Chapter 9 : Crimson bonds
Henry was no longer a man merely walking in the shadows he had become one with them. No better than a fugitive, he moved like smoke, elusive and silent, taking a path far removed from the one Harrison and Templeman had chosen. While his old companions clung to the dream of redemption, Henry stumbled into a different wilderness—one darker, lonelier, more vicious.
He had never received word of his parents' death. No telegram, no call, no relative to bring the sorrow home. Their passing had been as quiet as their lives, swallowed by the silence of time. His life sentence had made him a ghost, a name no one dared to speak at family gatherings—if those even still happened. There was no one left to look for him. And he, too, had helped bury the past with his choices.
In time, he was swept into a new crowd—one that had nothing to do with justice, mercy, or hope. A band of outlaws, really. Men who no longer believed in right and wrong, only in survival and gain.
Their leader was Smith, lean and sharp-eyed, the kind of man who never raised his voice but always had the last word. There was a chill in his calmness, a dangerous stillness that unnerved even the boldest.
"You're either useful or forgotten," Smith had told Henry the night they met, his voice even, his cigarette casting a glow under the brim of his hat. "Can you be useful, Henry?"
Henry had looked at him with tired eyes and said, "I have nothing left. That makes me dangerous."
Smith had smiled faintly, as though pleased. "Then you'll fit right in."
Jerry, by contrast, was fire to Smith's ice. Brutal, hot-tempered, and cruel for sport. He took pleasure in violence, and everyone in the gang knew never to turn their back on him. His words came out like barks, and his fists followed swiftly.
"New boy looks soft," Jerry said the day after Henry's first job. They were back at their warehouse hideout, the air thick with the smell of sweat and oil. "Bet he's never slit a man's throat."
"I don't need to," Henry muttered, keeping his eyes on the loot they were counting. "That's your job, isn't it?"
Jerry sneered, stepping closer, eyes narrowing. "You got a smart mouth for someone still green."
Smith raised a hand, without looking up. "Enough."
Jerry spat on the ground and backed off, muttering, "One day, that mouth's gonna get him killed."
Billy, the youngest in the group, had more bark than bite. His nerves often got the better of him, and he laughed too loud, too often, as if trying to forget what they all did for a living.
"You guys remember that job in Oakridge?" Billy said one night, wiping grease off his hands while nursing a cheap beer. "The old woman? Man, I still hear her scream in my sleep. Makes me feel like a damn ghostbuster."
"You need to grow a spine, Billy," Jerry grumbled. "That woman was old. She would've died in a week anyway."
"You didn't have to push her that hard," Alex chimed in from the shadows. "She was frail."
Alex was the quiet one. Always in the background, always watching. He had a soft spot for restraint, though he never voiced it openly. He was precise—never messy, never emotional. The kind of man who'd clean up a crime scene like it was his kitchen.
"You ever kill anyone?" Henry asked Alex once, during a stakeout in an abandoned van.
Alex looked at him for a long moment before answering. "Only when I had to. I don't enjoy it, if that's what you're asking."
Henry nodded. "That makes one of us."
The gang had a system. They scouted houses of the wealthy, moved in quietly, took what they needed, and vanished before morning. It was effective, lucrative, and dangerous. Henry, despite himself, found it exhilarating. There was something intoxicating about breaking rules, especially after years of confinement. And now, with cash in hand, he rediscovered pleasures he had long forgotten.
He bought clothes—clean, stylish, too expensive for his soul. He drank himself into stupors, staggered out of bars laughing at nothing, and threw bills at strangers just to feel powerful. No more metal bars, no more waiting for visitors who never came. Now, he was his own man.
"I like this life," Henry admitted one night, after a successful job in a rich suburb. They were back in the hideout, counting jewelry and foreign bills.
"It likes you back," Smith said, without looking up. "You've got a knack for finding the safes."
"It's easier than breaking out of prison," Henry said, pouring a drink.
Billy laughed. "You actually tried that?"
"Twice," Henry replied, his eyes dark with memory. "Second time nearly killed me."
Jerry took a swig from his bottle. "Prison makes men into wolves or rats. Looks like you came out teeth first."
"Maybe," Henry said. "Or maybe I just forgot how to care."
The others fell silent for a moment. Even Jerry didn't argue.
That night, after the others had fallen into drunken sleep, Smith approached Henry quietly. He handed him a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?" Henry asked.
"A mark," Smith said. "Tomorrow's target. I want you to lead this one."
Henry blinked. "Me?"
"You've earned it. And I want to see what you do when no one's telling you how."
Henry unfolded the paper. A home in the countryside. Wealthy family. Vacationing abroad. Easy.
"Why me?" he asked again.
Smith gave him a long look. "Because you don't scare easy. But you haven't decided who you are yet. That's the most dangerous kind of man—still becoming."
Henry didn't sleep much that night. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how far he had come from who he once was. The boy who loved books. The boy who used to pray. The son who believed his mother's hands could fix anything.
Now, he broke into homes and stole peace from others.
But he was good at it.
And it paid well.
The next day, they hit the countryside home. It was smooth—too smooth. No alarms. No dogs. They slipped in like whispers.
"Almost too easy," Alex said, scanning the hallway.
"Don't jinx it," Billy replied, his hands already full of gold figurines.
Jerry kicked open a door upstairs. "Found the vault!"
Within an hour, they'd cleaned the place out. Paintings, watches, heirlooms, foreign currency.
Back in the van, Jerry clapped Henry on the back. "You did good, rookie."
"Don't call me that," Henry said, but his lips curled slightly.
Smith nodded at him. "Told you."
That night, they celebrated. Henry drank until he couldn't feel the pit inside his chest. They laughed, toasted, played poker with stolen chips. But beneath the haze of alcohol and money, something in Henry stirred—a memory, a longing, a whisper from the man he used to be.
He stood by the window, glass in hand, looking out into the night. Rain began to fall, quiet and steady.
Alex joined him silently.
"You ever think about quitting?" Henry asked.
Alex was quiet for a long time. "Sometimes. But I've been in this too long. Don't know what else I'd be."
Henry sipped his drink. "Yeah."
Alex studied him. "But you—you might still have a way out. You're not like Jerry. Or even me."
Henry didn't answer.
Behind them, the laughter grew louder. Jerry was already drunk. Billy had passed out. Smith was watching everyone, as always, without speaking.
Henry closed his eyes.
The night had swallowed him whole.
But somewhere deep in the darkness, a sliver of his old self still breathed—waiting.