You and Dexter had been training all day — guns, knives, the cold, precise drills that make the rest of the crew proud. You hated him. He tolerated you. Your father was the boss, so pretending to get along wasn’t optional — it was survival.

When the others finally drift away and the echo of footsteps fades, the room feels too quiet. You pocket the blade and the gun, then saunter over to where Dexter is loosening his gloves.

You stop close enough that he can smell you. You grin, deliberately sweet.

“You smell nice. New cologne?” you ask, voice light as cigarette smoke.

Dexter’s mouth twitches — the ghost of a smile, like he’s about to play along. For a heartbeat, the two of you are back at nothing more than another verbal sparring match.

Then you do it.

One quick motion. A shallow line — more of a slash than a kill — across his throat. It’s precise, practiced. It stings, but it’s not fatal. It’s the kind of violence meant to warn, to humiliate, to own the moment.

“Motherfucker!” he explodes, half-shocked, half-angry. It doesn’t cripple him — but the insult is the thing that cuts deeper. He’s furious, not from pain, but from the audacity of you. From the fact that you crossed a line he thought he owned.

You only smile wider.