Mosh let out a soft laugh and said, "How've you been, dummy? I missed you."

The house was quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. Adriana had barely slept. The old room smelled the same—dust, old books, a hint of the lavender her mom used to keep on the windowsill.

She padded barefoot into the hallway, thirsty, her fingers loosely holding a water bottle. That’s when she heard it.

A faint, steady creak. Controlled breathing. Training? At this hour?

She paused. Mosh’s door was slightly open—just a crack—but it was enough.

Drawn by instinct, she leaned closer and peeked in.

And there he was.

Mosh hung upside down from a mounted pull-up bar, his legs hooked around it like a gymnast. His body moved with quiet precision—slow, powerful lifts that spoke of discipline, not just raw strength. Sweat lined his torso, catching the faint moonlight sneaking through the window.

He was shirtless, his form lean but sculpted, more than what she remembered. Not just strong—cut.

But it wasn’t just the muscle that made her stare. It was the ink.

He had tattoos, and they were nothing like what she expected.

No flashy sleeves. No names or symbols on arms or hands—he’d kept it hidden. Deliberately. What she saw now was art buried beneath fabric and silence.

A large piece sprawled across the left side of his chest, starting from just above the heart: a black sword plunged downward, the hilt ornate with thorns, wings of shadow stretching behind it like smoke. But the blade… it was cracked, and from the cracks leaked golden ink—as if something pure was breaking through something dark.

The design curled along his ribs, where a serpent was coiled—its body made of faded scripture in Latin, so faint it looked like scars. The serpent wasn’t striking—it was watching, with one eye inked in red. A single drop of blood hung under it, as if frozen in time.

On his back, something even more commanding: a wolf’s skull, crowned with a shattered halo, was etched between his shoulder blades. The skull’s jaw was open in a silent scream, and from its mouth spilled black birds—crows or ravens, mid-flight, disappearing into smoke that trailed across his lower back.

The pieces didn’t feel random. They weren’t “cool” tattoos.

They told a story.

Pain. Control. Rage that had been tamed, but not forgotten.

Adriana didn’t say anything. Just watched—eyes fixed on her brother who, somehow, in the years she was gone, had become a man.

A man with fire under his skin.

It happened so fast she didn’t even register it.

One blink, and he was gone from the bar. In a fluid, silent motion, Mosh unhooked his legs, flipped down, and landed with barely a sound. Before she could even react, he launched sideways — rebounding off the wall like a shadow — and in the blink of an eye, he was right in front of her.

A hand wrapped gently but firmly around her throat.

Not choking. Not hurting.

Just... asserting.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and unreadable. Then a second later, he exhaled, pulled his hand back, and laughed — low and dry.

"Damn, you idiot. I thought you were someone else."

He wiped the sweat off his face using the inside of his shirt, then pulled a dark, loose t-shirt over his chest, hiding the ink and the stories with it.

His tone shifted — softer, quieter. A warning, not a threat.

"Don’t tell mom or dad what you saw tonight." "It’s not for them."

He looked away, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

"It belongs to the person I’ve become..." "After five years of... violent training."

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

There was a weight in those words that didn’t require explanation. Not to her. Not anymore.

– صباح اليوم التالي:

The sun filtered weakly through the kitchen window as their mother shuffled in, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She expected to find Mosh at the table like always, half-asleep with a bowl of cereal and a blank stare.

But the house was quiet. Too quiet.

She walked past his room. The door was open. The bed was made. No sign of him.

Frowning, she stepped inside. A folded note sat neatly on the pillow.

She opened it.

---

📝 رسالة الأم:

“Don’t look for me. I’ll be gone for five years. I’m heading to Japan. There’s something there I need — a path, a purpose. A place where I can train my body and spirit the way I need to. This isn’t goodbye. It’s just part of becoming someone better. For myself.”

— Mosh.

---

The paper trembled slightly in her hand. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Then suddenly—

“What the hell?” It was Adriana’s voice from her room.

The mother turned quickly and entered, finding her daughter holding up another note, taped messily to her wall.

Adriana squinted, reading aloud with disbelief.

