Page 47 of Serpent King's Prisoner

“Handle it?” Ba raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s that simple? You’ve made a mess, Nathan, and you’re going to clean it up.”

“Tell me what to do,” I demanded, ready for orders, for action—anything to make it right again.

Ba’s eyes narrowed, and the air seemed to grow denser around us. “If Xinyi needs to be taken out, it will be by your hand. You created this enemy; you will eliminate her.”

The weight of his words settled like lead in my stomach. To pull the trigger on the old lady who held her family’s honor like a shield…it reminded me of my own mother, far too much.

“Your focus needs to be sharper, Fangs,” Ba said. “Now, I have work to do. I’ll call you when I need you again.”

I stood up and allowed him to dismiss me, playing his loyal hound even though my gut churned with anger. I wasn’t a dog on a leash—I was Kenny Zhou’s top operative, and Alex had put me in this mess.

As I tried to leave, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, grounding me back to reality. I turned to find Knuckles’ eyes, usually hard as flint, softened with an unusual empathy. He pulled me aside, away from the ears of the others.

“Kenny’s being too hard on you,” Knuckles murmured, glancing around to ensure we weren’t overheard. “I know it’s tough to keep your cool when the heat’s cranked up this high.”

I let out a bitter chuckle, feeling the weight of the family name pressing down on me. “I’m doing what I can, but it’s never enough for him. Not when every move I make seems to turn against us.”

“Hey, you’re holding up the sky while the rest of us are just trying not to get crushed by it,” Knuckles reassured me. But even his words felt like small comfort amidst the chaos I’d inadvertently wrought.

“Maybe so,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck where tension knotted my muscles. “But now Alex is circling like he’s ready to snatch the crown. He’s eager, acting like he’s the one to take over the family business.”

Knuckles gave me a sharp look, his gaze cutting through the dimness of the underground corridor. “You think you’re up for a challenge from your own brother?”

“Alex...he’s got ambition, sure, but he doesn’t understand the cost,” I replied, thinking of the price paid in blood and silence. “He doesn’t see past the power and the control.”

“Sounds like you’re worried he might be more like your father than you thought,” Knuckles said, his tone probing.

“Maybe,” I admitted, the thought leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “But no matter what, I have to be the one who steers this ship through the storm. Even if it means standing alone at the helm.”

“Remember, Nathan,” Knuckles said, a conspiratorial edge to his voice as he leaned in closer, “in this game, it’s not about who wants it the most. It’s about who’s willing to do what needs to be done.”

I nodded, taking in his words.

Knuckles’ eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me. “Do you even want this life? The throne of the Serpent?”

I hesitated, a moment of doubt creeping in like a shadow at dusk. “Yes,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.

But there it was again, that nagging uncertainty festering in the pit of my stomach.

“Alright then.” Knuckles clapped me on the shoulder before slipping away into the shadows from which he’d emerged, leaving me to ponder alone.

Shaking off the heavy thoughts, I found my way back to the surface, like crawling out of hell. The night air hit me with a chill that contrasted sharply with the stale underground. I walked briskly along the pavement, eager to get back to my car, but a familiar scent stopped me dead.

My feet veered toward the source without conscious thought, leading me to one of my favorite haunts—a modest gardening store nestled between towering gray buildings. Its warm glow beckoned me inside, and I obliged.

The bell over the door chimed softly as I entered, and I inhaled deeply, letting the fragrant air fill my lungs, wash away the stench of gunpowder and blood that seemed permanently etched in my senses.

Rows of greenery stretched before me, a stark contrast to the concrete jungle outside. My gaze landed on a flowering plant, its petals vibrant against the verdant leaves—alive with color in this monochrome world. Without a second thought, I reached for it.

“How much for this one?” I asked the clerk, an old man who recognized me but never questioned why someone like me frequented his shop.

“Twenty dollars,” he replied, his voice soft, accustomed to the quietude his little oasis offered.

“Wrap it up,” I said, handing him a crisp bill from my wallet.

“Special occasion?” he ventured, wrapping the plant with practiced care.

“Something like that,” I muttered.

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