Page 1 of Serpent King's Prisoner

Prologue: Nathan

My empire was burning.

Another Serpents property, up in flames.

“Get to Golden Dragon now,” my father’s terse command left no room for questions. The Golden Dragon was one of our fronts, a takeout spot that dished out more dirty money than hot meals.

I threw on some clothes, heart racing. Dad’s tone had said enough—trouble was brewing, and when trouble hit, it hit hard.

The night air bit at my skin as I stepped outside. The streets were quiet, too quiet for comfort. My car roared to life, breaking the hush that hung over the city like a bad omen.

When I pulled up to the restaurant, the sight that greeted me was grim. Flames had done their dance here, leaving behind only the charred bones of what used to be a bustling business. The smell of burnt grease and charred wood hung heavy as I stepped out of my car, the remains of what used to be a bustling takeout joint now just echoes and ashes.

“About time you showed up,” Knuckles said, his usual grin plastered across his face despite the destruction in front of us. He had a way of smiling through anything; guess that’s what made him so good at his job. He’d been my dad’s right hand man for years, but I’d never seen him fail to smile in the face of violence.

“Are you dealing with the authorities?” I switched to Mandarin just in case anyone was listening. You could never be too careful.

“Paid off the cops already,” he nodded, jerking his thumb over his shoulder where a few uniforms were pretending not to see us. They knew better than to stick their noses into our business.

In this neighborhood, the Triads ruled supreme…and more specifically, my Triad–the Golden Serpents.

“Place went up like a matchstick,” Knuckles explained, his voice casual as if talking about last night’s ball game. “Molotov cocktail through the window around two in the morning. Good thing we’re sloppy with the cleaning schedule, huh?”

I nodded, my gaze sweeping over the blackened skeleton of the restaurant. The message was loud and clear—this wasn’t about money; it was personal. Whoever did this wanted us to know they could touch us in our own backyard.

“Getting bold, these guys,” I muttered more to myself than to Knuckles.

“They sure fucking are,” Knuckles nodded. “Here, let me take you through it.”

Knuckles led me through the ruins, the crunch of charred debris under our feet playing a grim soundtrack to his rundown. “Around 2AM, someone tossed a Molotov straight through the window,” he said, pointing to where the glass had given way to violence. “Place lit up quickly. Grease traps hadn’t been cleaned.”

“What a surprise,” I muttered. It was calculated, that much was clear. The fire had eaten away at more than just walls and counters; it gnawed at the illusion of safety the Golden Serpents had cast over our empire.

“Check this out.” Knuckles beckoned me over to the smoky skeleton of the cash register, its innards exposed like a gutted fish. Inside, amidst the ashes, lay clumps of singed paper—money, unclaimed by the thief. “They didn’t come for cash. Left it all here to burn.”

“Message received,” I said, the words leaving a bitter taste. A warning then, a calling card without a name. My gaze swept over the remnants of my family’s work, a dark anger stirring within me.

“Whoever they are, they’re not stopping,” I continued, keeping my voice steady. “These attacks, they’re creeping closer to Chinatown. To home.” It wasn’t fear that crept into my voice, but the weight of responsibility. This was my turf, my blood. And blood, once spilled, was a debt owed.

“Looks like we got ourselves some competition,” Knuckles said, cracking his knuckles as if he could already feel the fight coming.

“Competition implies they have a chance,” I replied coldly. “This is war.”

Knuckles and I were ready to roll out when the pop of a gunshot split the night, shattering the quiet like glass. A cop crumpled to the ground, his radio squawking into silence as he hit the pavement.

“Down!” Knuckles barked, lunging for me. But instinct had me dodge his grip, my feet already pounding toward danger.

“Dammit, Fangs! Get back!” Knuckles’s shut chased me, but I was already scaling a fire escape, metal rungs cold and unforgiving under my hands. I could hear him cursing below, but my focus narrowed to the shadowy figure on the rooftop.

Adrenaline surged as I hoisted myself onto the roof, gravel biting at my palms. The attacker was a blur in the moonlight, just ahead. I sprinted after him, boots thudding on the rooftop, every breath a cloud in the chilly October air.

I almost had him—a hand reaching for the tail of his jacket — when he turned and swung. His fist connected with my jaw, a sharp crack that sent stars across my vision. I stumbled, tasted blood. The guy was quick, slipping away while I fought for balance.

“Stop!” I yelled, voice rough with the taste of iron. But it was no use. He ducked behind an array of vents and pipes, and by the time I rounded the corner, he was gone. Vanished into the dark cityscape.

I cursed under my breath, spitting out the metallic tang. Frustration boiled within me. The guy had been right there, and now? Nothing. Just the distant wail of sirens and my own ragged breathing.

I surveyed the scene, checking for any sign of him, a clue, anything. But it was like he was a ghost — there one second, gone the next. All I had to show for the pursuit were bruised knuckles and a cut on my forehead from where I’d nearly eaten concrete.

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