For generations, the Chandlers were bound to the law. We served it, upheld it, and died for it. Ours was a duty, an unyielding devotion to justice, until Christian.
Christian Chandler, the youngest of the infamous Chandler siblings, wasn't just a spy—he was a legend whispered about in hushed tones, a shadow cast long and dark over both allies and enemies. In a family renowned for precision and control, Christian was the anomaly, the black flame that burned too brightly, too fiercely, and with a hunger that devoured all in his path.
His brilliance was undeniable, his skill unmatched. But his fire didn't just illuminate; it consumed. What Christian began could not be stopped, like a blaze that feeds on oxygen, growing wilder and more destructive with every breath.
And when that relentless inferno met the volatile gasoline coursing through my mother's veins, it wasn't just sparks that flew—it was an explosion. For the first time in our proud lineage, the Chandlers—long heralded as defenders of the law, the watchful sentinels of justice—crossed a line.
Christian didn't just challenge the rules; he shattered them, leaving behind a legacy of scorched earth and shattered oaths. The Chandlers had become something darker, something ruthless.
And when that fire spread, it gave rise to us—my six brothers and myself—a generation forged in its heat and tempered by its fury.
The fire shaped us, molded us, and when we came of age, it burned away whatever innocence we might have had. We did not defend the law; we danced on its edges, bending it, breaking it, reshaping it to suit our needs.
Where others sought control, we thrived in unpredictability. Where others sought peace, we waged wars of cunning and violence.
We did not ask for this legacy, but we embraced it. Because when you are born of fire, there is no running from the heat. There is only the choice to let it consume you—or to wield it.
And wield it we did.
I woke to the sensation of eyes watching me. It wasn't just a feeling; it was a force, heavy and suffocating. My skin prickled under the weight of their gazes, sharp and unrelenting. Slowly, I pried my eyes open, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me like a lead blanket. The dim light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains painted the room in muted tones of blue and shadow. My surroundings came into focus—the ornate, high ceilings, the intricate patterns carved into the wood paneling.
