2 End of struggle...? 2

I stared at the list on the screen, a cruel parody of meritocracy. I had passed, clawed my way through the exam with hunger gnawing at my stomach and the weight of stolen coins heavy in my pocket. Yet, my name was absent, a glaring omission amidst the privileged few.

A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. "Awarded solely on merit," the announcement had trumpeted. Empty words, as hollow as my stomach. The truth, a truth whispered in hushed tones on the street corners, crashed down on me – the scholarship was not secured not by merit, but by influence.

The winner's surname name was easily recognized. It was a son or a relative son of a notorious politician, a man who swam in wealth. He didn't need a scholarship. No, he craved that coveted spot, the university's name a stepping stone on his preordained path to power.

The prestigious university gates slammed shut, but the city, my harsh teacher, had equipped me with another crucial skill – resilience. The climb wouldn't be the one I envisioned, but a different path, a steeper one, stretched before me.

There was no longer a path to power by academic achievement, no , reality showed me how the stolen coins that had funded my education seemed a lifetime ago, was a naive attempt at a legitimate future. University tuition could not be paid for by stolen money or begged change.It required a small fortune.The library also had its limits and the old librarian was going to be replaced so I had to look for another path to power.

To survive, I was forced descended into the underworld, forging alliances with notorious ruffians. Stealing morphed into a profession, my name whispered with a mix of fear and grudging respect.

But respect in the criminal underworld is a fickle mistress. Soon, the whispers morphed into demands. What started as petty thefts escalated to a drug trade. I'd finally clawed my way out of the gutter.

The "business" boomed, fueled by fear and desperation. The stolen coins that had funded my education a lifetime ago, now seemed a naive attempt at a legitimate future.

The turning point arrived like a punch to the gut. An order to lace my own clubs, my havens of music and escape, with the very poison I despised. Refusing was like spitting in the face of a viper. Loyalty, it seemed, had a short shelf life in this world. My past deeds, the blood and sweat I'd poured into building the business, meant nothing.

I wanted a clean business.I argued but this was viewed as disobedience by my oh so powerful superiors.

Once, I had navigated its underbelly with the cunning of a seasoned rat, clawing my way to the top with stolen coins and grit. The hands I'd shaken, the polished smiles that adorned charity galas, belonged to the very vipers poisoning the well.

They were the unseen puppeteers, pulling the strings of an elaborate con. Subpar goods, watered-down medications, tainted drugs – all peddled under the guise of progress. These "pillars" of society leeched the lifeblood from the city, lining their pockets while the people they pretended to serve bled dry. I'd seen the devastation firsthand, the hollow eyes reflecting a life slowly choked by the very products I was forced to push.

The order to lace my clubs, my pride with that shit was the final straw.I wanted to leave, get out of the business. I've earned enough to survive now I just wanted to leave.But the underworld offered no escape hatch. Retirement plans came in the form of body bags, promotions often ended with "feeding the fishes." I knew too much. Names whispered in back alleys, faces etched in my memory – I was a loose thread, a liability, they needed me dead.

The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, a harsh counterpoint to the pulsing bass line throbbing from my club. Just moments ago, I'd been scanning the dance floor. Now, two crumpled figures lay at my feet, testament to the price of walking away from the underworld.

My past clung to me like a shroud. The whispers had morphed into a death warrant – a hefty bounty placed on my head, a deadly invitation back into the darkness .

The assassins, efficient and emotionless, had materialized with chilling swiftness. The fight had been brutal, a desperate dance of violence under the city lights.

Then, from the shadows, a figure materialized. It was him, the one person I'd allowed myself to trust, a kindred spirit forged in the heat of a thousand illicit deals. We were brothers, bound by circumstance and the shared scars of survival. With a roar, he ripped into the remaining assassin, his loyalty seemingly unquestionable.

Together, we drove them back, killing a few in the process. Relief washed over me, a fleeting oasis in the desert of paranoia. But the respite was short-lived. His hand, slick with the blood of our enemies, reached for mine in a gesture of camaraderie. Instead, a searing pain erupted in my chest, a cold realization blooming behind my dimming vision.

"Brother," he rasped, his voice laced with a sickening mix of mockery and coldness. "The offer was too good."

The metallic tang of blood was the last bitter truth I tasted. Not from the assassins I'd fought off moments ago, but from the hand I'd considered an extension of myself. My brother, forged in the struggles of the underworld, had become the final, fatal blow. A verbal promise of power, a swift betrayal – the price of trust in a world where honor was a was but a word.

A cold fury curdled in my gut, I was naive.Perhaps I had been a fool to believe in escape.

Peace, it seemed, was a luxury reserved for the victors, for those who wielded power, it was a shield. Down here, in the gutters of the city, survival was a cutthroat competition.

Loyalty was a fleeting concept, a bargaining chip cashed in at the first glimmer of something better.

As I was slowly loosing consciousness a thought passed in my head," is the chapter out yet?"

My vision became blurred as I drew my last breath.