---

📝 الرسالة اللي سابها لأخته:

“P.S. When I come back, I’ll have more muscles than you... and I’ll definitely be taller than you, dummy 😛”

Adriana stared at the note. Then blinked. Then snorted a laugh she couldn't hold back.

“Unbelievable…” she muttered, shaking her head. But her fingers lingered on the paper a little longer than necessary.

A soft smile played at the corner of her mouth. Yeah. That was definitely him.

Final Day – The Return of Mosh

It was the last day of the last month. Five years had come and gone — quietly, relentlessly. And now, silence was broken by a growl.

A modified Audi A8 rolled into the quiet street like a phantom beast. Its body was jet black, matte yet glistening beneath the dusk light, like a stealth weapon dressed in luxury. Custom aero kits gave the car a low, predatory stance, and the wheels—black chrome with fire-red accents—spun like blades before easing to a halt.

Every detail of the car screamed one thing: precision. A machine built for power, presence, and prestige.

The engine gave a final, thunderous purr before cutting off with a hiss.

Then the door opened.

He stepped out.

Tall. Built. Unmistakably dominant. The man who exited wasn’t just muscular—he was sculpted, like a living statue of control and violence honed over time.

His shoulders were wide and sharp, giving him a V-shape frame that pulled his shirt tight across the upper body. The shirt, simple and black, gripped his chest and arms like it was tailored for a war god. Thick, defined pecs pressed against the fabric. Trapezius muscles rose from his shoulders to his neck like armor plates. Veins crisscrossed his forearms, pulsing visibly over deep scars, the kind that carried stories.

His biceps weren’t just big — they were dense. The kind of muscle that doesn’t come from lifting weights but from living with them.

He walked toward the house with calm, calculated steps.

And then… he stood still at the door. No rush. No doubt.

He raised his hand and rang the doorbell once — then knocked. Once. Twice. A third time.

Silence.

He lowered his head slightly. The black cap he wore shielded most of his face, casting a shadow over his eyes. His jawline, though, was unmistakable — angular, hardened, sharp as a blade.

The door opened.

Adriana stood there, surprised, confused. Her eyes scanned him—this presence, this... stranger.

"Who are you?" she asked, guarded.

A pause.

Then, the stranger lifted his head just a little.

"I kept my promise."

His voice was deep. Grounded. He gave a slow, controlled roll of his shoulders — and the shirt responded, stretching against his muscles as if protesting.

Then came the smirk — subtle, curved at one side. His jaw flexed, and his eyes glinted beneath the shadow of the cap.

"I guess those muscles of yours… don’t mean much now, huh?" He tilted his head just slightly, letting the line land with quiet amusement and a flicker of challenge.

The Reunion – Tension and Play

"Oh?" she said, one brow rising with a smirk that didn’t quite touch her eyes. "And what about the rest of you? Think you can still handle me after all this time?"

Her voice was low, laced with something more than sarcasm — a quiet edge, a blade beneath silk. She stepped back slightly into the shadows cast by the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

Her words hung in the air like a challenge.

A test.

Was this truly her brother? Was he still the boy who once followed her around with wide eyes and scraped knees? Or was he just someone wearing his face?

For a brief second, the air was thick with unspoken questions.

Then — he moved.

In a smooth, fluid motion, Mosh reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her effortlessly into his frame. She gasped, surprised, but not afraid.

Before she could react, he slipped his thick, muscled arm around her shoulders and locked her under it like a human clamp — his strength now undeniable, his grip unshakable, but still playful.

"Gotcha." He chuckled — low, almost nostalgic.

Then, like old times, he rubbed his knuckles against her head, a classic noogie — rough enough to annoy, but gentle enough not to hurt.

She groaned, laughing despite herself, and shoved at him as he finally let go.

He stepped back. Lifted his hands to his black cap. And removed it.

The man beneath the shadow revealed himself.

His hair was swept back, neat but wild at the edges, like something untamable had been pressed into order. His face—clean, sharp, and striking—was a contradiction: soft in youth, hard in definition. A sculpted jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes that had seen things. And yet... still him.

He smiled gently, almost apologetically.

