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Oɱɳιʂƈιҽɳƚ OƈƚσႦҽɾ 13ƚԋ Qυҽҽɳʂ, Nҽɯ Yσɾƙ
The role of a father to his son is one of the most sacred bonds in existence—a blueprint for how to walk through life, a guide in times of doubt, and a protector when the world becomes too harsh.
A father is meant to teach his son strength, compassion, resilience, humility, and how to stand firm in his convictions without losing himself in the process. He's supposed to be the example of what it means to be a man—someone to admire, emulate, and surpass in the best of ways.
But when that bond is twisted—when love is replaced with control, guidance with abuse, and protection with fear—it can become a cage rather than a foundation. The son grows, not into his father's pride, but into his greatest rival.
In the end, the goal is never to kill your father. A son should never be forced to pick up arms against the man who gave him life.
Yet here Xaier was, planning to do just that.
He sat in the dimly lit living room of his New York penthouse, the weight of his upcoming decision pressing down on him like a lead blanket.
Steven, Khalil, Dré, and Isaiah were seated around the room as well in support of their friend and his choices, all wearing varying expressions of seriousness. They weren't here for laughs or drinks. This was business—the kind that could get them all killed if it went sideways.
But they understood Xaier's motives more than anyone, and were willing to stay down for him no matter what because he'd undoubtedly do the same for them.
Xaier leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. His heart felt heavy in his chest, a mix of emotions churning inside him. As much as he despised his Rylo, part of him really still admired the man. Rylo was everything Xaier had once aspired to be: strong, in control, feared, and powerful. He was the king of their world, and for a long time, Xaier had wanted to sit on that same throne.
But admiration had its limits; and Rylo had crossed every one of them.
Xaier clenched his fists as memories resurfaced. He remembered being only eight years old again, standing in that freezing basement with tears streaming down his face. Rylo had handed him a gun and pointed to a man on his knees, bound and trembling, begging for his life. A grown man looking to a kid to spare him.
"Do it," Rylo had ordered his son, his voice void of emotion.
Xaier had hesitated, his small hands shaking as he held the weapon that was heavier than him, "I- I don't want to," Xaier had whispered, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his face.
Rylo, seeing these tears, scowled at his son and his hand came down hard across Xaier's cheek, sending him to the ground. "Stop crying!" he barked. "Men don't cry. You do what needs to be done, get your ass up and kill him." he sneered.
