Chapter Five Nathan

Now that dinner was over, it was time for business.

As Lily and Justin's car rolled away into the night, I turned back to the house that doubled as a well-disguised fortress. Mom's voice cut through the still evening air, "Nathan, Alex, you boys need anything before I head up?"

"Goodnight, Ma," I said, catching the glance she shot toward Ba. It was that look—a silent conversation in a fleeting exchange—that told me this wasn't just any other night.

"Night," Alex muttered, more to the ground than to her.

"Goodnight, Evelyn," Ba said, his tone flat, dismissive almost, as if the mother of his children were no more than another soldier asking for orders.

I hated him sometimes…but I supposed that was the price you paid to have an entire criminal organization respect you, bow down to you.

I would have to be like him one day.

We watched her ascend the staircase, her figure disappearing from view—and with it, any pretense of normalcy. As soon as her footsteps faded, Ba gestured wordlessly towards the basement. The change in atmosphere was like walking from a warm room into the chill of a winter's night.

The library loomed ahead, rows of books hiding truths far bloodier than any fiction they contained. Dad moved with purpose, fingers dancing over a panel hidden in the wall. I knew what was coming, but the anticipation twisted my gut all the same.

A soft click, and the bookcase slid aside with mechanical precision, revealing the staircase leading to our family's darkest secrets. As we descended, a metallic tang hit my nostrils.

Blood. Fresh blood.

The stench of iron hit me like a fist as we entered the room—a sterile grey chamber that stood in stark defiance of any semblance of humanity. My father's domain, where he played god and devil in equal measure. Blood spattered the walls and pooled beneath the chair at the center, a grisly testimony to the violence that preceded our arrival.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, the sight yanking at my insides. The man—no more than a ragged bundle of meat and tattered clothes now—was so bloodied and beaten, his features were lost to the crimson mask that covered him. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, the sound drowned out by the room's eerie silence.

He was awake.

He had to be in a hell of a lot of pain.

Alex leaned against the wall beside the stairs, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He'd seen this too many times to be moved by it anymore, but the indifference on his face made my skin crawl, even if I knew I wore the same mask. We'd been allowed to go to college, sure—but I'd killed for the first time at eighteen, seen my first body at twelve.

That was life in the Serpents.

Ba approached the hunched figure, rolling up his sleeves with clinical detachment. The man's whimpers crescendoed into panicked gasps as the Serpent neared, the air thick with dread.

"Who is he?" I asked, my voice steady despite the chaos roiling within.

Ba stopped beside the chair, looking down at the mess of a man. "The cook from our takeout spot. He locked up last night before the place went up in flames."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "One of ours..."

I trailed off, letting my father and Alex draw their own conclusions. Killing our own people wasn't the best method for keeping people's loyalty; things were dire for Ba to resort to this.

"Was one of ours," Ba corrected coldly. "He's not family, not after what happened. He's just another loose end now."

My gut churned, and for a moment, the lines between right and wrong blurred. But here, in the underworld we called home, there was no room for such moral quandaries. My father had made that much clear.

The cook's rambling pleas filled the sterile room as his eyes darted wildly, seeking an escape that didn't exist. The Serpent's voice sliced through the tension with a casual brutality that made my blood run cold. "I thought I'd bring the Serpent's Fang to pay you a visit," he said.

The man's gaze snapped to me, terror blooming in his eyes. They knew the name—the Fang—whispered like a curse by those who feared the finality it promised. In that moment, I could see the reflection of the monster they believed me to be.

And I wore that face, leaned into it…became it.

"Tell me what you know," I commanded, my tone devoid of any warmth I might show outside these walls. My hands moved with a precision honed by years of dark deeds, picking up the bloodstained tools laid out like a surgeon's instruments.

The man's breath hitched, body trembling as he spat out broken fragments of information in hurried, frantic Mandarin. "I don't—I swear! It wasn't me!"

"Who then?" I insisted, pressing the cold metal against his bruised cheek, drawing forth another crimson line that joined the macabre artwork already adorning his flesh.

"Names," I growled. "Give me something, or this won't end well for you."

He choked on his sobs, words tumbling out between the ragged breaths. "I don't know, please…I just heard them talk about a rat, someone inside!"

I searched his face, looking for any flicker of deceit. His pain was real, but so was my duty—to protect our empire, to sniff out betrayal. Bloodied and bound, he was reduced to nothing more than a means to an end, a message to those who would dare cross the Golden Serpents.

"Remember everything," I ordered, letting the menace seep into each word. "Every face, every whisper. Your life depends on it."

Ba watched from the shadows, nodding slightly as if approving the transformation before him. The family man had vanished into the night, leaving only the enforcer, the deadly edge of a criminal dynasty. Blood coated my hands, a stark reminder of what I'd become. I stood back and stared at the man tied to the chair, his life hanging by a thread as thin as the blade I had just laid down. His gasps were shallow, eyes wide with the terror of the inevitable.

"Please," he rasped, words barely audible over the ringing silence in the sterile room.

I leaned in close, my voice devoid of warmth. "You've given me nothing. No names, no leads. You're useless to us."

A shiver ran through him, and even in his broken state, he understood what came next. He'd seen it in my eyes—the void where mercy once might have lived.

"Sorry," I muttered, not because I meant it but because it seemed like what you're supposed to say before you take a life. It's not something they teach you—how to feel or what to say. They just show you how to end things quickly, efficiently.

My hand didn't tremble as I drew the pistol from my waistband. This was the part of me that scared people—the part that didn't flinch, didn't hesitate.

The Fang.

The cook's eyes found mine one last time, a silent plea echoing in the depths of his gaze. But my heart was a fortress, impenetrable, cold steel forged through years of darkness.

"Nothing personal," I said, as if the cliché could somehow distance me from the act.

The sound of the gunshot echoed in the room, a final punctuation to the grim narrative of the evening. His body slumped, a life extinguished in an instant, and I felt that familiar emptiness settle in my chest.

"Clean this up," Ba commanded, his voice cutting through the aftermath. Alex moved to obey without protest, accustomed to the shadows we cast.

I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving behind the blood, the tools, and the remnants of another soul lost to the streets of San Francisco.

Just another night for Nathan Fangs Zhou.