Never trust a damn tattooed mobster.

It's strange how quickly life can spiral out of control. One moment you're just a kid trying to help your mother make ends meet, and the next, you're entangled with the very people you'd spent your life trying to avoid. My name is Zain Drago. I'm fifteen years old, have emerald eyes, teal hair, and a scar under my left eye, a badge of honor from countless sparring matches. I'm not someone who's easy to forget—especially in the boxing gym—but in my day-to-day life, I often faded into the background. That's why I had to take the job from Luco Detti. My mother worked two jobs to put food on the table, and I couldn't bear to watch her struggle anymore.

The evening was cool as I pushed through the doors of this small Italian restaurant in Little Italy. The air was thick with the smells of garlic and fresh basil. I walked through the bustling main dining area, my heart racing as I approached the reserved section. The mood changed from lively chatter to the furtive whispers of men in suits. My eyes flicked to the left corner, where five men sat around a table, their conversations low and intense. One of them caught my gaze—tattoos of ancient runes painted across his skin, and an evil smirk crept across his face.

"Just keep walking," I told myself as I knocked on Luco's office door.

"Come in," a rough voice called. I entered and saw Luco pouring himself a glass of bourbon. He gestured to a chair, and I sat down, noting the slight tremor in my hands.

"Here's the deal, kid," Luco began, producing a briefcase from under his desk. "This needs to make it to Dee Mukai in Chinatown. If you fail, or if even a corner of it is tampered with—I promise you, you'll live to regret it."

He handcuffed the briefcase to my left arm with a finality that sent chills down my spine. "Dee will have the key."

"Yes sir," I managed to stammer, my mind racing. I stood up, feeling the weight of the briefcase anchoring my arm as I turned to leave.

As I stepped back into the bustling restaurant, the table had emptied, and the tension in the air shifted. I stepped outside into the encroaching darkness, deciding to take alleyways. It was better to stay out of sight; I was just a kid with a briefcase handcuffed to my wrist, after all. Odd looking.

The tunnels of shadow wound through the city like the veins of some great beast. I felt a sting of fear but pushed on, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the walls. Then, out of the gloom, he appeared—the tattooed man, stepping out as if from a nightmare.

"Young man," he said, voice smooth like oil, "let's make this easy and hand over that case."

Panic surged. My mixed instincts screamed for me to flee, but I was a fighter, and surrender was not in my nature. "You'll have to beat me for it," I shot back, adrenaline flooding my system.

The moment we clashed, he was deceptively fast. I struggled, the briefcase handcuffed to my arm made my movements clumsy. A fury ignited within me, and I found my rhythm, landing a solid right hook against his chin. But before I could capitalize, his eyes flashed with anger.

In an instant, he pulled a gun.

I'm still not sure how the rest happened. The pain is still too vivid. A sharp crack echoed as the bullet struck my side, then another exploded in my knee. I grunted and fell, the world fading into a dull haze of agony.

He picked up a rusted machete from the debris around him, the blade glinting menacingly, and loomed over me.

"This could've been easy, kid," he growled before bringing the machete down.

Blackness enveloped me.

I awoke, breathless, staring up at a vast and sprawling night sky. I had never seen stars like this. Growing up in the city, they had always been smothered by swirling smog. Here, they flickered above me like a thousand candles, bright and wild.

Confused, I turned my head and gasped. Looming over me were two moons—one a massive cerulean blue, the other a poignant crimson. The contrast tugged at something deep inside me, almost a primal instinct, or a memory I couldn't place.

I took in my new surroundings. The ground beneath me was soft, like grass but luminous, illuminated by the strange moonlight. There was a whisper of wind, like a soft voice calling, beckoning me.

And then I remembered. The briefcase, Luco, the street fight, the pain.

With a jolt, I sat up, realization slamming into me. I glanced down at my left wrist, where the handcuff had been, now free of anything but skin. Closing my eyes, I felt a surge—no longer encumbered by the weight of that cruel world. I was still Zain Drago, but somehow I had transcended.

As I stood, the air buzzed. It wasn't just air—it was energy, a pulsing vitality humming through everything I could see. Each blade of grass, each a twinkling star, all seemed aware, alive with stories waiting to be told.

"You are the chosen one" a voice whispered, yet it came not from any mouth but reverberated within my mind.

I looked up at the moons, and felt a rush of determination. I had fought through darkness, and perhaps it wasn't over after all.

And in that moment, the night became brighter, as if my words were setting the stars ablaze. Yes, I was Zain Drago, and my story was far from finished.

"But where the hell am I?"