Innocent Until Found Dead

Chapter Sixteen

"In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity." –Sun Tzu from The Art of War

The leader of the Scorpion gang had been a sharp, calculating man people called the Havoc Viper. He was a legend in the town of Riverford—a man who could read a room like a book and bend people to his will without breaking a sweat. But even he, with all his experience and power, had never encountered someone quite like Saint.

Saint was only thirteen when Havoc first noticed him. It was at one of the dingy bars his uncle frequented, a place thick with the stench of beer and bad decisions. Saint had been dragged along because his uncle liked to parade him around as a way to deflect attention from his own misdeeds. That night, Havoc happened to be sitting in the corner booth, observing the room with the kind of detached authority that made people instinctively wary of him.

What caught Havoc's eye wasn't the way Saint moved through the room, trying to stay out of his uncle's reach—it was the way Saint watched. Quietly, unassumingly, but with a sharpness that belied his age. His dark eyes moved from one patron to the next, catching the tension in an argument before it erupted. He read the lies in the bartender's polite smile, anticipating the moment his uncle would get too drunk and too angry.

Havoc saw himself in the boy. And when Saint's uncle stumbled toward Havoc's booth, spouting some drunken challenge, Saint stepped in. The boy didn't raise his voice or try to fight; he simply looked at Havoc, his expression calm but knowing, and said, "Don't waste your time on him. He's just mad because he's broke and alone."

It wasn't a plea or an excuse—it was a statement delivered with the kind of detached confidence that caught Havoc off guard. The boy wasn't afraid. He wasn't defiant, either. He was simply... certain.

The drunk man's bloodshot eyes immediately narrowed, and with a staggering step, he grabbed Saint by the back of his neck, his grip rough and unsteady, as he yanked him closer.

"Watch your mouth, boy!" his uncle snarled, his rancid breath scorching Saint's face. The bar went silent, the murmurs of conversation fading into nothing as all eyes turned their way. His uncle's fingers dug into Saint's neck like a vice, forcing his head down until they were almost nose-to-nose. "You think you're better than me?" he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "You're nothing without me, you hear me? A worthless little punk. You think anyone else would've taken you and that runt of a sister in when your daddy bailed on you? You're lucky I kept either of you from rotting in the street." His sneer deepened, the malice in his voice thick as he spat out, "You'd do well to remember who's kept you fed and alive, boy, because no one else would. You know nothing."

Saint barely wavered. His body stayed firm, his expression unflinching. His dark eyes locked on his uncle's with a calm intensity that was almost unnerving. "I know enough," he said, his voice quieter now but laced with something sharper. "I know you're not worth the fight."

"Keep talking like that," his uncle spat, pointing a wavering finger at him. "You'll end up just like me. Broke. Alone. A nothing."

Saint's lips curled into a faint, humorless smirk, but he didn't say anything else. He just turned his head slightly, letting his gaze shift to Havoc, who was watching the scene unfold with quiet intrigue.

This battered boy, clad in baggy clothes with his hair an untamed mess, had a spark in him—a defiant fire that burned through the bruises. There was a fearlessness about him, raw and untamed, the kind of courage rarely seen in kids beaten down by life the way he had been.

Havoc leaned back in his seat, a dark amusement tugging at his lips. "You've got guts, kid," he said, his voice breaking the tension in the room. "That's rare."