The Sixty
- LECTURES 57
- Votes 1
- Chapitres 5
Contenu pour adultesEn cours d'écriture40m
Dernière publication lun., mai 6, 2024
After the decay, all professions of protection and policing became mercenary work. Perhaps they always were. Keeping with that tradition, we chase compensation where it is promised.
We the company, being only ten winters old, are a young mob. We carry only three rules by whcich to live utmost. First, we are Sixty, and no more. Second, a man's service is Sixty years, and no more. Last and the most grave, no one here cares who you used to be.
Our reputation is mixed, but known. Our tactics are haphazard, yet effective. We bear the symbol of the three legged coyote. Somewhere, behind, lie the traps that contain a piece of which we were all willing to leave behind.
If we did not we would be dead.
Tous Droits Réservés
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Let me tell you my story, the one about how I died. Don't worry, though. I came back. They say when someone shares their story, they're sharing their burden. Seeking someone to help carry the weight that bends their shoulders, hoping their troubles will float away like helium balloons into the endless sky. Your silence becomes their sanctuary, a vacuum they fill with dust-covered memories. If you speak, do it gently - a nod, a smile, the ghost of a touch on their shoulder. But my story? It's different. It carved its path because trust becomes a luxury I could no longer afford. How could it not, when the one person who swore to never betray me did exactly that? The one who promised never to hurt me, broke me. The one who vowed to stay, walked away. So tell me, why trust anyone else when the person I trusted the most killed me in every way but physical? Until they managed that too. They say the most dangerous predators are the ones who look like prey. I learned this truth through split knuckles and shattered promises, through blood on my tongue and threats whispered against skin. Through playing weak while gathering my strength in darkness. Now I watch him, this self-proclaimed hunter in his own game. He doesn't see he's just another piece being moved across someone else's board. The mafia's golden prince, they whisper. If only they knew what lurks beneath that polished veneer. What dances behind those eyes that mirror the shadows I know so well. But shadows? They're born from fire. And somewhere out there, someone's striking matches, leaving black roses on cooling ashes, drawing closer with every corpse that falls. They call him Pyro. And when that name drops in a room. Well, let's just say I'm not the only one with secrets worth killing for. Some demons wear designer suits. Some victims wear crowns. And some fires are worth burning for. Welcome to the game. Trust no one. Not even me.
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