the cracked ribs grinding with every breath.

She'd been radiant tonight. Buzzing with nerves and joy for their date. That upscale spot she'd chosen—reservations months out, menu prices that once would've mocked his old life. Hours primping, twirling in dresses, begging his honest take with that shy grin.

And he'd abandoned her.

Muttered some lie about meeting Brett quick. Personal shit. Back in an hour.

Four hours.

She'd be frantic now. Pacing. Calling. Imagining the worst.

While he ran for his life, bleeding out in the dark.

I'm sorry, Sierra. I'm so fucking sorry.

Another shout. Closer.

Phei ran.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.