Xavier Clarke and Victoria Jones had been inseparable since childhood, their bond forged through years of friendship and the peculiar lives they were born into. Their parents, once notorious figures in the underworld, were not typical mafias. They lived by their own moral code, targeting only those who harmed others. It was a twisted sense of justice—killing the wicked to protect the innocent—but it was their way, and the children grew up understanding this strange duality.
Despite their families' dark dealings, neither Xavier nor Victoria were corrupted by it. They carried no malice, just an understanding of a different kind of world.
One afternoon, as they walked home from school, Victoria glanced at Xavier, her best friend since childhood.
"Xav, do you want to come over to my house?" she asked casually.
He nodded, and together they headed to her house, a place that had always felt like a second home to him. When they arrived, Xavier dropped onto the familiar couch, stretching out.
"You want a soda?" Victoria offered as she made her way to the kitchen.
"Yeah, sure," he called back, relaxing.
As Victoria rounded the corner into the kitchen, her heart stopped. There, on the cold tile floor, lay her father—his lifeless body surrounded by a pool of crimson. The air felt thick and heavy, almost suffocating, as her world came crashing down.
"Dad!" she screamed, her voice breaking with disbelief and terror.
Xavier jolted up from the couch at the sound of her scream and rushed to the kitchen, only to find Victoria frozen, her wide eyes locked on the horrific scene in front of her. Before she could approach her father's body, Xavier pulled her into his arms, his embrace tight, shielding her from the sight.
"I'm here. I'm here," he whispered, his voice steady, though inside he was reeling. He couldn't let her break down, not yet.
Victoria sobbed into his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt as she clung to him, desperate for something solid in the chaos. When she finally pulled away, her hands trembling, her face was streaked with tears.
Xavier pulled out his phone, dialing 911 with shaking hands. The police arrived quickly, combing through the house for clues. They asked questions, gathered evidence, but days turned into weeks, and still, they had no answers. The killer remained a ghost in the shadows.
Victoria's mind was consumed by a singular question: Who killed my father?
She became more and more withdrawn, the weight of the mystery pressing down on her until it was all she could think about. One evening, as she walked home through a quiet, dimly lit alley, the familiar question echoed in her mind.
Who killed him? she thought again, her fists clenched at her sides. Her father might not have been an innocent man, but he didn't deserve this—no one in their world did, not when they played by their twisted set of rules.
She pulled out her phone, her fingers hovering over Xavier's contact. She needed his voice, his presence, anything to ground her.
"Xavi," she whispered when he picked up.
"Where are you?" His voice was urgent, as if he already sensed something was wrong.
"I'm at..." she began, but before she could finish, a rough hand covered her mouth, and she felt herself being yanked backward. The phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the ground.
"Victoria! Victoria!" Xavier shouted, his voice filled with panic on the other end.
A low, unfamiliar voice came through the line. "Victoria is not available at this time."
