Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" filled the room, its mournful notes slicing through the stillness as Alice Creed worked tirelessly, her hands moving with practiced care. Silas lay motionless, his green eyes half-lidded, staring at the ornate ceiling as the familiar weight of her touch grounded him. The melody's deliberate rhythm seemed to echo her persistence, each note rising and falling in tandem with her steady efforts to keep his body from surrendering entirely. He couldn't feel the full extent of her movements, but he knew exactly what she was doing: shifting him, adjusting his shoulders, rotating his legs—all to prevent the bedsores and further atrophy that had become their constant enemy over the past two years.
The music filled the room like a balm, but it couldn't erase the memories that came unbidden. The crash was always there, lurking in his mind. The offer Alexander had made still echoed sharply: "Take the car." His golden blond hair catching the sun, the keys spinning through the air as they landed in Silas's hands. Rebecca's teasing voice, her grin, her words— "Don't worry, Silas. You won't break it. It's made for speed." And Silas, fifteen and eager to feel the rumble of the Lamborghini's engine beneath him, had said yes. He wasn't reckless, but he hadn't been able to resist either.
But that memory would wait. It had started, after all, as any other day—sparring with Axle.
At fifteen, Silas was already well-trained, having spent five years under the brutal and unrelenting tutelage of Axle, a man whose presence was as imposing as his reputation. Of Native American descent, Axle carried his heritage in every inch of his being, his sharp, angular features seeming carved from stone. His high cheekbones and square jawline gave him an almost statuesque presence, though the weathered lines etched into his dark skin softened the impression, hinting at years of trials and survival. A faint scar sliced across his left eyebrow, adding a predatory sharpness to his already piercing gaze. Axle's eyes—black as polished obsidian—held an intensity that saw through lies, fears, and pretense, cutting to the truth like a blade.
His body was a testament to decades of discipline and survival. Broad shoulders sloped into a thick, barrel-like chest, and his powerful, sinewy arms were lined with veins that seemed to pulse with energy. His hands were large, their palms rough and calloused from a lifetime of combat and labor. They looked as though they could snap necks or crush rocks, though Silas knew firsthand how they could also wield precision—striking with a force that was calculated, measured, and devastating. Tattoos marked his forearms, tribal geometric designs that spoke of his heritage. Silas had never asked about them; Axle's past was a thing of shadows, and he preferred it that way.
Axle kept his straight black hair cropped close on the sides, though streaks of silver wove through the longer strands on top, a subtle badge of age and experience. His clothing was simple—always practical. Black tactical shirts that stretched over his muscular frame, paired with cargo pants and combat boots that seemed to carry the weight of countless miles. Everything about him, from his clothing to his movements, exuded readiness. He walked as though every step could lead into a fight and carried himself with an air of control that bordered on predatory.
Axle had been hesitant to train Silas when he was just ten years old. "I'm not some after-school karate teacher," he had said, his gravelly voice a growl of disinterest as he crossed his arms over his chest. He had stood like a wall of stone, unflinching as Silas pitched his offer. Axle had been hired as head of security for the Creed estate—reluctantly, Silas suspected—and his reputation was impeccable. Silas had done his research: Axle was a former black ops operative, a man whose record had been wiped clean by classified missions and redacted files. He was someone who had seen the worst the world had to offer and had lived to come out the other side. That was exactly what Silas wanted.
It had taken more than persistence to win Axle over. Silas had doubled his salary, added a ten-year employment contract, and sweetened the deal with a one-year trial period for training. "If I quit, you keep the raise," Silas had said, mirroring Axle's stance. The offer had been practical, transactional—the language Axle respected. Axle had finally grunted his agreement. "If you're soft, kid, don't waste my time."
Silas quickly learned that Axle never wasted time either. Unlike the polished instructors who had taught him before—men with perfect stances and clean-cut techniques—Axle brought something far more dangerous to the table. He didn't teach Silas how to fight. He taught him how to survive. Every lesson was a grueling test, every sparring match designed to strip away weaknesses and push him past his limits. Axle drilled him on exploiting vulnerabilities, ending fights fast, and making decisions with brutal precision. There was no room for hesitation.
