The phone remained silent in his hand, offering no answers, only new questions that twisted in his gut like a knife. Amias stared at the screen until it darkened, then shoved it deep into his pocket. His mind raced as he stepped back into the night air, the cold biting at his exposed skin.
How does Temi know about Apannii?
The street was deserted, the sodium glow of streetlights casting long shadows across cracked pavement. Every sound—a distant siren, the rustle of rubbish blown by wind, the thump of bass from a passing car—seemed amplified, threatening.
London after midnight was a different city entirely.
Dark and Cold.
And how would she know it's a trap?
He moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, one hand instinctively checking for the knife. The weight of the night pressed down on him: Dyno's death, the gun jamming when it was pointed at his chest, the image of Zain bleeding out on his kitchen floor. It was too much. The world had tilted on its axis, and Amias was desperately trying to find his footing.
His phone vibrated again. Not Temi this time, but Capari.
"Where you at?" Capari's voice was sharp, stripped of its usual easy confidence.
"Coming," Amias replied, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "Five minutes."
He hung up before Capari could respond, quickening his pace. The estate loomed ahead, concrete towers against the night sky. As he approached, he could make out the silhouettes of men gathered around vehicles, the orange flare of cigarettes and blunts like fireflies in the darkness.
Capari spotted him first, breaking away from the group to intercept him. Gone was the nonchalant demeanor, replaced by something harder, colder. Grief and rage had transformed him, sharpened his edges.
"Where the fuck you been?" he demanded, eyes narrowed.
"Had to clear my head," Amias replied, not meeting his gaze.
Capari studied him for a moment, then nodded toward the vans. "We're loaded. Some with blades, some with straps. Got about twenty man ready to ride."
The group parted as they approached, faces Amias recognized and others he didn't. All wore the same expression—a mixture of anticipation and something darker. The air hummed with tension, with the promise of violence.
Ekane leaned against the lead van, nodding to Amias without warmth. "About time."
Amias ignored him, his mind still caught on Temi's message. It's a trap. Three simple words that changed everything. Or should change everything.
"Yo," he said to Capari, keeping his voice low. "I need to talk to you."
"Later," Capari dismissed, turning to address the group. "Everyone know their positions? Once we're in, we move fast. No hesitation."
Amias grabbed his arm. "Capari, listen—"
Capari shook him off, irritation flashing across his face. "What?"
"I don't think we should go," Amias said, the words tumbling out. "Something's not right about this. The location, the timing—"
"The fuck you on about?" Capari cut him off, voice rising.
Around them, the others had fallen silent, watching. Amias could feel their eyes on him, judging, wondering.
"I think it might be a setup," he continued, lowering his voice again. "We need to be smarter about this, think it through."
Capari stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he spun around, the butt of his gun connecting with Amias's face in a burst of pain and light.
Amias staggered backward, tasting blood. His vision swam, ears ringing with the impact.
"The fuck did I just hear?" Capari snarled, all pretense of calm abandoned. "We lost Dyno tonight. And you want to back out? You turning pussy boy on me now?"
Amias straightened, wiping blood from his mouth. The blow had cleared his head somehow, burning away the fog of confusion and replacing it with a cold, clear anger. "I'm trying to keep us alive," he said quietly.
"By running?" Capari stepped closer, gun still in hand. "That's what you do best, innit? Run away when shit gets real?"
The words hit harder than the pistol-whip, dredging up memories Amias fought to keep buried. Mason's death. His own escape. The guilt that never quite faded.
"Fuck you," he said, the words barely audible.
Ekane sighed, pushing himself off the van. "Stop acting up, Amias," he said, impatience clear in his voice. "We're all going. End of."
Amias shot him a venomous glare but said nothing more.
Capari turned back to the group, his rage now channeled into purpose. "Right. We move on the store block first, then through to the flats. Three teams. Ekane, you take yours through the back. We'll come in from the front. YM, your lot wait by the cars, ready for quick exit or backup. Clear?"
Nods all around. The plan set, they began to disperse toward their respective vehicles.
Amias stood still, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, watching Capari direct the operation with clinical efficiency. In that moment, he saw Capari as if for the first time—not the cousin he'd known for years, but a man consumed by violence, shaped by it, defined by it.
And in the reflection of Capari's eyes, he caught a glimpse of himself—following the same path, becoming something he'd spent his whole life trying to avoid.
Can I do this?
The thought came unbidden, clear and certain. He couldn't go through with it. Not because he was afraid—though fear certainly gnawed at him—but because something deeper, more fundamental, was rebelling against this course.
He climbed into the second van regardless, positioning himself near the back. The vehicle filled with bodies, with the smell of sweat and anticipation and fear poorly masked by bravado. Someone passed around a bottle of Hennessy. Another checked and rechecked his blade. A third murmured what sounded like a prayer.
As the van lurched into motion, Amias leaned his head against the cold window, watching the estate recede in the darkness. They moved through the sleeping city, a convoy of retribution, of vengeance, of senseless escalation.