"Don’t worry," he said softly. "I didn’t become a criminal. These..." —he gestured to the scars, the muscle, the presence— "I earned all of it. This isn’t something dark." "It’s just... who I had to become."

He didn’t need to say more. Not yet.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Mosh reached into his pocket and pulled out his car key — sleek, black, minimal, except for one striking feature.

Engraved across the surface was a coiled serpent, massive in form, drawn with meticulous detail. Its scales shimmered like blue fire, ethereal and untamed, a blend of art and menace. The serpent’s tail curled around the base of the key, while its head bared open jaws, fangs spread wide across the top — a vicious snarl frozen in silver and sapphire.

But that wasn’t the only place the beast existed.

As Mosh clicked the remote, the Audi A8 behind him responded with a deep mechanical growl — the engine roaring to life like a beast disturbed from slumber.

The car itself bore the same serpent: A massive, custom airbrushed design coiled across the entire body of the vehicle.

The tail started at the rear bumper, wrapping around the back like a whip. Its scales were textured to shimmer under light — dark steel and iridescent blue flames dancing across the surface. The serpent's body twisted along the sides, muscular and coiled with quiet rage, until it reached the front fender, where its open jaws were painted across the hood and front wheel arch — fangs gripping the tire like prey. The eyes, two crimson slits, glared outward from the headlights — glowing slightly as if the car itself was watching.

Mosh took a step to the side, giving her a full view of it. Then tilted his head toward it with a smirk.

“Don’t you wanna take a quick ride inside my girl?” His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper under the tone — a pride that went beyond metal and wheels.

“She’s wild, you know. Doesn’t like being ignored... just like her father.”

He tapped the hood twice with a knuckle. The car rumbled in response — almost like it agreed.

The night air was thick with silence, hanging over the city like a curtain waiting to be torn apart. The streetlamps cast long shadows over the pavement, but none dared touch the black beast parked outside the house. The Audi R8 sat like a dormant dragon — matte black skin gleaming beneath a layer of dustless moonlight, its crimson eyes in the headlights staring into nothing, waiting.

Adriana hesitated. Her fingers brushed the passenger-side door handle, and for a second, she looked at her brother through the tinted glass.

Mosh.

He sat behind the wheel like a general before war, head low, cap shadowing his eyes, muscles flexing subtly beneath the tight cut of his shirt. The veins on his forearms pulsed like coiled snakes, the scars a map of stories untold. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just... waited. The car was still. Silent. Predatory.

She opened the door.

Click.

The interior was an ecosystem of control and power — racing harnesses, exposed carbon fiber, a dashboard lit up like the cockpit of a fighter jet. The steering wheel was custom, leather-wrapped with titanium paddles, and beneath the surface, the twin-turbo V10 hummed like it knew what was coming.

Adriana slid into the seat, and for a moment, silence.

Then —

VROOOOOOOOOOOM.

Mosh turned the key, and the engine ROARED to life like a monster being woken from hell. The ground trembled. Birds scattered from the trees. The streetlights flickered.

Adriana flinched. Mosh didn’t.

With a smooth flick, he shifted into gear. The beast lunged forward — not a car, not a vehicle — but something alive.

They hit 80 km/h before they’d even cleared the driveway. The rear tires screamed against the asphalt, kicking up clouds of smoke as the serpent painted on the side shimmered like fire.

“Buckle up,” Mosh said. Not a suggestion. A command.

She clicked in.

170 km/h.

They hit the first turn — a sharp left — and Mosh didn’t brake. He downshifted and flicked the wheel. The R8 drifted like it was skating on glass, the tires kissing the curb, millimeters from death.

Adriana gripped the side panel. Her breath caught in her throat.

Every second was war. The engine bellowed, howled, shrieked with hunger. The road ahead twisted like a snake, full of turns and broken dreams. Mosh saw none of it. Or maybe he saw it all.

He drove like the laws of physics were merely suggestions.

A tight alleyway — he slid between two delivery trucks, mirrors folding in mid-drift.

A roundabout — he didn’t go around. He flew over it, tires lifting briefly, engine growling as the R8 came down hard, suspension screaming.

