1985.

That was the year I was born, in a country suffocating under the weight of its own darkness. A place where sociopaths ruled the streets, and every teenager's dream was to become a criminal. Stealing, robbing, stabbing, and fighting—it wasn't just normal, it was inevitable. We walked around with guns tucked into our belts like it was no different than carrying a wallet. Everyone had one, and everyone used them when the time came. There was no peace, no safety. Simply stepping outside was a gamble with your life. The air always felt heavy—thick with the stench of gasoline, smoke, and something darker.

My name is Theo Vardi, and violence is all I've ever known.

I was born in Vardani, one of the most dangerous cities in the country. It wasn't a city you visited; it was a place you were trapped in. The city was divided into six major districts, each one home to the most ruthless and dangerous people the country had to offer. I grew up in Cross Bridge, the heart of the chaos. The district was split into four neighborhoods, each forming the shape of a cross on the map. It was a district that thrived on tension, a place where loyalty meant everything. In Cross Bridge, there was no room for betrayal. You fought alongside your brothers, and if you didn't, you became the enemy. The streets were littered with the bodies of those who chose treachery over loyalty.

In Cross Bridge, we had the Watcher. Each district had one—always visible, always in the streets. They weren't a rare sighting, but a constant presence. You couldn't go a day without seeing the Watcher—walking through the district, watching over the streets, making sure no one forgot the rules. The Watcher wasn't just a leader; they were the embodiment of the district's soul. Their authority wasn't whispered about behind closed doors—it was clear to everyone, every day. They inspired loyalty not because they were feared, but because they stood beside us. They fought for us. They fought with us.

I remember the first time I really noticed a Watcher. I was young, maybe too young to understand everything, but I saw the way people moved when he was near. There was no hesitation. People didn't bow or tremble. They simply stepped aside, offering him the space he commanded. No one questioned his presence. He was a part of the street, just like the concrete or the blood spilled on it. People didn't fear him—they respected him, because they knew he wouldn't betray them. Loyalty wasn't earned through threats; it was earned through shared struggle, shared blood.

In a place like Vardani, it didn't take long for a kid to learn that loyalty was everything. Betrayal wasn't just a crime—it was a death sentence. You didn't just betray your district—you betrayed your own blood. And for me, that was all I needed to understand. I wasn't trying to be the strongest or the smartest; I just needed to know who I could trust—and who would stand beside me when the time came.

But even in a place like this, there were moments of silence. I can still remember the nights when the violence would stop—brief, fleeting moments when the tension in the air would settle. The city would be quiet for a breath, but the calm always felt false. Like a storm waiting to strike. You couldn't afford to let your guard down for even a second. Because in Cross Bridge, loyalty was your shield—and a broken shield could cost you everything.