The Price of a Promise

Kael, just fourteen, was a wreck of flesh and bone, his frail body shielding his younger sister from the cruelty of their stepmother. At only eleven, she was marked for a fate darker than death—sold to an underground ring like property. Kael had fought to stop them, but malnourishment and exhaustion left him powerless. The mobsters laughed as they beat him, savoring every punch, every kick, every moment of his suffering.

His face was nearly unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, his eyelids puffed and filled with blood. Yet he clung to consciousness, tethered by a single, fragile thread: his sister's screams.

Her scalp burned where cruel hands twisted her hair, forcing her to watch the nightmare unfold. She couldn't look away from her brother's broken body jerking under each savage blow. The sound of fists colliding with flesh echoed in the room, a sick symphony of cruelty. Behind her, the stepmother stood calm, her breathing steady—dispassionate, as though witnessing a chore, not a crime.

When it was over, the girl tried to run to him, but the men dragged her back. "Please—just one moment with him!" she sobbed, voice cracking.

The slap came without warning. Her head snapped sideways, pain flashing across her cheek. Blood pooled in her mouth. Her stepmother leaned in, her breath sweet and poisonous.

"Your job now," she whispered, nails trailing down the girl's jaw, "is to obey your owners."

She sneered. "You two are the reason my life fell apart. Blame your pathetic father—leaving everything to that useless brat. If he hadn't, I'd have dumped you both at some orphanage. But no... now I have to keep him alive until he turns eighteen and signs it all over back to me. And you?"

She smiled cruelly. "You'll be my gift to the Red Lantern District. Go quietly, or I'll let these gentlemen have their fun first."

The girl fought back, nails scratching, fists flailing—but another slap sent her crashing to the floor. Blood streamed from her nose, painting the wood beneath her.

A gangster who had been silent until then stepped forward. He flicked away his cigarette, then slapped the stepmother hard enough to make her stumble.

"You trying to ruin the merchandise?" he growled. "We paid good money for this bitch, and you're out here damaging the goods."

He grabbed the girl by her hair and yanked her upright.

"I could drag you out unconscious," he mused, tilting her chin up with one hand while lighting a cigarette with the other. "But where's the fun in that?"

He took a long drag, exhaling smoke into her face before turning to his men. "We've wasted enough time. Take her."

As the henchman approached, the girl broke down. "Please… let me say goodbye to my brother. I swear, I won't scream anymore. Just one moment."

The gangster considered her, then nodded.

She rushed to Kael, dropped beside him, and wrapped her arms around his mangled body. He could barely whisper, his voice like sandpaper.

"I can't see you… I'm sorry. I couldn't protect you. Just wait for me—I'll find you. I promise."

Her voice trembled. "You always keep your promises… That's what scares me."

She turned toward the gangsters. "Please… give me a knife. Just to help his eyes. He can't even see me…"

After a moment's hesitation, one handed her a blade.

With shaky hands, she made a small incision above the swelling, draining the blood. Slowly, Kael's vision returned—shadows became shapes, shapes became her.

She smiled through her tears and hugged him once more.

"You'll come for me," Her voice frayed, but her smile held. "And you'll bleed doing it. So… I'll make sure there's nothing left to chase."

Her hands trembled as she pulled back, her eyes locking with his. There was a wild light in them—not fear, but peace.

"Let's see them try to sell me now."

Then—before anyone could move, before Kael could understand—she turned the blade inward.

Once. The metal sank into her chest with a gasp.

Twice. Her breath hitched, a whimper escaping.

A third time. Her body shuddered, blood pouring freely.

Her dress darkened, the crimson soaking into every thread, but her face held a soft, haunting smile.

"I love you, big brother…"

Kael opened his mouth to scream—but no sound came. His throat burned, his chest heaved, but his voice was locked away, caged by shock and despair.

The room exploded into chaos. The gangsters swore and surged forward, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to salvage what they'd paid for. But Kael didn't hear them.

All sound vanished.

Pain.

Rage.

Loss.

Something inside him shattered.

A heat surged through his veins—starting at his wrist, racing up his arm. His body convulsed. The blood pooling around him began to ripple and boil—not from heat, but fury. A glow lit the room from beneath him.

Kael's flesh split like overripe fruit as a mark carved itself into him;

A Stigmata.

Not like the noble houses' stigmata—clean, elegant, a badge of pride.

This was violence made manifest.

Tendrils of black and crimson burrowed beneath his skin, searing as they went, as though his veins were being rewritten from within. The symbols pulsed like a second heartbeat, jagged and hungry, edges sharp enough to draw blood from the air itself.

A curse. Not inherited—inflicted.

And it whispered to him in a voice made of shattered bones. It writhed and twisted, alive, etching across his flesh with blinding intensity. Each symbol pulsed in time with his heartbeat, faster and faster.

Kael's breath came back in a ragged, animal growl.

His shattered bones popped into place. Bruises faded. The light grew brighter, casting long, flickering shadows.

A voice—not his—boomed inside his skull:

"Awakened."

"The fuck is that?!" one gangster rasped, stumbling back. His boot slipped in the sister's blood.

"Boss! The kid's—" another choked out, fingers twitching toward his holster. "His skin's moving!"

The leader's cigarette tumbled to the floor, ember hissing in the pooling crimson. "Shut him down. Now."

But the nearest thug's knife only grazed Kael's arm—and where steel met flesh, the wound sealed itself with black tendrils.

"Not human..." someone whimpered.

Kael stood.

His eyes—bloodshot, glowing, furious—locked onto them.

No trace of a boy remained.

Only fury.

Only promise.

Only death.