Adriana screamed something. Laughter? A curse? Even she didn’t know.

Mosh’s face was stone. Not calm — focused. Locked in. Every movement was precise, fluid, like the car was his own heartbeat.

The freeway.

Now it was pure carnage.

He merged by force. No signals. No hesitation. The R8 slid between two cars like a shark slicing through blood.

The wind screamed around them. The dashboard lit up with warnings — tire pressure, temperature, downforce. Mosh ignored them all.

The serpent on the car’s body glowed in the city lights — its eyes reflected in every rearview mirror they passed. People didn’t move aside. They got out of the way.

Adriana laughed now, eyes wild, hair whipping around her face. “You’re insane!” she shouted.

Mosh smirked, eyes locked on the road.

“Insane is slow.”

The car became light. Not weightless — limitless. Every push of the pedal summoned thunder. Every turn was a test of mortality.

He spun the wheel into a sideways drift at 300km/h, the rear end sweeping across three lanes, tires biting back just in time.

They entered a tunnel.

BOOM.

The sound exploded — echoing in the confined space like artillery. The glow from the blue fire decals shimmered on the walls as they passed. The serpent roared with them.

They emerged — airborne for a second — then slammed down onto the asphalt like gods returning from Olympus.

“You call this control?” Adriana yelled.

Mosh grinned. “This is freedom.”

He shifted again. Hard.

The car howled.

He let go of the wheel with one hand, leaned over slightly. Whispered:

“She doesn’t need control. She needs respect.”

They hit the end of the freeway — a hard dead turn onto an old, forgotten industrial road. He didn’t slow. He turned the wheel full lock, and the R8 responded like it wanted to crash — but didn’t.

It spun, drifted, corrected. A ballet of destruction.

Smoke. Sparks. Screeching metal.

When they finally stopped, the world was silent again.

Steam rose from the hood. The brakes hissed. The engine purred like a beast just fed.

Mosh leaned back, took a breath, eyes still electric.

Adriana turned slowly.

“...Holy shit.”

He chuckled. “She’s just warming up.”

Mosh let out a low chuckle, the adrenaline still humming in his veins like electricity. “Yeah,” he said, his voice smooth and cool, almost like a whisper meant only for those who'd been to the edge and back. “Madness. But the right kind of madness, like you said. Words don’t really do it justice.”

He glanced at her, his sharp jawline catching the dim glow of the dashboard, then turned his gaze forward again, the ghost of a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. The engine ticked quietly beneath them, cooling down like a beast that had finally been tamed—by no one but its master.

Then, in a lower, teasing tone, he asked, “So... that motorcycle of yours—still any good?” He leaned slightly toward her, resting his arm on the back of the passenger seat, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “I could ride behind you, see what kind of chaos you’re hiding under that helmet. But listen—if you get us both killed out there,” he smirked, “I swear I’ll hunt you down in hell.”

He opened the door, stepping out with a fluid motion, stretching his tall, muscular frame like a panther after a hunt. His veins still popped slightly along his forearms, the lingering tension from the drive visible in every fiber of his sculpted body. He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair and turned to her again with a crooked grin.

“But seriously,” he added, cocking his head with a mock arrogance, “I’m a professional. What you just saw? That’s experience. So don’t even think about copying me.”

With that, he slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the night as they stood once more in front of the house—two shadows beneath the streetlight, the beast of a car purring softly behind them like it wasn’t just alive, but proud.

Mosh bumped her gently with his muscular shoulder, a teasing glint in his eye. “Alright, alright, tough girl,” he said with a smirk. “Let’s see what kind of fire you’ve got on that little bike of yours.”

He stepped a bit closer, tilting his head as if sizing her up—not in challenge, but in play. “I’m pretty damn sure I could ride it harder and wilder than you ever could,” he added with a cocky grin. “But tonight, I’ll take the back seat and watch how you handle your little beast.”

His voice carried a hint of mischief, but beneath it, there was something else—an unspoken trust. He wasn’t just letting her lead the way because he doubted her; he wanted to see her shine in her element. He wanted to witness who she'd become, just as she had seen him.

