Page 140 of Rose
“Don’t scratch my shit, or that’s your ass,” Saint muttered.
Savior didn’t care. He was floating. For once, it felt like maybe… maybe his father saw him. Valued him. Maybe this birthday would be different.
“So where we going?” he asked as he cranked the engine.
“The warehouse. Got a gift for you,” Saint said with a smirk.
Savior lit up. The wind kissed his face as they cut through the Miami streets, old-school rap thumping through the speakers. For a moment, he felt alive. Normal. Appreciated.
They pulled up to the warehouse. Savior parked, stepped out, nodding to the men standing guard. He couldn’t stop smiling.
Inside, Saint led the way. “Havoc, package delivered and waiting,” Greg said as they passed.
Savior’s heart jumped. The package had to be for him. A car? A bike? Maybe even a surprise party. Something cool. Something that said you matter.
But then Saint led him down to the basement.
The basement wasn't for gifts. It was for silence. Secrets. Blood.
Still, he followed, forcing himself to believe the best. Maybe whatever it was needed to be hidden.
He stopped cold.
A man sat tied to a chair—bloodied, bruised, barely breathing. Savior recognized him. He’d seen him around the crew, laughing with his father like family.
“Man... Havoc… I didn’t mean to—” the man began, before Greg silenced him with a brutal punch. The crack of bone echoed. Savior didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. Seen worse.
But this felt off.
Saint turned to him, a glint of steel in his hand. A blade. He offered it to his son.
“You’re thirteen now, Khaos,” he said. “Time to be a man.”
Savior took the knife slowly, his brows pinched. “What?”
“That nigga stole from you. Stole from your fucking family. And stealers are what?”
Savior stared at the man. His mouth was dry. His voice even drier. “Snakes.”
Saint stepped closer. “What do we do to snakes?”
Savior’s grip tightened around the blade. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. “Cut their head off.”
“Then do it,” Saint said, voice hard and final. “You a man now. Next in line. Show me.”
Savior’s stomach twisted. His hands trembled, but he couldn’t show it. Not in front of Saint. Not in front of the crew.
The man stared back at him—pleading, broken, already half-dead.
This wasn’t Savior’s first kill. But it was the first that would follow him forever.
No cake. No balloons. No birthday song.
Just blood. Just silence. Just a boy becoming a man in the worst way.
And when it was done, he walked out of that basement with red on his hands and a coldness etched into his soul.
Happy fucking birthday.