The journey passed in tense silence. Occasionally someone would speak—a question about the plan, a muttered reassurance, a dark joke that fell flat—but mostly they sat in their own thoughts, preparing in their own ways.
Amias watched Capari through the rearview mirror, noting the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
In his mind's eye, he saw himself raising a gun.
Pointing it at the back of Capari's head, squeezing the trigger.
The glass of the windshield shattering.
Blood and brain matter spattering across the dashboard.
Capari slumping forward, the van careening out of control.
He blinked, and the vision dissolved.
Just his imagination, his mind exploring possibilities, giving form to the formless rage and confusion swirling within him.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the violent image, surprised by how real it had seemed, how part of him had almost wished it was real. This night was changing him, minute by minute, stripping away layers of the person he thought he was, revealing something darker beneath.
The van slowed, then stopped, several blocks from their target. Capari killed the engine, then turned to face the group.
"We walk from here," he said, voice low. "Silent approach. You know your positions."
They exited the vehicles, spreading out in the pre-arranged formation. Amias found himself at the rear of Capari's group, moving through the shadows, every sense heightened. Each rustle of leaves, each distant car horn, each whispered instruction seemed amplified in the quiet night.
The store stood on the corner, a 24-hour convenience shop with bright fluorescent lighting spilling onto the pavement outside. A few late-night customers moved within, oblivious to what was coming. Beyond it lay a small park, then another commercial building, and finally the entrance to the apartment complex where Apannii was supposedly waiting.
Amias hung back, watching as the others moved forward with purposeful stealth. Every step took them closer to whatever awaited—trap or not. Every step felt wrong, felt like moving against the current, against some natural order he couldn't quite articulate.
They slipped through the store, nodding to the sleepy clerk who barely looked up from his phone. Out the back, across the small, littered service yard, through a break in the fence, and into the park. The grass was wet with dew, their footsteps leaving darker tracks across its surface. The moon had emerged from behind the clouds, casting everything in silver light.
In single file they crossed the open space, vulnerable, exposed, then into the shadows of the trees on the other side. Ahead, the second building loomed—a former post office, now converted into a coffee shop on the ground floor with various businesses above.
The silence stretched, broken only by their breathing, by the soft sound of their movement. Tension built with each passing moment, a physical pressure in Amias's chest, constricting his lungs, making each breath a conscious effort.
They reached the building, found the side entrance as planned. Capari tried the door—locked. He nodded to one of the others, who stepped forward with a small tool. Seconds later, the lock clicked open.
They moved into a dark corridor, the smell of coffee beans and cleaning products hanging in the air. Their footsteps echoed slightly despite their care, betraying their presence to anyone listening closely enough.
At the end of the corridor, another door. Beyond it, if their information was correct, a short passage leading to the rear entrance of the apartment building. Beyond that, Apannii. And whatever else waited.
Capari paused at the door, looking back at the group. His eyes met Amias's briefly, a question there, a last chance to voice objections. Amias said nothing, just stared back, his face a mask.
Capari turned the handle, pushed the door open, and led them through.
The passage was narrower than expected, forcing them to move in single file. Concrete walls on either side, a strip of sky visible above where the buildings didn't quite meet. The sense of being funneled, channeled, was unmistakable.
Perfect for an ambush.
The thought flashed through Amias's mind as they reached the next door. This one more substantial, metal with a security keypad. One of the men stepped forward again, this time with a different tool. The work took longer, the silence stretching uncomfortably.
Amias felt it then—not a sound or a sight, but a feeling. A presence. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He looked up, scanning the rooflines above them.
Nothing. Just shadows and starlight.
The lock clicked. The door swung open.
They stepped through into what appeared to be a small café or diner. Tables and chairs arranged for the morning rush that was still hours away. Cash register closed, coffee machines silent. Normal. Ordinary.
Then the lights came on, blinding in their suddenness.
"Don't move."
The voice was calm, authoritative. Behind it, the metallic sound of weapons being readied, safety catches released.
As his eyes adjusted, Amias saw them—men emerging from behind counters, from back rooms, from doorways. Each armed, each pointing their weapon at their group.
And seated at the central table, as if he'd been waiting patiently all along, was Apannii.
Beside him, the scarred face of Kenzo—alive despite what Capari and Dyno had done to him in the forest, his skin a patchwork of fresh scars and healing wounds. His eyes found Capari, burning with hatred and the promise of retribution.
Apannii whistled softly, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. He gestured to the chairs opposite him.
"Sit," he said, not a request but a command. "Guns, blades, everything on the floor. Now."
Capari stood motionless, calculating, weighing options that were rapidly disappearing. Around them, Apannii's men tightened their circle, weapons trained, fingers on triggers.
Slowly, reluctantly, Capari moved to the indicated chair. The others followed his lead, discarding their weapons in a growing pile on the floor. Amias stood at the back, empty-handed already, watching it all unfold with a sense of inevitability.
It's a trap.
The words echoed in his mind as he observed Apannii—relaxed, confident, completely in control. This had been planned. Expected. Prepared for.
