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** The Family**

By Ken Anderson

Author's note: This story contains drug use, strong language, extreme violence, and graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is absolutely advised.

Chapter 1 - Family Honor

On the surface, Marco Binetti looked like any other normal, upper-class teenager. If you passed him on the street, you would have a hard time convincing yourself that this sharply-dressed, eighteen-year-old wolf was anything other than your typical trust-fund pup, jetting around in his imported sports cars while looking for new ways to spend his parents' money. With his immaculate gray fur, his deep blue eyes, and his charm, most people found it hard to suspect him of anything worse than overcharging his father's credit cards or getting a few speeding tickets.

The truth about Marco Binetti, however, was far from normal.

As a young child, Marco had never shown any signs of the aggression that would later become his trademark. His earliest years had been marked by fond memories, shared with a loving family and plenty of friends. When winter gave way to spring, he would take long walks through Harbor City's spacious parks with his mother, a former fashion model who'd met her husband at a show hosted by the city's elite. On warm weekends during the summer, he would spend time with his father Arturo, fishing for dinner on the Harbor City Bay or visiting the traveling carnival which often came through town. For a time, Marco's life had been peaceful and quiet, without so much as a fight at school or a scolding from either of his parents. For a time, the Binetti household had almost seemed destined to succeed.

But fate has a way of changing everything...

---

It happened on a rainy Tuesday when he was twelve years old. He'd been at school when they'd come to collect him. He'd been sitting quietly at his usual desk, watching the raindrops run down the windows as the teacher gave a boring and pointed lecture on the history of the canine species. He'd been thinking about his birthday, which was due to come around the next week, and about the gifts that his parents were undoubtedly out purchasing to surprise him with. He'd almost managed to lull himself to sleep when he'd heard the sound of desperate footsteps pounding through the hallway outside of the classroom. The entire class had risen with cries of alarm as two burly-looking canine thugs had come charging through the open doorway, accompanied by a hysterical wolf whose water-soaked gray suit was stained with what appeared to be blood. Marco could barely recognize his father as he'd raced down the aisle, grabbing his son by the arm and pulling him forcefully into the hallway.

"Dad? What's going on? Where are you taking me? Where's mom?"

The questions had come pouring out of him before he could stop himself. His father had said nothing in reply, instead motioning for his two companions to take separate exits as they approached the main entrance to the school. Marco was getting anxious as he jumped into the passenger seat of his father's Lincoln, watching the elder wolf struggle to insert the key into the ignition so they could leave.

"Dad?" he'd asked once more, his voice almost a whimper. "What happened to you? Where's mom?"

It was then that his father had done something that Marco had never witnessed before. He'd begun to cry; softly at first, a low whine which seemed to pierce the air with sadness. He'd pulled the car away from the school, wiping his tears on the sleeve of his bloodstained suit as he turned onto the inner-loop freeway and began driving towards the docks. It took a full ten minutes of silence before Arturo could bring himself to deliver the tragic news to his son.

"She's gone..." he'd said, a barely audible whisper. "It should've been me... They came looking for me, but I wasn't at home... There was nothing I could do for her; when I got there, they'd already--" Arturo had stopped himself before he could finish. Marco was young; he didn't need to know the details. In time, he would come to understand. The young wolf cub had sat in silence as they'd driven towards the docks, any words he could have spoken drowned out by the tears which had begun to trace their way down his cheeks. It wasn't until they'd reached the docks that Marco had begun to wonder why they had ventured so far from home.

"Dad?" he'd whispered, sniffling loudly as his father slowly turned to face him. "Why are we all the way out here?"

"Somebody had to pay, kid..." Arturo had growled in reply. "One day, you'll understand."

With that, he'd gotten out of the car and opened the trunk. Marco had watched, frightened and slightly confused, as his father had quickly tossed several black garbage bags over the pier and into the murky brown water below.

---

For as long as Harbor City had lived its short and bleak existence, it had always been known as a major hub for organized crime. On the west side of its vast, urban sprawl, the ruthless biker gangs were once known to terrorize the residents who'd dared to venture onto their turf. On the opposite side of town, where the Warehouse district and the Harbor City Docks were located, local mob thugs had fought vicious street gangs for control over the rights to steal valuable cargo from the ships as they unloaded along its numerous piers. Finally, located immediately outside of Harbor City's inner-loop freeway, The Harbor Hills suburbs and the inner-loop Heights and red-light districts had been known for generations as a veritable no-man's-land full of junkies, prostitutes, gangbangers, and all of the criminal elements in between.

