Herold Hengstler

Rain blanketed the city as the limousine carrying Gerold Hengstler and the son of his late enemy pulled up to an abandoned workshop. Hengstler, a man with a face of granite, watched the young man try to hide his trembling. "Hide your fear," the mafioso's voice was muffled. "You smell like wounded game."

Inside, under the light of a lone lamp, stood a bound man. Hengstler handed the boy a Glock. "That snitch killed your father. Decide: get revenge or show weakness."

The boy raised his gun, aiming at the traitor's forehead. His hand trembled. He remembered his father and lowered the pistol. "I won't." It wasn't fear, but a choice.

Hengstler took the weapon. "Curious. You disobeyed me." A shot rang out. "A weak act, but a strong will. Remember: in our world, the only luxury is to be the master of your own will."

A heavy hand fell on the young man's shoulder. "I'll be there. To guide. Or to break." They walked out into the night. The boy hated Hengstler, but for the first time he felt not hopelessness, but clarity. The game had begun, and only one person knew the rules.