"Real fights aren't pretty," Axle had said one day, his voice low but firm as he adjusted Silas's stance. "You want to win? End it before it starts."
It wasn't unusual for sessions to leave Silas battered and bleeding. One time, Axle had broken Silas's nose during a sparring match. The pain had been immediate, sharp and overwhelming, but Axle hadn't stopped. "Get up," he had growled. Silas, blood dripping down his face, had grinned through the pain and pushed himself to his feet. Axle had nodded once, a flicker of approval crossing his stoic face.
Fighting wasn't just training for Silas; it was freedom. It was the only place where the chaos of his world fell away, replaced by clarity and control. Some days, he wished life could have been simpler. Maybe he could have gone into MMA, let the world see him for his strength rather than the empire he ran from the shadows. But life wasn't simple, and Axle had reminded him of that with every strike, every lesson, every broken bone.
That morning had been like any other. Silas had woken early, eager for the familiar grind of conditioning and sparring. He could still remember the heat of the gym, the rhythmic sound of fists hitting pads, the occasional bark of Axle's instructions. By the time the session had ended, his muscles ached, and his skin gleamed with sweat. But he was alive, every fiber of his being humming with energy.
After his morning workout with Axle, Silas's muscles ached with the familiar burn of exertion. His ribs stung faintly where Axle's relentless strikes had landed, but he welcomed the pain—it reminded him he could endure. Axle drove him to Alexander and Rebecca's mansion in silence, the black SUV gliding smoothly along the tree-lined roads. Silas leaned back in the seat, replaying the sparring session in his mind. He could still feel the rush of adrenaline when he landed a clean hit, even though Axle had immediately countered with twice the force.
The twins' mansion was smaller than the sprawling Creed estate but still grand in its sleek modern design. Built of glass, stone, and steel, it reflected their polished, glamorous image. The sun glinted off the metallic silver Lamborghini parked out front, its low, aggressive profile impossible to ignore. Silas's gaze lingered on the car for a moment before Alexander stepped out of the house to greet him.
"Finally!" Alexander called out, his golden blond hair shining in the midday sun. He leaned casually against the mansion's glass doors, wearing a perfectly tailored navy blazer over a crisp white shirt. His piercing blue eyes crinkled with amusement as he smirked. "Thought you'd keep us waiting all day."
Rebecca appeared beside him, her strides confident and purposeful. Her golden hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her tailored jumpsuit hugged her figure in a way that exuded both elegance and power. Her blue eyes, identical to Alexander's, carried a spark of playfulness as she glanced at Silas. "We've been busy prepping for hours. Come on, Silas, you're late to the show."
Silas gave a small nod, adjusting the strap of his bag as Axle parked and stepped out. The twins led him into their sleek living room, where several assistants and brand managers were already seated, their laptops and tablets spread out on the glass coffee table. This wasn't unusual—Alexander and Rebecca were the faces of his empire, and every week brought another campaign, another meeting, another chance to shape their image. Silas, who worked from the shadows, rarely sat in on these things, but today he'd been invited—not that he planned to say much.
After hours of sitting through the twins' brand meeting, Silas stretched his legs, the dull ache in his muscles from the morning sparring session with Axle lingering as a faint reminder. The meeting had been, as expected, a well-oiled production. Alexander and Rebecca had moved through the room with their usual effortless charisma, captivating the small crowd of brand managers, marketing consultants, and assistants. Silas had watched from the corner, seated in a low-slung leather chair, observing the way they commanded attention.
Alexander had been the smoother of the two, leaning into his easy charm, cracking jokes, and flashing disarming smiles that made everyone feel like they were in on a secret. Rebecca, on the other hand, was razor-sharp, her questions cutting through the fluff of proposals with precision. Her confidence was palpable, and she carried herself with a quiet authority that left no room for doubt. Together, they were magnetic—a force to be reckoned with, their contrasting energies perfectly balanced.