But everything had changed the day Arturo Binetti arrived in town.

Arturo Binetti, whose name was whispered with reverence and respect among the people of Harbor Heights, was the patriarch of the infamous Binetti crime family, the largest of the three factions of Canine organized crime which held sway over the city's lucrative labor unions, drug distribution, and gambling rackets. From his earliest years in Harbor City, Arturo had been known as a fantastic earner. He'd perfected the art of extortion and intimidation, strong-arming his way to the top as an enforcer for a small canine gang that was based out of the Heights. An expert gambler, he'd been quick to realize that many of the city's current gambling installations were habitually reporting a much smaller profit margin than they'd actually been collecting from their customers. His heavy-handed 'renegotiation' with the gambling house owners had cemented his reputation as a ruthless gangster who would let no one stand in his way, and his immediate retaliation over the violent death of his wife had shaken the foundations of the underworld with its brutality. It was this taste for extreme violence that eventually led to his installation as the head of the crime family which would come to bear his name. And once he'd secured his position at the top of the food chain, The Binetti family had quickly risen to become the city's most feared.

His son Marco, however, was quickly gaining a reputation of his own.

Marco Binetti had become an associate of the family when he was just fourteen years old. The death of his mother had awakened a rage within him, and a willingness to fight that had quickly earned him the respect of his father and his peers. His first 'job' had been shaking down the vendors on Harbor Heights' open market streets for weekly payments of protection money, and from there, his life as an up-and-coming mobster had begun. Over the years, as he'd progressed through the ranks, the jobs had become harder; more violent. By the time he was a sophomore at Harbor Heights High school, he was regularly delivering brutal 'messages' on behalf of his father to the local neighborhood drug dealers, who'd refused to pay the Binetti family a tax for the right to sell their wares on the streets of the Heights.

For a while, there was a limit to how far he would take his violence; a few beatings here; the odd firebomb there. To Marco, the arrangement was profitable and simple. As long as everybody paid up and nobody got killed, he was fine with running errands and doing different 'jobs' for his father. But that had quickly changed after one particular night when he was sixteen. A belligerent shop owner had flat-out refused to pay his father tribute, and had instead hired a gang of thugs who'd ambushed Marco as he'd approached the shop, breaking his arm, cracking several ribs, and leaving him in a coma when he'd come to collect on his father's behalf.

When Marco had awakened in the hospital, he'd found his father standing over him, arms crossed, with a look of shame and disappointment drawn across his muzzle.

"You are an embarassment," Arturo had whispered through clenched teeth, "To me, and to this family. I thought I'd raised my son to take care of business, not to end up in the gutter like some half-breed mutt!"

Marco had felt the tears rolling down his face, stinging as they came into contact with the cuts and bruises around his eyes. He'd held back the impulse to remind his father that he'd been outnumbered and jumped. Such things were of no concern to Don Arturo. No excuses could be made. If there had been any other specifics that Marco had wished to share with his father, they'd instantly evaporated as the injured wolf cub found himself staring down the dark barrel of his father's personal .45 caliber M1911. Marco had felt his breath catch in his throat as his father pressed the barrel of the pistol into the fur on his forehead. A slight whimper choked its way out of his throat as he watched his father calmly pull back on the hammer, locking it into place, before resting a claw against the trigger guard.

"Son," Arturo began calmly, "I brought you into this world. Throughout your life, I have tried my best to teach you the lessons that I believed would help you most to find your place in this family. And until today, I thought I'd succeeded. But after seeing your failure, I realize that there is still one important lesson I have yet to teach you..."

With that, Arturo had released the hammer on the pistol. Marco let out a sigh of relief. He'd watched anxiously as his father slowly traced the barrel through his fur down to his chest, before dropping the heavy gun directly above his pounding heart.

"You have one week to get it done." Arturo had told him.

"All debts must be paid."

"All debts must be paid."

As he walked calmly down the spotless streets of Harbor Hills West, Marco Binetti could hear his father's stern words once again. Stopping at a nearby intersection, he used his reflection in the window of a coffee shop to straighten his ruffled suit and fix the thick silver chain which hung around his neck like a dog's collar. He took a moment to adjust the heavy rings that he wore on his right paw, before checking to make sure that the solid length of stainless-steel chain that he wore as a belt could be quickly removed and wielded as a weapon. Satisfied with the results, he allowed himself a second to linger, before turning back towards the intersection and walking across the street.

