Thirty minutes later, Amias sat on a moss-covered rock, staring at nothing. His hands wouldn't stop trembling. Blood—not his—had dried in the creases of his palms, under his fingernails. The knife was gone. Capari had taken it, cleaned it, hidden it somewhere. The body too. People Amias had never seen before had come, wrapped it, dragged it away into the deeper parts of the woods.
He couldn't feel his legs anymore. Couldn't feel much of anything.
Capari approached, boots crunching on dead leaves, a water bottle in his hand. He nudged Amias' shoulder, held the bottle out. His face betrayed nothing—no remorse, no fear, just the steady calm of someone who'd been here before.
"At least you didn't puke," Capari said, voice low enough that only Amias could hear. "I've seen bare man lose it after their first. One guy I know—"
The words triggered something. Amias lurched sideways, his stomach convulsing violently. Everything came up at once—the Hennessy, the fear, the reality of what he'd done. It splashed across the forest floor, steaming slightly in the cold night air.
"Goddamn, Amias," Capari muttered, stepping back to avoid the splash.
Amias retched again, nothing but bile now, his throat burning. His eyes watered, vision blurring. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, accidentally smearing blood across his cheek.
Capari watched him for a moment, then walked away, back toward where Dyno was leaning against a tree. Dyno was different now—twitchy, on edge. He dug something from his pocket, a small white pill that he popped into his mouth without water.
"Cognitive dissonance," Capari murmured, watching Dyno dry-swallow the pill. "Helps doesn't it"
Dyno didn't respond to the observation. His eyes, slightly glassy, fixed on the tree line. "Are the man here yet?"
"Soon," Capari said.
As if summoned by the word, figures materialized from the darkness. Four men in dark clothing, moving. They nodded to Capari, expressions grim.
"Right, bro," one of them said, voice barely above a whisper. "Where are they?"
Capari jerked his head toward the deeper part of the woods. "Back there. Two of them. Make it clean."
The men slipped past without another word, fading into the darkness like they'd never been there at all.
Capari turned, called over to Amias. "Time to go."
Amias stared at him blankly, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt disconnected from his body, like he was walking on stilts. He stumbled once, caught himself against a tree trunk, its rough bark scraping his palm.
They moved in silence, Capari and Dyno flanking Amias as they picked their way through the woods. Behind them, the cleanup crew worked with methodical precision. Amias couldn't bear to look back. The image of the man's face—eyes wide with shock, blood burbling from his lips—was already burned into his memory.
The forest eventually gave way to a residential street, quiet and empty at this late hour. Parked under a streetlight was Capari's Range Rover, its black paint gleaming like oil.
"How'd it get here?" Amias asked, his voice hoarse.
"I had the man bring it round," Capari replied, unlocking the doors with a beep that seemed too loud in the stillness.
They climbed in, Capari behind the wheel, Dyno in the passenger seat, Amias in the back. The leather seats felt too soft, too normal after what had happened. The car smelled of air freshener and Capari's cologne, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
As they pulled away from the curb, Dyno began talking, his words coming fast and brittle.
"Kenzo's gonna make it back sooner or later. He's gonna let them man know—MGZ, whoever in 1011. We can't let that slide."
"Yeah," one of the other guys agreed, nodding vigorously. "Let's rowdy it up, smash through their endz right now while they're lacking."
Capari's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, finding Amias' gaze. "What you think?"
Amias opened his mouth, but what came out was barely audible: "Take me home."
The car went quiet. Dyno twisted in his seat, staring at Amias with growing contempt.
"What?"
Amias raised his head, meeting Dyno's gaze directly. His voice grew firmer, cold. "Take me home."
Capari sighed heavily, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. Dyno's face contorted with disbelief.
"Are you a bitch, blood?" he spat. "After what just went down? After what we did for you?"
Amias didn't flinch. He stared directly into Dyno's eyes, a strange calm settling over him. "Take. Me. Home."
The silence that followed was thick enough to touch. Dyno turned away first, muttering under his breath.
"Yeah, you go home and be a bitch. We'll be setting these man straight."
The rest of the drive passed in tense silence. Capari navigated the empty streets mechanically, taking the familiar route to Amias'. When they pulled up outside the tower block, Amias pushed the door open without a word.