He folded his arms and nodded toward the street. “Show me what you’ve got, sis. But fair warning—if you crash, I’ll laugh at your funeral.”

Mosh narrowed his eyes behind the wheel of the R8, watching the faint red glow of Adriana’s taillight vanish into the distance. For a moment, he let her have it. Let her taste the rush. Let her believe, just for a second, that she had the upper hand.

Then he chuckled darkly to himself and muttered, “Oh, sweet sister... You really think I’d let you outrun me?”

With that, he slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

The modified Audi screamed to life. The engine let out a guttural roar, a mechanical beast awakening with fury. The car surged forward like it had been shot from a cannon, the force pinning him to the seat as the needle on the speedometer snapped past 300… 350… 400… and climbing.

The city became a blur — lights stretching into streaks of neon, buildings warping into abstract shapes. Tires shrieked through turns. Sparks flew as he cut corners so tight they might’ve split atoms. The R8 didn’t drive — it hunted.

He passed Adriana like a ghost slicing through the air — a blur of black metal and red taillights. She didn’t even see him coming.

One second, she was leading.

The next, she was alone.

And then… silence.

No sign of him.

Gone.

Adriana blinked, breath caught in her throat, eyes scanning the road in disbelief.

Where the hell did he—?

A sound split the air behind her.

A low, rising snarl.

Not human. Not natural. Like thunder dragged across steel and fire fed through turbine lungs.

She glanced over her shoulder—just in time to catch it.

The R8.

Coming from behind.

He’d looped the entire damn route.

Somehow, impossibly, Mosh had circled the city and was now behind her again.

The headlights lit up her bike in a cone of savage brilliance. The roar grew louder, closer, like the jaws of something ancient and unstoppable.

And then, the car slowed just enough to pull up beside her — driver’s window down.

Mosh glanced sideways at her, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other drumming on the doorframe. Wind tousled his dark hair, his smile maddening and effortless.

He didn’t say a word.

Just winked.

Then hit the gas again and vanished ahead into the night.

Adriana leaned harder into the curve, pushing the bike to its edge, eyes locked on the blur of her brother disappearing ahead. The engine beneath her growled like a beast barely kept in check, and her pulse matched its rhythm. She wasn’t racing him — not really. She was chasing the memory of who they used to be.

And then—

Scratch.

A jolt snapped through her body as the side of her motorcycle clipped the rear quarter panel of a black Nissan crawling out of a turn. She barely steadied herself in time, the bike swerving slightly before regaining control. The Nissan screeched to a halt.

A furious man burst out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “The hell’s wrong with you, you crazy bitch!?” he shouted, fists clenched, chest puffed, breath steaming in the night.

Adriana swung the bike around and brought it to a halt, kicking down the stand. Her boots hit the ground with purpose. She started walking toward the man, jaw set, fire rising with every step. She didn’t say a word — her silence was louder than any curse.

She was two steps away.

Ready.

And then—

The sound.

A savage growl, thunderous and deep, shook the air as if something primal had been summoned.

The R8.

It surged into view from the opposite end of the street — opposite — coming the wrong way with reckless elegance. The headlights flared like the eyes of some mechanical predator.

The man froze.

The car screeched to a halt inches from the curb, its nose angled like a loaded weapon. The engine purred with menace. The driver’s door opened slowly.

And Mosh stepped out.

His shirt clung to the ridges of his torso, muscles coiled beneath the fabric like they were ready to strike. His eyes locked onto the man like crosshairs. He didn’t look angry.

He looked calm.

Which was worse.

He walked slowly, like the world belonged to him, and every inch of pavement bent to his will. Then he stopped — just ahead of Adriana, half-shielding her, half-leading her.

He turned his head slightly toward her and said, low and sharp: “I won’t let you go back to prison. Stay back.”

Then he looked forward again.

The man, trembling now, raised his hand — maybe to shove, maybe to slap, maybe just to show he wasn’t afraid.

Mosh didn’t wait.

In one swift motion, he raised his arm and caught the man’s wrist mid-air. The man barely had time to gasp.