A sigh of disappointment escaped Marco's lips as he wound his way around a corner and onto a dimly lit back street. No matter how many times his father insisted on sending him to collect his customers' debts, it never got any easier. Inwardly, he always cringed at the thought of having to smack around some old guy in his fifties or sixties. He hated knowing that he was taking away hard-earned cash that might have been used to pay bills or buy groceries for wives and children. Every time he accepted one of these jobs, it always left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach once it was over.

But still, an order from the families could not be refused; everything in this life comes with a price. And fortunately for Marco, this client could actually afford to pay it.

The 'client' Marco was being sent to visit was an aging lion who went by the name of Danny Talon. Danny Talon had been a fixture on both sides of Harbor Hills for as long as anybody could remember. He was well-known in gambling circles, as he owned a total of five different gaming establishments spread out across the city and its surrounding suburbs. Two of those establishments, unfortunately for him, were located directly in the heart of Binetti territory. This meant that once per month, he was required to pay a ten percent tribute of his earnings to the families. This was not only considered a sign of respect, but a kind of 'rent' for being allowed to operate safely in those areas. Danny Talon, however, had not honored the terms of this agreement. For the past three months, he had refused to pay the required tribute to the canine families, opting instead to hire a small crew of thugs and gang-bangers to protect his business interests at all costs. This, of course, was considered to be an act of disrespect that demanded swift and decisive retaliation.

Naturally, there had been a response. One of the other canine families had sent their own agents to collect the debt, with the permission of the Binettis to do whatever was necessary to secure the payment. Two larger-than-life pit bulls, twin brothers whom Marco had actually met on more than one occasion, had been dispatched to solve the problem. Unfortunately for them, the job would turn out to be a disaster. Danny Talon, who'd been expecting retaliation for his refusal, had prepared an ambush in advance of their arrival. One of the two brothers had been shot dead before they could enter the building, a single pistol bullet cutting him down as soon as he'd come into range. The other had ended up in a coma, his ribs broken and his skull cracked from a merciless beating with pipes and baseball bats. He had yet to recover from his injuries, and according to the doctors, the prognosis was grim.

In the eyes of the families, this was a blatant act of war. An emergency meeting of the Council of Canines had nearly ended in a unanimous vote to send an army of mob goons to march in and clean up the place 'with lead.' Arturo Binetti, however, had been wary of the attention that such a daring assault could bring them. Instead, he'd proposed a much simpler, more subtle approach. He'd told the council that his family would collect the debt personally, or he would be held responsible for whatever was lost.

He'd then left the room to make a call to his son Marco, who was already attending his first class of the day at Harbor Heights High.

The council had still been in session when Marco was called into the dim, candle-lit room. He'd felt nervous as the heads of the canine families, including his father, and their lieutenants, had risen in silence to greet him as he slowly made his way towards the center of the room. The brief meeting had lasted less than two minutes. The orders had been simple and precise. When it was over, his father had pulled him aside to make sure that he understood exactly what was expected of him.

"This is a big one, kid," Arturo had said, placing a firm paw on his son's shoulder.

"This is the last chance we have to show the cats that we control this part of the city; not them. Our family needs this. You understand what you have to do?" Marco had nodded his head once, his paws clasped firmly behind his back. He'd learned long ago never to press his father for details. The elder wolf's stern gaze and strong grip on his shoulder had told him everything he needed to know.

"Leave the client alive. Kill everyone else. All debts must be paid."

Marco turned once again, this time down a narrow alleyway which grew darker and more cramped with each step. In a motion as natural to him as a yawn, he brushed a paw lightly over the pistol concealed in a spring holster beneath the folds of his suit. For the past few years, he'd never left home without it. He'd become accustomed to that feeling of cold security pressed against his chest. Though he hadn't had to use it recently, he knew that it would need a thorough cleaning after this job was done.

As he neared the end of the long alleyway, A single door set into the faded brick wall came into view. Guarding the entrance were two menacing-looking dobermans, easily twice the size of Marco's wiry, slender form. Still, he showed no sign of nervousness or anxiety as he approached them. Instead, he casually slipped his paws into his pockets as he drew close, and one of the guards held out a thick arm to block his path as he attempted to walk past them.