As the meeting wrapped up and the team began to disperse, Alexander clapped his hands together, drawing the room's attention. "Alright, everyone," he announced, grinning. "That's it for today. You all know what to do, so let's make it happen."
Rebecca smirked as she gathered her things, glancing at her brother. "We're done here, but we're not done. Three calls tomorrow, don't forget."
"Tomorrow's tomorrow," Alexander replied breezily, his grin widening as he turned to Silas. "But right now…" He gestured toward the back of the mansion, where the faint thrum of helicopter blades could already be heard through the glass walls. "My sister and I got a meeting in the city. And we're late."
The three of them moved toward the back patio as the sound of the helicopter grew louder, the sleek black aircraft landing neatly on the helipad. The wind from the blades whipped Rebecca's golden hair into her face as she glanced over her shoulder at Silas, her blue eyes gleaming with mischief. "I guess you'll have to entertain yourself while we're gone."
Alexander, already halfway up the steps to the helicopter, paused and turned back with a grin. "Or," he said, tossing something shiny and metallic through the air, "you could take the Lambo home."
The keys flew toward Silas, and he caught them instinctively, their cool weight settling into his palm. He glanced down at them, then up at the Lamborghini parked in the driveway out front, its metallic silver body gleaming like a trophy under the setting sun.
"Have fun," Alexander called over the roar of the helicopter blades, his grin widening. "Just don't wreck it."
Rebecca, standing by the helicopter's open door, leaned out with a teasing smile. "You've got this, Silas. It's made for speed." Her voice carried that playful challenge that Silas knew all too well, the kind that pushed him just far enough to make him act.
Silas felt the weight of Axle's presence behind him. Turning slightly, he caught the older man's gaze. Axle stood a few feet back, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes sharp and unreadable as they flicked between the car and Silas. He didn't say anything, but Silas could feel the disapproval radiating off him like heat. Axle never overstepped, never told him what to do unless it was life or death, after all his job was security. But in that moment, Silas knew Axle didn't like this.
For a moment, Silas hesitated, his fingers tightening around the keys as the helicopter's blades roared louder, drowning out everything else. He could feel Axle's silent warning, urging him to think twice, to hand the keys back. But then Rebecca's voice cut through the noise again, her grin widening. "What's the matter, Silas? Scared?"
The sting of her words was enough to tip the scales. He wasn't reckless, but he was still a fifteen-year-old boy, and the idea of walking away from a Lamborghini—especially with Rebecca and Alexander watching—was impossible. He glanced at Axle one last time. The older man's expression didn't change, his silence as heavy as ever. Silas gave a small nod to himself and turned toward the car.
Sliding into the driver's seat, Silas felt the cool leather against his back, the faint scent of newness wrapping around him. The dashboard gleamed with high-tech precision, the controls perfectly placed for efficiency. He slipped the key into the ignition, and the engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through his chest. The sound was intoxicating, and for a moment, everything else faded—the tension in Axle's gaze, the teasing edge in Rebecca's voice, even his own hesitation. It was just him and the car.
The road stretched out before him as he eased out of the driveway, the tires gripping the pavement with perfect precision. Each turn was smooth, every acceleration flawless. The Lamborghini felt alive beneath him, responding to his every touch like it had been designed for him alone. For twenty minutes, he was in complete control, the roar of the engine syncing with the pounding of his heart.
And then, the brakes failed.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut as the pedal sank under his foot without resistance. No slowing. No stopping. His chest tightened as panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but he acted on instinct. He tried everything—downshifting, yanking the emergency brake, steering into the curve—but nothing worked. The car was a wild beast now, dragging him toward the edge of the cliff with relentless speed.
The crash came in a violent explosion of sound—shattering glass, screeching metal, and the unmistakable weightlessness of the car leaving the road. And then, silence.
Now, lying motionless in his bed, Silas replayed the memory as he always did. The crash had taken everything from him—his strength, his freedom, his future. And in the stillness that consumed his days, his mind always circled back to the same question: Why?