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The city never slept—it stayed awake out of fear. Towers of chrome and glass loomed over slums that bled neon. Crime wasn't a problem here. It was tradition. The streets belonged to gangs, but the throne? That had once belonged to one man.
George.
No one knew his real name. To some, he was a myth. To others, a monster. To three orphans… he was home.
George didn't raise kids. He trained weapons. When the state looked away, when the city turned to rot, he picked up the pieces the world threw away—Freddy, Mathew, and Elsa.
He found them broken. Abandoned. Starving. But when he looked into their eyes, he didn't see weakness. He saw fire.
Freddy was the loudmouth. Charismatic. Quick with a joke and quicker with a blade.
Mathew was the silent one. Built like a freight train. Anger issues? Understatement. But loyalty? Unmatched.
Elsa? The youngest, the coldest. She read people like code. She didn't speak unless it mattered. And when she did—people listened. Or bled.
They weren't his blood, but they were his legacy.
And then, out of nowhere…
He vanished.
No note. No goodbye. Just a body, burned beyond recognition, discovered by the Anti-Crime Division in a stolen government vehicle. A gun in one hand, a silver cross in the other—the same cross George always wore.
The city went quiet. Every gang held its breath. Whispers spread faster than bullets.
"George is dead."
The siblings didn't cry. They didn't hold a funeral. They didn't mourn. No… they hunted.
Mathew punched through a wall when the news hit.
Elsa hacked into the city's surveillance system within hours.
Freddy… Freddy laughed. "If this is a game, somebody just played the wrong move."
The police tried to investigate. But Neo-Calicut's finest knew better. You don't investigate George.
You pray he stays dead.
But the George kids?
They didn't pray.
They loaded their guns.
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End of Chapter 1.