Mosh’s other hand shot up — fingers digging into the man's greasy hair. With brutal precision, he slammed the man’s head into the window of his own Nissan.

CRACK.

Glass spiderwebbed and fell like glittering shards of ice.

Mosh released him.

The man stumbled back, dazed, clutching his bleeding forehead.

Mosh’s eyes burned like twin coals. “Call the cops,” he said, voice cold as steel. “And if they don’t arrest you instead of me… I’ll make them.”

The man’s bravado drained in seconds.

“N-no, I… I don’t want trouble,” he stammered, backing up toward his car. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I… I was out of line.”

He looked past Mosh at Adriana, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, miss. Truly.”

He jumped into his car, slammed the door, and peeled off down the street, vanishing into the night.

For a moment, only the sound of Mosh’s breathing remained, steady, grounded, unshaken.

Then he looked at his sister again — not to ask if she was okay.

But to remind her who they were.

And what the world now had to deal with

When they finally pulled up outside their parents’ house, the engines died, and silence reclaimed the night — thick, electric, alive with everything unsaid.

Mosh stepped out of the R8 first, glancing back at his sister with a crooked grin still lingering from the race they’d had just before arriving. His chest rose and fell with the calm after the storm, the adrenaline slowly settling into his bones.

He stretched.

A long, deliberate motion — spine arching, arms overhead.

The fabric of his shirt strained, seams groaning under the pressure of his frame — until it gave.

A rip echoed into the quiet as the shirt split at the shoulders. Without hesitation, Mosh pulled it off entirely and tossed it aside, revealing the raw map of the man he’d become.

His body was carved — all ridges and valleys, as if sculpted from stone rather than grown from flesh. Wide shoulders, corded traps, swollen veins that pulsed with life, and muscles that flexed with casual power. Scars crossed his skin like signatures from a hundred past battles. But it was the tattoo that caught the eye.

Black ink — wild and searing.

It began at the sharp lines of his lower abdomen, rising like flame across the landscape of his body, licking upward beneath his left pec, wrapping around his shoulder like a serpent of fire. It wasn’t just decoration — it belonged there, threaded between the veins and scars like it had grown with him.

Adriana remembered it.

That tattoo.

She remembered the day he got it, far too young — the fight they’d had after, how she’d shouted at him, how angry she’d been. But even then, he hadn’t flinched. He knew why he wanted it.

Because even as a boy…

He’d already decided who he was going to be.

And now — here he stood — the exact vision he’d imagined. Fierce. Fearless. Unignorable. His body a statement; his presence a challenge; his silence louder than most men’s wars.

Mosh let out a low laugh, shaking his head as he turned slightly toward her.

"You idiot," he said, his tone warm beneath the teasing. "I never brag about anything. You know that."

Then he glanced down at his torso — at the flex of his abs, the scars, the ink — and his grin twisted into something playful.

"Well… maybe the muscles. Yeah. I’ll admit it — I’m proud of those."

He turned to her fully, eyes glittering with mischief.

"Don’t pretend you weren’t showing off yours when you got out of prison," he added, voice dripping with exaggerated accusation. "I’m just returning the favor, big sister."

With a light-hearted shove of his bare shoulder, he bumped her — his powerful frame nudging hers with enough force to make her step back half a pace, though it was all in good fun.

Then, with a casual air, Mosh walked to the back of the R8, popped the trunk, and pulled out a clean, softer-looking shirt from a duffel. He slipped it over his head, the fabric hugging his body more comfortably than the last, then tugged it into place before slamming the trunk shut.

Mosh smiled faintly, his gaze drifting toward the house as he spoke under his breath.

"You know… I kinda hope they’re asleep."

He glanced sideways at Adriana, then back toward the door.

"You remember how she greeted you the night you got out of prison — five years locked away, and all she saw was a disappointment standing at her doorstep. Now imagine this: I've been gone just as long, and she thinks I spent all that time in Japan. God forbid she believes I was trying to one-up you with a cleaner record and sharper edges."

He exhaled deeply, a weary sigh escaping his chest.

"Yeah… I think I understand her a little too well. And honestly? I don’t mind. If she greets me like she did you — I’ll take it."

