Prologue - You Asked For This
I was eleven when I saw my first kill.
Not in a movie. Not on a screen. In real life.
The man twitched twice before he stilled. His eyes didn’t close, and no one reached for a sheet.
That was the first time I understood: in some families, death isn’t the end. It’s the initiation.
They called themselves Men of Iron. Said it like a prayer. Wore it like a second skin.
Some of them bled for it. Some killed for it. Some loved like it was war—and some loved like it was salvation.
I watched them all. From a corner. From a hallway. From under the table where no one checked.
I learned about power in fragments: The weight of a kutte. The silence in the Furnace. The way pain was measured not by the scream, but by how long you didn’t make one.
Back then, they didn’t see me. Not really.
That was the first lesson.
The second?
Monsters aren’t always born. Sometimes, they’re made. Piece by piece. Word by word. By the ones who hold your hand. By the ones who swear they’re saving you. By the ones who teach you to survive their kind of love.
And sometimes—Sometimes, they don’t even know what they’ve created... until it’s too late.
This isn’t a story about villains. It’s about blood. And fire. And the family you build in the ashes.
I remember it all. Even the parts I wish I didn’t.
So if you’re still reading by the end—Just remember:
You asked for this.
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