"I'll check on you tomorrow," Capari said, but Amias was already walking away, shoulders hunched against the cold.
The lift was broken again. Amias took the stairs, each step feeling like a monumental effort. His muscles ached, his head pounded, his stomach was still unsettled. By the time he reached his floor, he was lightheaded, vision swimming at the edges.
He fumbled for his keys, then froze.
The door to his flat stood partially open, a thin strip of darkness visible through the gap.
In an instant, the fog in his mind cleared. He remembered what the man had said before Amias killed him: "We found where you live. Apanni wants your mom dead."
"Mum," he whispered, panic surging through him.
He pushed the door open wide, stepping into darkness. The flat was silent, but immediately he sensed something was wrong. His foot crunched on broken glass. The air smelled different—like strangers and violence.
"Mum?" he called, louder now, moving quickly through the hallway.
The living room was trashed. The TV lay face-down on the floor, its screen shattered. Cushions had been slashed open, their stuffing scattered like snow. His mother's collection of porcelain bird lay in pieces across the carpet.
He moved faster now, heart hammering. His bedroom door hung askew on broken hinges. Inside, devastation. His equipment—the turntables, the microphone stand, the speakers, the laptop—all smashed beyond repair. His clothes had been pulled from drawers, some slashed with what must have been a knife.
"Mum?" he called again, moving to her bedroom.
Empty. Bed untouched. She wasn't home—still at work for her night shift. Relief washed over him, quickly followed by a new fear. What if they were waiting for her return?
Then he heard it—a soft whimper from the direction of the kitchen. He froze, then moved cautiously, wishing he still had the knife.
"Mum?" he whispered, rounding the corner.
It wasn't her.
Lying on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a pool of blood that gleamed under the fluorescent lights, was Zain. His neighbor. His friend.
Zain's face was barely recognizable, swollen and bloody. One eye was completely closed, the other half-lidded and unfocused. His mouth hung open, bubbles of blood forming with each labored breath.
"Zain!" Amias cried, dropping to his knees beside him. "Zain, what happened? What the fuck happened?"
Zain tried to speak, but only managed a wet gurgle. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
From the hallway came the sound of rapid footsteps.
"Amias?" Capari's voice called. "You alright?"
Capari appeared in the doorway, eyes widening at the scene before him. "What the fuck?"
"It's Zain," Amias said, voice cracking. "He's dying, Capari. We need to get him to hospital."
Capari stood frozen for just a second, then snapped into action. "Can he walk?"
Amias shook his head. "Look at him!"
"Alright, I'll take his legs, you get his shoulders. Careful with his head."
They lifted Zain between them, his body frighteningly limp. Blood soaked through Amias' shirt as they carried him from the flat, down the stairs, out to the waiting Range Rover.
The next moments came in disconnected flashes, like a film with scenes missing:
The car speeding through red lights, Capari swearing continuously under his breath.
Zain's breathing growing more labored, his eyes rolling back.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the A&E entrance as they carried him in.
The shock on the faces of the staff as they saw the broken, bleeding boy.
The shouts for a crash team, for blood, for surgical preparation.
Zain disappearing behind swinging doors, doctors already working on him.
Amias standing in the middle of the waiting room, covered in blood that wasn't his for the second time that night.
A nurse asking questions he couldn't answer.
Then suddenly he was outside in the hospital car park, the cold air biting at his skin. Capari leaned against the Range Rover, smoking silently.
"Right, bro," Capari said finally, flicking the cigarette away. "I'll take you somewhere you can chill and wait it out. My girl's place is empty, she won't mind—"
Amias shook his head, cutting him off. He pulled out his phone, scrolled to his mother's number. When she answered, her voice was bright, unaware.
"Amias? Everything okay, love?"
Amias said nothing, just listened to her voice.
"Amias? Amias? What's happened?"
His voice, when it finally came, was flat, emotionless: "Don't come home tonight."
He hung up while she was still speaking, ignoring her rising panic. He turned to Capari, something cold and hard settling in his chest, displacing everything else—fear, remorse, humanity.
"You said you want to get rowdy, right?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more menace than any shout. "Let's get rowdy."