Together, they walked up to the front door. Adriana knocked — firm, unflinching — and a long pause followed before the sound of the latch turned.

The door creaked open just a crack, and their mother’s sharp eyes landed directly on Mosh. She froze, her face contorted in equal parts suspicion and disbelief.

"And who the hell are you?"

Her eyes flicked to Adriana, narrowing further.

"You stupid girl — are you still bitter because I was tough on you after prison? Is that it? You went and brought back a handsome goddamn serial killer to finish us off in our sleep?"

Mosh chuckled, low and amused, as he raised his hands slightly in mock surrender.

"Wow. Not quite the welcome I imagined."

Then he gestured at himself with a crooked grin.

"It’s me. Mosh. This—" he motioned to his sculpted frame, the tattoos, the presence he now carried, "—this is what you get after years of hard training and even harder lessons."

Mosh leaned in suddenly and gave Adriana’s arm — the muscular one — a quick, deliberate pinch.

"Well?" he said with a teasing grin. "Now do you see who’s really got the edge here?"

He nodded toward the door with a smirk.

"She thought I was a serial killer, Adriana. That has to count for something."

Then he let go of her arm with a low chuckle, his eyes still gleaming with mischief.

When Mosh pulled off his shirt, the room seemed to still for a moment. His sculpted torso caught the dim light — broad shoulders, carved abs, thick veins running over skin marked with scars, and that unmistakable fire-like tattoo that snaked from his lower abdomen up toward his chest, wrapping around his left shoulder like a crown of flame.

He sat calmly at the table, completely unfazed, his muscles flexing subtly with each movement.

Their mother, who had just entered the room, froze mid-step. She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

"Boy," she said with a half-laugh, half-shock, "were those five years in Japan, or did you take a detour through hell?"

She stepped forward and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder — right where the tattoo ended.

"You’ve become stronger than your sister," she said with a knowing smirk, then chuckled — because she knew exactly what she’d just started. Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward her room. "Enjoy yourselves, my little monsters," she added playfully over her shoulder.

Mosh gave a dry, sarcastic smile, purposefully avoiding Adriana’s gaze like he hadn’t just been praised.

Then he muttered, eyes flicking to her with mock innocence, "I suppose… nothing else needs to be proven now, huh?"

Mosh stood up slowly, stretching his powerful arms with a quiet sigh. He turned to his mother and sister, his voice calm but final:

"Goodnight. I think I need some rest."

Without another word, he disappeared down the hallway into the guest room. But instead of collapsing onto the dusty old bed, he unzipped a large black duffel bag and pulled out a luxurious, high-end sleeping mat — pristine, military-grade, and clearly well-used. The room, though familiar, was stale with the scent of time and disuse. It needed a proper cleaning before he'd trust its surfaces.

He laid the mat out neatly on the floor, lowered himself onto it with practiced precision, and lay flat on his back. Even in sleep, he was a fortress.

His body didn’t relax like most. It remained locked in a quiet tension — muscles tight, veins raised beneath the skin, like thick roots crawling under stone. His breathing was steady but deep, almost mechanical.

It was the sleep of someone forged, not raised — of a man trained beyond ordinary limits. Not even unconsciousness could strip away the discipline carved into him. His arms rested at his sides, but his body looked ready to strike at the first wrong sound.

Sleep had come to him — but peace hadn’t.

Mosh didn’t rest like a man. He rested like a weapon waiting to be unsheathed.

Just an hour before sunrise, Mosh stepped out into the dim light of the quiet house — his sculpted torso bare, skin catching the first hints of the coming day. The room was still, touched only by the soft breath of dawn stirring behind the curtains.

He spotted Adriana slumped asleep at the table, her arms folded beneath her cheek, her breath slow and deep.

Mosh shook his head with a faint smirk. "A big sister, huh?" he murmured under his breath. "More like a sleepy child."

With effortless strength, he scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of feathers. One arm steady beneath her, the other giving her toned stomach a teasing pinch.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he said with a mischievous grin. "Yeah, it's early, but you brought this on yourself — sleeping on a chair like that."

