"THE SHADOW SYNDICATE" (Under Editing)

Chapter 1

"His pov".....
My first night of freedom since jail, and I'm already haunted by the devil I know. It's strange how even hell can become a familiar comfort. The whiskey in my glass swirls like the chaos in my mind, amber reflections of the tangled thoughts I can't shake. As I sift through my notes, the restlessness gnaws at me—this outside world doesn’t fit right anymore. It's like a suit that no longer fits, too stiff, too tight. I can’t breathe.

Impulse drives me to the nightclub. Maybe the noise, the crowds, will drown out the disquiet in my head. I grab my keys, the metal cool in my hand, and step into the night. My car’s engine hums in the silence, the only sign of life on an otherwise dead road. Everything feels emptier, colder—like time stood still while I was locked away, but now it’s rushing to catch up, leaving me behind.

I park and stride into the club, the bass thumping through the floor like a heartbeat. It doesn’t take long before he finds me.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or is this real?" Walker’s voice is smooth, like the liquor he swirls in his glass.

"So, you're here, drowning your nights away," I remark, the dryness in my tone barely concealing the bite underneath.

"What can I say? Things haven’t been the same since you’ve been gone," he smirks, a flicker of the old camaraderie flashing between us—a ghost of what once was.

"Knowing you, Walker, I doubt that," I shoot back, a smirk tugging at my lips, though it feels foreign now, like wearing a mask I haven’t used in years.

"Your goons not glued to your hip tonight?" he probes, his eyes darting around, searching for familiar faces that aren’t there.

I shrug, brushing off his question. "Mmm. Where's Liora?" My voice betrays nothing, though inside, a dull ache stirs—resentment buried deep, masked by indifference.

"Ah, well, she’s in my bed, keeping it warm," he boasts, his grin sharp, cutting through the lingering threads of whatever friendship we once shared.

"So she hopped to you," I reply flatly, swallowing the bitter taste of betrayal that rises in my throat. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deep the wound runs.

"Well, she couldn’t resist this greatness, now could she?" His arrogance is suffocating, filling the space between us.

"Mmm, you could say that," I concede, keeping my tone neutral, though my mind churns with thoughts unspoken, emotions suppressed.

"How about this—we forget the past and call it even?" he suggests, raising an eyebrow, a challenge laced with provocation.

"Even?" I echo, my skepticism sharpening the word, arching my brow as I weigh his offer.

"Yeah, come on, let’s toast to you coming home," Walker proposes, the challenge still in his eyes, daring me to let go, to pretend everything’s fine.

I study him, the lines on his face, the way his eyes never quite meet mine. He’s a mask I can’t read anymore, and that unsettles me. "Let’s do it," I finally agree with a nod, the words slipping out, and together we head to the bar, sealing this precarious truce with a drink.

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"The Next Day"....

The alarm drags me from restless dreams, and I spring out of bed, driven by a need to reassert control. My usual morning exercise routine is a blur, each movement mechanical, the rhythm of my punches against the bag a beat that keeps my thoughts in line. Afterwards, I dash into the bathroom, the cold water a shock to my system, forcing me awake.