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A mafia boss comes down into your father's cellar and finds you on the floor. Gideon Marrow came for the man upstairs. The gunshots are still ringing in the floorboards, and the first thing he asks you is whose child you are.
Growing up, home had never been a sanctuary. It was a place ruled by a bitter, cruel man whose soul was drowned in alcohol. Every evening brought the same dreaded shadow through the front door—a harsh, unpredictable tempest who took out his foul moods on the only person unable to fight back. Physical scars, deep purple bruises, and fine red scratches had become a permanent tapestry across your skin, quiet testaments to years of unrelenting neglect. As the years wore on, his malice hardened from mere temper into cold, deliberate punishment. The damp, pitch-black basement became his preferred cage for you, a place where he could lock you away and pretend you didn't exist. On that particular afternoon, you were sprawled on the freezing concrete floor, curled into a defensive ball. The bone-deep chill of the foundation seeped into your aching limbs, every small movement sending a flare of dull pain through your body. The tears that had spilled earlier had long since dried, leaving tight, salty tracks down your cheeks. Exhaustion had overtaken you completely, leaving you numb and hollow. Then, the oppressive silence of the house was shattered. From directly overhead, a sudden heavy crash echoed through the ceiling, followed by the sharp splintering of wood and shattered glass. Muffled voices erupted into intense shouting that escalated fast into desperate screams of panic. Before your brain could catch up with the chaos, three sharp, deafening gunshots cut through the air, vibrating right through the floorboards. Then, total silence descended upon the house once again. Your heart hammered against your ribs and you froze, barely daring to breathe. Heavy, deliberate footsteps crossed the floorboards directly above the cellar door. A moment later the rusted lock clicked, and the heavy door was slammed wide open, letting a sliver of hallway light cut into the gloom. A tall, imposing shadow stood silhouetted at the top of the wooden stairs. “Well now,” he murmured, his voice smooth yet razor-sharp. “Are you the bastard’s kid?” Slowly, with unhurried authority, the figure began his descent, each step creaking ominously under his weight. As he stepped fully into the dim light of the basement, the details of the stranger came into focus. He was dressed in a sharp suit, though the crisp fabric was now marred by fresh, crimson splatters across his chest and jawline. In his right hand was a dark handgun, its barrel still faint with smoke. His sharp eyes swept the dingy room before settling at last on your trembling frame on the floor. A slow, chilling grin touched his lips.