Chapter One – The Threshold

MALIA

Cavalton’s streets were clogged traffic. I gripped the handlebars of Mason’s illegally modded scooter like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground. The engine growled beneath me as I weaved through frustrated drivers, keeping three cars behind my father’s black sedan. Close enough to track, but far enough to stay invisible.

He hadn’t noticed me and I was sure that he wouldn’t. Earlier, he’d been too shaken—eyes darting, fingers trembling, sweat soaking through the back of his shirt—to suddenly be aware enough of his surroundings to notice me. He hadn’t even locked the front door behind him.

I hadn’t planned any of this.

School had ended early—my last class got canceled—so I walked home thinking I’d nap, maybe binge something brainless before heading to the dojo for training. I figured Dad would be back late, like always. But twenty minutes after I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the couch, I heard the front door unlock.

And there he was.

Startled. Pale. Like he’d seen a ghost—and maybe became one.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, Dad,” I said, looking up. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, of course. I just... wasn’t expecting you home this early.”

His voice didn’t match his body. His words were stiff, but his hands were shaking—rummaging through drawers, stuffing something in his coat, pacing like he was trapped in his own skin. He looked like someone mid-breakdown, not someone late to a meeting.

“You need help with something?” I asked, keeping my tone light even though every nerve in my body told me something was off.

“No, no. Everything’s fine,” he rushed out. “I just have an appointment. Something for work. I’m late.”

Then he was gone.

Just like that.

But I knew that look. It wasn’t just stress. It was fear. The kind that clung to the back of your throat and made you forget how to breathe. And I’d had enough of pretending not to see it.

So I followed him.

I grabbed my phone and texted the group chat with shaky fingers. To my surprise, they didn’t freak out. They actually encouraged me. Some more than others—but they got it. My curiosity. The intrigue. They were as nosy as ever. Mason even told me to take his illegally enhanced scooter, still parked at my place from their last visit.

I didn’t hesitate. Threw on my jacket, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and took off after my dad.

Now here I was. Barreling toward something I didn’t understand.

The light ahead turned red. His sedan slowed to a stop. I eased back, letting the scooter hum quietly at my side. My hands itched with tension, and I checked my phone.

Lia: Pls be careful! And keep us updated!!!

Valeria: I wish I could come with you, just to be safe.

Mason: Just don’t break any bones using my roller… That would get me in big trouble!

Mason: Oh, and what the other two said, of course 😉

I smiled—barely. My fingers hovered above the screen, ready to type something dumb or deflective, but then a flicker in my peripheral vision made my stomach knot. The bridge loomed ahead.

Blackwater Bridge. Or, as most people called it, the Whisper Bridge—where rumors lived longer than facts, and truth was just another shadow swallowed by rust and fog. Its iron frame arched like a spine over the river, strung with thick black cables that groaned under their own weight. Grated flooring rattled with each passing tire, and somewhere beneath the metal, the water slapped restlessly against pylons stained with time, oil, and stories no one wanted to hear out loud.

We were heading for the river. And my father… he was already crossing it.

I swallowed hard, my balance faltering as the scooter wavered beneath me. The instinct to turn around hit like a punch to the ribs—sharp, sudden, and breathless. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I followed.

Crossing that bridge felt like peeling away everything soft and familiar—like stepping out of my own skin, with each meter that passed beneath the tires.

Behind me, the Upside shimmered in the fading sun—mirror-glass towers catching the last rays, manicured streets lined with boutiques and silent cameras, all built to convince you, that you belonged. A city curated like a museum exhibit.

But the further I moved across that iron carcass of a bridge, the more the light bled away. Pavement cracked and curled at the edges, the sidewalk dissolving into gravel and rust-stained gutters. The air grew heavier, denser, soaked in salt and exhaust and something metallic that clung to the back of my throat. Wind tugged at plastic bags caught in chain-link fences. Broken neon signs flickered on in protest, casting sickly glows onto buildings with boarded windows and doors that never quite closed.

This was the Downside.

Cavalton’s rotting heart, where everything bled slower and smelled like something dying.

Everyone knew it was Mafia territory. Unofficially, but absolutely.

Everyone avoided it.

But my father didn’t slow down. He drove straight in.

I tightened my grip. The scooter trembled like it didn’t want to be here either. Every sound felt louder here. A dog barked sharply from somewhere unseen. Sirens in the distance. A bottle shattering. Laughter that didn’t sound right.

I kept going.

My father’s sedan slowed. Traffic here was sparse but unpredictable. I fell back further, careful not to draw attention.

Then I saw it—his car vanishing between two worn buildings, swallowed by a narrow alley.

I veered off the main road and cut behind a rusted delivery truck. Killed the engine and stepped off. Gravel crunched under my boots as I crept forward, crouching low. I kept my back to a cracked wall tagged in graffiti and watched.

Two men stood at the alley’s mouth. Casual clothes. Hard eyes. Weapons probably hidden but close. They were the kind of men you didn’t lie to. The kind that didn’t ask questions before pulling triggers.

My father disappeared past them without hesitation.

What the hell was he doing?

I crouched lower, heart pounding, thoughts spiraling. I could leave. Just turn around and pretend I hadn’t seen anything. He was a grown man, fully capable of making his own choices. But he was also my dad—the only one I had—and I loved him, even if we'd never had those soft, cinematic moments. He wasn’t the type to say much, but I knew he cared. He showed it in the hours he worked, the tired eyes, the silence he wore like armor. Without that effort, I wouldn’t have had any of the things I clung to—MMA, riding, drawing, the quiet obsession with learning. All of it, stitched together by sacrifices he never explained.

Maybe I could reason with the guards. Say I was lost. Pretend I was looking for my father. Maybe they’d bring me to him.

Or maybe they’d drag me into the dark, and no one would ever see me again.

Then—

A sound.

Right behind me.

A low, deliberate clearing of a throat.

My blood turned to ice.

I spun, breath catching, ready to scream or run or fight—