"Where d'you think you're goin', kid?" The doberman sneered, baring two well-kept rows of pearl-white teeth. "This club's for grown-ups only. Why don't you take yourself back to school before you get hurt?"

Marco shook his head slightly, chuckling to himself as he took another step forward. These guys were chumps, not professionals. Most likely, they were from out of town, otherwise they would have known who he was from the moment they'd spotted him. Even in a metropolis as large as Harbor City, the people who work in the shadows tend to know which names and faces belong to which gang or crew. And the son of Harbor City's most ruthless mob boss should have sent up red flags from the moment he'd decided to step foot into that specific alleyway.

"Is this Danny Talon's place?" he asked, removing his paws from his pockets and crossing them defiantly over his chest. The guards took a look at one another, and snickered as they quickly sized him up. "Yeah, so what?" one of them replied.

"Well, Danny owes some very powerful people a lot of money. I've been sent to collect it for them."

The alleyway erupted as the dobermans nearly toppled over with laughter. An enforcer? This scrawny mutt? There was no way in hell. Even so, one of the guards couldn't resist trying to press the issue.

"So you're one of Binetti's guys? That's real funny, kid. Now I don't know what they told you, but Mr. Talon is no longer interested in doing business with Mr. Binetti. In fact, I'm pretty sure he sent that message to your boss when he had me and my partner here take care of the last two mutts Binetti sent to collect."

This news caused Marco's ears to perk up.

"So it was you? You took out the pit brothers?"

"Yeah, so what? One of the bastards was so ugly I had to shoot him in the face!"

Once again, the guards burst out into howling laughter. Feeling confident that they could handle such a minor threat, the doberman who'd bragged about the murder had no time to react as he suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a nickel-plated nine-millimeter pistol. In the next instant, two things happened simultaneously. The laughter immediately stopped.

And Marco pulled the trigger.

The report from the gunshot echoed loudly through the alleyway as the impact sent the guard's body tumbling to the ground. The point-blank shot covered both Marco and the remaining guard with a thick spray of blood. The second doberman, stunned at the sudden death of his partner, quickly thrust his paws into the air as the gun found its way towards his muzzle. Marco delivered a sharp kick to the guard's midsection, forcing him to the ground against the dirty brick wall next to his dead partner. With his head pressed firmly against the bricks, the doberman whimpered and choked as the barrel was worked into his muzzle and forced downward into his throat. Standing above him, Marco looked down with the cold stare of death in his eyes. This one would leave him with no regrets. As he pulled back the hammer on the pistol, he knelt so that he and the doberman were face-to-face.

"You know that guy your partner killed? He had a family. A wife and a daughter; I met them once. His brother had a wife that was six months pregnant; a wife who left him when the doctors told her that he might never wake up. Because of you, those two families will never be whole. Those children will never grow up to know their fathers. Now, before I end your miserable life, do you have anything to say to me?"

"Who-- who the hell are you?" came the mumbled response.

"I'm Marco Binetti."

A second gunshot rang out, and the guard's lifeless body dropped against the wall. Marco heaved a sigh as he retrieved a red handkerchief from his coat pocket, using it to wipe the blood from his muzzle as he rose to his feet. Now, the real work was about to begin. The young wolf took a deep breath to steady his nerves, the pistol gripped tightly in his right paw. This was it. Do or Die. He exhaled loudly and allowed his mind to go blank. Taking a few steps back from the rusted metal door, he quickly scanned it for vulnerabilities. Without hesitation, he charged full speed ahead and drove his foot into the solid metal next to the simple door knob. As he'd predicted, the aging wooden frame he'd caught sight of had not been updated to match the door, and the hinges broke loose from the frame as the door came tumbling inwards.

Almost immediately, he was greeted with the rapid sound of gunfire as hidden machine guns sprang to life. A loud, high-pitched alarm had suddenly been triggered, and Marco soon found himself taking cover next to the entrance as a stampede of gamblers, prostitutes, and other customers came pouring out into the alleyway. Gritting his teeth with frustration and holding his weapon tightly, he silently willed the crowd to move faster as he imagined Danny Talon using the distraction to make his escape. As the last of the patrons ran screaming through the exit, Marco sprinted inside and used his free paw to overturn a blackjack table as a volley of machine-gun fire suddenly erupted into the walls behind him. Crouched behind the relative safety of the table, he retrieved a second magazine from the pouch that had been sewn into the lining of his coat and took a deep breath as he prepared to move.

