CHAPTER 62 – A Brother’s Curse

The blood on Alexander's hands wasn't his own.

He stood in the dimly lit warehouse, breath ragged, knuckles aching. His brother, battered but alive, sat slumped against the cold concrete wall. The fight should have ended hours ago, but death had refused to claim either of them. Now, under the flickering light, the only thing between them was the weight of years lost to lies and betrayal.

His brother coughed, spitting crimson onto the floor, then laughed—a cold, bitter sound. "You think you won?"

Alexander didn't answer. His grip on the knife in his hand tightened.

"You were never the heir," his brother continued, voice rasping. "You were the insurance policy."

A cold sensation curled around Alexander's spine. "What?"

Their father always knew he would survive. He never meant to kill Alexander outright. He had designed him, shaped him into something just as monstrous as himself. Not to replace him, but to become the inevitable force of destruction when the time came.

"He didn't just want me dead," Alexander whispered, realization sinking like a blade into his chest. "He wanted me to become him."

His brother smirked, eyes dark with something beyond hatred. "And look at you now. Tell me, Alexander, do you even know the difference anymore? You kill, you command, you burn everything in your path. What makes you any different from the man you swore to destroy?"

Alexander stepped forward, the blade gleaming in his grip. His brother didn't flinch. He was too far gone for fear.

"I am nothing like him."

His brother grinned wider, the sick amusement of a man who had already lost everything. "Then prove it. Kill me, and let's see if there's anything left of the boy who ran away."

The blade hovered, trembling. His father's voice echoed in his head. Finish what you start. A weakness left breathing is a future threat.

Alexander clenched his jaw. He had spent his whole life fighting against the monster inside him, but this? This was his breaking point. If he killed his brother, would he finally cross the threshold? Would there be anything left of him that wasn't his father's legacy?

The choice wasn't as simple as life or death.

It was about who he would become.

The warehouse reeked of blood, sweat, and gasoline. The walls were cracked, the floor littered with shattered glass, bullet casings, and the remnants of a battle that had pushed both men to their limits. Rain dripped from the holes in the ceiling, hissing against the heat of the broken light fixtures, casting shadows that twisted and stretched like ghosts around them.

His brother coughed again, the sound wet, broken. His fingers flexed weakly against the floor, but there was no more fight left in him. "You don't get it, do you?" he rasped. "He's already won."

Alexander narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

His brother chuckled, but it turned into a ragged wheeze. "You've spent all this time trying to stop him. To end him. But the second you walked back into his game, you lost. Look at yourself. Look at me." He gestured weakly at his ruined body. "We were never meant to survive this."

Alexander's stomach twisted. His brother wasn't just speaking about himself. He was speaking about both of them. Two sons raised for war, trained to be weapons. He was right—neither of them had come out unscathed. But Alexander wasn't willing to believe that meant they had lost.

He took a step closer, looming over his brother, knife still in hand. "If you think I'm going to let him win, you don't know me at all."

His brother lifted his head just enough to meet Alexander's gaze. "That's where you're wrong." A slow, pained smirk tugged at his lips. "I know exactly what you're going to do. You're going to burn it all down. And in the end… you'll be just like him."

A gust of wind howled through the broken windows, carrying the scent of smoke from the fires still burning outside. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed—a sound neither of them had any intention of acknowledging.

Alexander could feel the weight of the blade in his grip. The decision pressing against his ribs, squeezing his lungs. His father had orchestrated all of this. The bloodshed, the war, the destruction. But what his father hadn't accounted for was this moment. The one where Alexander chose his own fate.

He tightened his grip, muscles flexing.

His brother closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

And then Alexander dropped the knife.

It clattered against the ground, the sound echoing through the hollow space. His brother's eyes snapped open, confusion flickering across his battered face.

"You're right about one thing," Alexander said, voice steady, cold. "He wanted me to become him. But I make my own choices."

His brother stared at him, something unreadable flashing behind his exhausted eyes. But he didn't argue. He didn't push. He only let out a slow, shuddering breath and nodded.

Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to break the cycle.