CHAPTER 1
EMOTIONAL CONTROL.THE NEXT DAY.
The sun had just set over the bustling streets of Johannesburg, casting a golden glow over the city's dark underbelly.
He came back home in the morning finding them enjoying a beautiful breakfast well served.
He wants to make way to his cave where he lashes out his emotions.
He throws some papers on the table and walked out on the going upstairs.
Simo's steps echoed through the deserted hallway as he retreated to his room. The door closed behind him with a soft click, shutting out the world but not his thoughts.
He stood before the mirror, staring at the reflection of a stranger. Eyes that once shone bright now seemed dull, weighed down by the secrets he kept.
The face that stared back was chiseled, hardened by the cruelties he'd witnessed and inflicted. Yet, in the depths of his eyes, a spark of humanity flickered.
Franco's thoughts swirled with the faces of those he'd killed, their screams echoing in his mind. Khumalo 's face joined the haunted gallery.
He recalled his stelmother's words: You are nothing but a bastard.
That alone gnawed at his soul. It might have happened when he was young and growing but it is becoming a forever song in his memory.
Sphetheni never loved him and can never starts now.
Was he still human? Or just a tool, forged in blood and steel?
His gaze dropped, avoiding the reflection. He couldn't bear the accusation in his own eyes.
With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the mirror and began to unbutton his shirt. The weight of his gun holster seemed to grow heavier.
As he undressed, he caught glimpses of scars on his body, each telling a story of loyalty and betrayal.
His thoughts drifted to his family, bound together by blood and deceit. Alakhe and Nkonzo Zulu, Andile 's calculating gaze, and his stelmother's ill-treatment towards him..
In the silence, his mask began to crack. For an instant, he allowed himself to feel.
Grief. Anger. Helplessness.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he forced them back.
No weakness.
Not now.
Not ever.
With a deep breath, Simo rebuilt his defenses, brick by brick.
When he looked back in the mirror, the stranger's face had returned.
His feet carried him to the shower, his movements mechanical. He turned the faucet, and water cascaded down, a soothing melody.
As he stepped under the stream, warmth enveloped him, washing away the surface dirt but not the stains within.
His eyes closed, and the water's rhythm seemed to match the pounding in his chest. Thoughts he'd suppressed began to surface.
Memories of his childhood, before the family business consumed him, flooded his mind. Laughter with his siblings, his mother's warm smile, and his father's proud guidance.
When did it all change?
The water poured down, a relentless reminder of the life he'd chosen.
Simo's hands slid down the tile, his body sagging under the weight of his emotions. For a moment, he let go, allowing the pain to seep through.
Why did he continue down this path?
For family? Loyalty? Or fear?
The questions swirled, taunting him.
As the water began to cool, his grip on his emotions faltered. A sob escaped, muffled by the shower's roar.
He wept for the life he once knew, for the innocence lost, and for the souls he'd taken.
The shower's warmth couldn't penetrate the chill within.
Franco's body shook, wracked by silent sobs.
In that moment, he wasn't a hitman or a loyal son.
He was just a broken man.
The water continued to flow, washing away his tears but not his torment.
As the shower's warmth began to dissipate, his thoughts turned to the faces of those he'd killed. Khumalo 's expression, frozen in shock, joined the haunting gallery.
But alongside the victims, another face emerged – his stepmother's.
Her cold, calculating gaze had shaped him into the man he was today.
Simosethu remembered the countless nights spent listening to her venomous whispers, poisoning his father's mind against him.
"Illegitimate," she'd hiss. "A bastard child, unworthy of our family's name."
His father's indifference had been just as damaging. Andile's eyes, once warm, grew cold and distant.
Simo's heart had slowly hardened, armor against the hurt.
He recalled the isolation, locked in his room, while his stepmother's voice dripped with malice.
"You're nothing but a mistake," she'd say. "A reminder of your father's weakness."
The words seared into his soul like branding irons.
His thoughts swirled with memories of his father's passive acceptance.
"Why didn't you defend me?" His heart cried out.
The shower's water continued to flow, but his emotions had frozen.
His father's love and attention waned, replaced by an unyielding expectation.
"Prove yourself," Andile would say. "Earn your place."
Simo's reflection gazed back, a stranger's face etched with scars.
He saw a boy, lost and alone, desperate for love.
A boy who grew into a man, conditioned to believe his worth lay in violence.
He is still that boy.
The water's temperature dropped, mirroring simo's emotional numbness.
As he turned off the faucet, his mask began to reassemble.
But the cracks remained, hairline fractures spreading through his soul.
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