He carried her into the bathroom, laughing quietly to himself, and leaned her gently forward over the sink. With a quick twist of the handle, cold water burst from the faucet and splashed across her face.

As soon as she jolted awake, sputtering at the shock, Mosh was already backing out of the room — grinning like a troublemaker.

"Good morning, dear sister," he called with playful satisfaction, voice echoing down the hall as his laughter followed behind.

After leaving the bathroom, Mosh stepped barefoot into the backyard, the pale light of dawn brushing over his skin like a veil. The world was still wrapped in silence — the kind of silence that only comes before the city wakes and the chaos begins.

He stood still for a moment, eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed, chest rising slowly with each breath. Then, without a word, he dropped into stance — knuckles loose, feet grounded — and began to move.

At first, it looked like he was alone. But in Mosh’s mind, a figure took shape in the thin morning air — not a vague blur, but sharp and real. A professional fighter. A heavyweight boxer. Muscles like steel cords, footwork precise, fists like bricks. This wasn’t just imagination. This was a shadow he could feel — one only he could see.

They began to dance.

Mosh weaved between punches, the air whistling as his body shifted in perfect rhythm. His counterattacks came like lightning — sharp jabs that cracked through silence, hooks and uppercuts that sliced the air so fast a normal eye could barely register the motion. Every strike landed on the invisible opponent with weight — enough weight to train, to bleed, to bruise if it were flesh.

Each motion was deliberate. Flowing. Almost beautiful.

But there was violence in the grace — a storm trapped in human form.

Minutes passed. Sweat barely touched his brow. And finally, with a final feint and crushing cross, Mosh landed the imaginary knockout blow. The shadow opponent crumpled in his mind — defeated.

He stood still again. Calm.

Without a word, Mosh walked over to a bench and picked up a chilled bottle of water. He opened it casually, tilted his head back, and took a slow drink — as if he hadn’t just torn through an entire bout with a ghost of his own creation.

His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. No fatigue. No strain. Only the fire in his eyes remained — a quiet blaze beneath the surface.

Then, with a grin tugging at the edge of his lips, Mosh bumped his bare shoulder playfully against hers and said, "Why don’t you show me what you’ve got, wild one?"

He took a few steps back, planting his feet in the grass. The morning light carved sharp lines across his chiseled body — every muscle taut like coiled steel, every vein like a serpent beneath his skin. The scars that marked him only added to the raw, intimidating presence he carried.

"My muscles are forged like iron," he said, voice low but laced with challenge. "Hit me. Full strength. I can take it. I want to see what’s still inside you."

He opened his arms slightly, exposing his torso without a hint of fear — letting her see the carved surface of his body like a battleground, daring her to strike.

His eyes never left hers. Not mocking. Not arrogant. But curious. Like a brother testing a flame — wanting to know if it still burned.

When he felt her breathing begin to slow, the tension in her shoulders finally giving way, Mosh stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a firm, grounding embrace — the kind that said I'm here, and I always will be.

He held her tightly for a beat longer than expected, then leaned back slightly, his smirk returning.

“I think you need to calm down… big sister,” he teased, tilting his head. “Or should I say little one?”

He let out a low laugh, still holding her close, his voice rich with warmth and mockery all at once.

“You’re strong,” he added, tapping his fingers lightly against her back. “But I’m definitely stronger, you fool.”

Mosh laughed, echoing her earlier words with a playful scoff. “If I were anyone else, I wouldn’t still be standing, huh? Is that it?”

Then, without warning, he stepped toward her — muscles flexing beneath his skin like coiled steel — and looped an arm around her waist. In one swift, effortless motion, he hoisted her up over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Alright then, fool,” he said with a grin, carrying her toward the house. “Who's the little one now? Look at you — light as a feather. I could carry you around all day.”

As they stepped inside, their mother looked up from the kitchen and raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Put your sister down, Mosh,” she said with a chuckle. “She’s the eldest, not you.”

Mosh lowered Adriana gently, then smirked and muttered, “It was just a joke, Mom.”

And before his sister could regain her balance, he nudged her playfully with his elbow, causing her to stumble forward slightly.