Apannii leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying Capari with detached interest. "You man have been running amok," he said, his voice conversational, almost friendly. "Now me, in my role, I had to sort this side out. The real bosses sorting out your endz right now."
The implication was clear—while they were here, trapped, another strike was happening elsewhere. Their territory, their people, undefended.
"Damn," Apannii continued, his gaze sweeping over the group. "Where's your bredrin Dyno? He killed a good bunch of mine tonight you know."
Capari said nothing, his face a mask of controlled fury. His silence seemed to amuse Apannii, who laughed, the sound hollow in the quiet space.
"Ohh," he said, realization dawning in his eyes. "He got murked? How?"
Before Capari could respond—if he had planned to at all—Amias turned to see two of Apannii's men behind him.
They forced him forward, arms wrenched painfully behind his back, then shoved him into a chair at the table. Face to face with Apannii.
"There he is," Apannii said, his tone mockingly warm. "Starboy. Big rapper and thing now."
Amias met his gaze, hatred giving way to cold assessment. The man before him was responsible for Mason's death, for years of fear, for the violence that had shaped so much of his life. Yet seeing him now, in the flesh, Amias felt something unexpected—not fear, not even rage, but a profound soberness.
"You know," Apannii continued, leaning back in his chair, "I been wanting you for a long time now, Amias. Ever since you been playing bad man." He paused, his expression turning contemplative. "Your bredrin Mason did that too."
"So did Kenzo," Amias replied, nodding toward the scarred man. "See he got diced up."
The words left his mouth before he could consider their wisdom. Apannii's face darkened instantly, the casual demeanor vanishing like smoke.
"Eh? Eh?" he spat, leaning forward aggressively. "You wanna die right now, blood?"
He punctuated the question by spitting directly in Amias's face. The saliva ran down his cheek, warm and viscous. Amias didn't flinch, didn't wipe it away, just held Apannii's gaze with a steadiness that surprised even himself.
Apannii leaned back again, regaining his composure. "Now, I was looking for your mumzy too, you know," he said, the threat clear beneath the casual tone. "My top boy gave me a lil' info about where you lay your head at. I checked it out myself, but some cops pulled up on a warehouse we were staking out at."
"But we couldn't get your mumsy," Apannii continued. "We got your mans Zain tho, innit?"
Rage flared in Amias's chest at the mention of Zain—broken, bleeding on his kitchen floor. His fingers curled into fists beneath the table, nails digging into his palms.
Apannii seemed to sense the shift, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now," he said, "we gonna play a game."
He gestured, and one of his men placed a revolver on the table between them. The metal gleamed under the fluorescent lights, its presence commanding attention like a black hole, drawing all eyes toward it.
"A bit of Russian roulette," Apannii explained, picking up the weapon. He opened the cylinder, revealing a single bullet, which he removed to show them before replacing it with deliberate care.
"But it's just you two," he added, looking between Amias and Capari.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound suddenly intrusive in the tense silence.
A drop of water fell from a leaking pipe somewhere in the back, hitting metal with a soft ping.
"We're going to call this one…" Apannii drawled out, snapping the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist. "Who gets shot first."
He spun the revolver on the table, the weapon whirling like a deadly compass needle before slowing, stopping, its barrel pointing between Amias and Capari, favoring neither.
"The rules are," Apannii continued, picking up the gun, "I spin the gun, and whoever it's closest to, I aim and pull the trigger."
He demonstrated, mimicking the action, his finger squeezing an imaginary trigger, his mouth forming the word: "Bang."
"Each time we spin," he went on, "we spin the chamber as well. For luck and that."
He placed the revolver back on the table, then gave it another spin. This time, as it slowed, the barrel came to rest pointing directly at Amias.
Apannii smiled, picking up the weapon, aiming it at Amias's forehead. "Let's start."
Amias didn't flinch, didn't close his eyes. Across from him, Capari watched with a strange intensity—not fear for his cousin, but something harder, colder.
In that moment, as Apannii's finger tightened on the trigger, Amias was transported back—not to the night of Mason's death as he might have expected, but to something more fundamental. The alley afterward. Yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze. The chalk outline where Mason had fallen. The scar on his own bicep from Apannii's blade, the physical reminder of how close he'd come to sharing Mason's fate.
He'd stood there, watching as they took Mason's body away. Imagining himself in Mason's place, blood pooling beneath him, life draining away. The fear had been overwhelming then, a living thing inside him, controlling him, defining him.
Now, staring into the barrel of Apannii's gun, that fear was absent. In its place, a strange clarity. A certainty that whatever happened next—whether the chamber under the hammer was empty or not—would set the course for everything that followed.
Apannii's eyes, dark and intent, held his own. In them, Amias saw not just hatred or the pleasure of power, but something more complex—a reflection of the same violence that had shaped them both, the endless cycle of retribution and revenge that had claimed Mason, that had claimed Dyno, that would claim more before it was done.
The hammer clicked back.
Apannii's finger tightened on the trigger.