Slowly, he tilted his head around one side of the blackjack table. A burst of pistol fire quickly caused him to retreat, but not before he'd caught sight of his enemies. There were four goons, three canines and a feline, holding their positions near a staircase which led to the upper floor of the establishment. At least two of them had machine guns and another had a handgun, which left the fourth assailant as a wild card; an unknown. The fact that they weren't leaving suggested that something, or someone important was upstairs and required their protection. This not only convinced Marco that Talon's office must be in one of the rooms upstairs, but that he hadn't yet had the chance to complete his escape. The young wolf couldn't help smiling as he realized that Talon had made a critical and obvious mistake. He'd placed his office on the building's second floor, and the only staircase which led down to the ground level was the one currently being defended. He was cornered, and judging by the constant clatter of wasted ammunition as the four guards fired blindly into and around the blackjack table, he knew it.

Having another look at his surroundings, Marco figured that the quickest path to the staircase was around the roulette tables to his right. Without hesitating, he broke into a solid sprint as bullets shattered glass and splintered wood behind him. Halfway across the room he dove towards the nearest table, rolling to a crouch behind it as he rose to a kneeling position and squeezed off a few rounds. A cry of alarm from one of the guards told him that he'd been close, and the momentary distraction was all he needed to lean around one corner of the roulette table and deliver two shots to the chest of the nearest thug, a cougar, who collapsed amidst shouts and cries from his peers. Angry bursts of machine gun fire ripped through the hollow wood of the roulette table in response, the rounds slicing through the fabric of Marco's suit as he suddenly came to the conclusion that he'd chosen the worst cover spot in the entire room. A hot, burning sensation tore through his shoulder as he quickly ditched the roulette table in favor of diving behind the bar, a solid semi-circle of cut granite which surrounded a massive cylindrical walk-in cooler in the center of the room.

Reaching around with a paw to inspect the wound, his grey fur came away stained with red. He'd been hit near the shoulder blade, but not too seriously; the bullet had gone through. A snarl of rage curled the edges of his muzzle as he swapped out the magazine in his pistol and pressed his back against the bar. The thugs were still burning through their ammunition, the bullets peppering the stainless-steel cooler with countless holes as they attempted to use sustained fire to stall him out. Marco knew better than to fall for that, however; his father had paid handsomely to have him trained in the fine points of surviving a gunfight. Shuffling over to the bar's farthest corner, away from the line of fire, he rose up from his position and quickly fired a burst of shots into one of the remaining three guards. A cry of pain and a loud 'thump' confirmed that he'd hit his mark. The remaining canine guards, two ugly-looking bulldogs, shifted their fire to cover his new position as he quickly crawled back to the other end of the bar. Once there, without warning he vaulted over the granite counter-top, firing madly at the two guards as he marched at a steady pace towards the staircase.

The first guard went down before he noticed what was happening. The last guard had nearly brought his machine gun up to bear before Marco's frantic burst of shots caught him in the neck and upper chest. Both of them went down in a twisted pile of guns and fur, smoke still trickling from the barrels of their weapons as Marco calmly reached down to scoop up one of the sub-machine guns before trudging his way up the stairs. With one paw nursing the wound on his shoulder, he slowly marched down the empty hallway on the second floor, passing up private rooms for poker, craps, and other games of chance that he couldn't identify. As he approached an unmarked wooden door near the end of the hall, he could make out the frantic sounds of paper shuffling and someone whimpering softly on the other side.

_ Finally..._

With a single swift kick, the door flew open, revealing a shaking lion whose mane and muzzle had long ago turned pale white with age. The shivering feline was clutching a large duffel bag to his chest, its seams bursting under the weight of its contents. His patience worn thin, Marco stepped into the room and used his foot to shut the door behind him. With his wound trickling blood onto the expensive carpet beneath their feet, he brought the pilfered machine gun down to bear on the old lion's chest.

"Danny Talon, right?" he spoke between gritted teeth. Talon nodded his head quickly, desperately, still clutching the bag firmly against his body.

"You know who I am?" Marco continued. Another quick series of nods.

"Y--you're Arturo Binneti's kid, aren't ya?" Talon stuttered, extending a single, shaking claw towards Marco as if warding off the devil. Marco gave a single nod in reply.

"You owe the families three months worth of tribute, Talon, and I'm here to collect."

Danny Talon's breath caught in his throat as he suddenly found the barrel of the sub-machine gun jammed underneath his chin.

"And if I don't collect something, the council would be just as happy with your head."

Keeping a claw on the trigger guard, Marco grabbed the duffel bag and jerked it out of the lion's clutches. Using his free paw to tug at the zipper, he suppressed a smile as his eyes flashed over stacks of innumerable, perfectly-counted bundles of hundred and fifty-dollar bills. It might not be enough to cover the old cat's debts completely, but it would certainly take him out of the hot seat. With a grunt of effort, Marco swung the bag over his wounded shoulder, using his good arm to hold the machine gun as he tugged the straps into place.

"It's nowhere near enough to cover what you owe, Danny, but it'll have to do. If you can't come up with the rest by this time next week, it won't be me you'll have to worry about; the Don will be paying you a visit himself. And believe me, Danny, you don't want my dad to have to pay you a visit."

Having said his piece, Marco turned around to leave, glad that Talon hadn't required too much convincing. But before he could exit the office, two rapid gunshots caused him to dive for cover near the door, and he came up from the ground firing his machine gun wildly from the hip. A lucky bullet managed to strike Danny Talon in one of his legs, causing him to flinch and drop his hidden pistol, a small derringer, which Marco quickly kicked across the room with a sweep of his foot. Now furious, all thoughts of mercy went out the window as he marched directly up to Talon and pressed the short gun barrel into the lion's ribcage.

"You just made the worst mistake of your life, cat," Marco growled, spitting out the last word as if it were poison. "Now you'd better give me a damn good reason why I shouldn't blow your head off and torch this fucking place to the ground."

For a brief moment, Talon was silent. Scoffing impatiently, Marco lowered his gun and fired a round through the lion's other leg. With a loud roar of agony, Talon crumpled to the ground, blood beginning to pool around the exit wounds below his nearly-missed kneecaps. Marco wasted no time in standing over him to deliver the final shot. Before his claw could wrap around the trigger, however, Danny threw up his hands and began to plead for his life.

"NO! DON'T! PLEASE! I--I'll give you whatever you want; just take it!"

It was nothing that Marco hadn't heard before. He shook his head sadly as he rested a claw on the trigger..

"You're gonna have to do a lot better than that."

"MONEY! You want money?! I've got plenty of money, kid, just let me go and you can keep it all!"

Marco was getting pissed off. He tapped the bulging duffel bag with a claw and motioned to the ransacked office.

"If you had any more fucking money than this, you would've hired some better muscle than those army washouts on the floor downstairs. Now, do you have anything at all to offer, or can I shut you the fuck up now?"

"WAIT, WAIT! W-what about this place, huh? I-I mean, it isn't much, you know, but it makes money, right? RIGHT?! Maybe you could take it back to your dad, see if that works, huh? A little something that works out for everybody, you know?"

Marco paused to consider this. Truth be told, he hadn't originally intended to shoot Danny Talon, much less to kill him in cold blood. The second rule of thumb when making collections is that the dead can't pay their debts, so while killing someone for not paying up might seem like a great idea on paper, it generally ends up being a losing move for all parties involved. Besides, his father had always liked the idea of owning a gambling joint instead of just taxing them. The money came faster, in larger quantities, and the profits were always steady. After what seemed like a small eternity, he finally lowered the gun.

"Alright, Danny, you've got your chance. Get the paperwork together and take it to Benny's restaurant in the Heights. Be there tomorrow by noon, or you'll be hearing from me." Marco let out a sigh as he walked back downstairs. As far as he was concerned, that negotiation could have ended on worse terms. He slipped a paw into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone as he calmly stepped over the unmoving bodies at the base of the stairs. He quickly tapped in his father's number and and hit send. Taking note of the time, he couldn't help but smile. The whole job had taken him less than twenty minutes.

He still had just enough time to get his shoulder stitched up before heading back to class.

---

--End Chapter 1

To anyone who missed me, I'm back! I'm sorry for being gone for so long; life takes some weird turns, let's just leave it at that. If you're familiar with my previous submissions, you may find that this story has been written in a completely different tone and tense than the rest of my work. But even so, I hope you all enjoy this gritty tale as it develops, and I pray for the inspiration to see it through to its end.