Page 13 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)
M aro got suspended. It was only for a week as Horace tested positive for multiple substances which shouldn’t have been in his bloodstream and Maro had documented PTSD from his past.
Obviously!
The principal tried to ‘connect’ with him in a closed-door chat, but whatever he said didn’t work.
When Maro came out, Zel was waiting. No words were exchanged, just a tight hand holding the back of his neck as he was dragged, struggling to the bleachers.
They all met there more than once. Thane had one more year in junior school, so this was where they could talk without their parents hovering.
Zel lit a cigarette. “You can’t go smashing in heads every time someone opens their gob.”
Maro spat on the grass. “You didn’t hear what the dickhead said.”
“Aye, but if you don’t play smart, you’ll end up banged up…or worse.”
Then Thane, quiet as a whisper, said, “People think it’s just blokes that did it. But they don’t know about those bitches.”
No one else would understand. No teacher, no therapist, no bleeding-heart do-gooder could possibly understand what went on behind those close doors. The nightmares that lived in their sleep. Just the four of them who had lived through it.
They made a pact that day: anyone who comes for one, they get all four. But served cold. Strategic, so no one ever traced it back or pointed fingers.
They got older. Broader. Meaner, in the right ways.
Thane shot up as tall as his dad, eyes freakier by the year.
One eye the colour of a clear sky, the other like an old coin.
Girls flocked to him—drawn in by the brooding, ‘don’t touch me’ vibe like moths to a flame.
He didn’t give them the time of day, just that slow death-stare.
Half of ‘em liked it even more, especially since he looked like Death had a Tinder profile. But the girls loved him and wouldn’t leave him alone.
He didn’t love anyone back. Just gave them the “fuck off” stare and they came crawling harder.
Calm, blond, and built like a boxer, Zel was second in size. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was gospel to the rest.
Maro? Thicker and taller than both. Built like a battering ram, muscle stacked on fury. No one touched him. Ever . Boy or girl didn’t matter. Ink was his poison and most of his body was covered, leaving only a harsh face which had its own kind of rugged beauty.
Lirian was the quiet, wiry, tech wizard.
He moved like a runner, lean and quick, the type who was underestimated till it was too late.
His mum was Japanese, and his dad was Glaswegian with pale blue eyes and a mouth like a sailor.
Lirian took after his mother—sharp as a blade, and just as quiet.
He started doing martial arts when he was twelve and never stopped.
MMA fights were his outlet for the longest time until he tore a tendon and had to give it up.
He also saw the crypto boom coming before it hit and bought up Bitcoin when it was worth piss-all, then sat on it like a dragon with gold.
He didn’t sell it all when it spiked; no, he waited and sold bits at the top. He set up blind wallets and diversified. By twenty-eight, he had enough stashed to retire the whole crew. Buy a villa or two and walk away clean.
They could’ve walked.
They didn’t.
They had grown a reputation in school. The Horsemen. Someone made a joke about it in Year Eleven, and it stuck.
Plague. War. Famine. Death.
And every sod in that school knew better than to fuck with pestilence and steel.
Later, Uni split them up. Kind of…
After a quick tour in the army, Zel studied engineering, while Maro went full military-special forces, top brass nodding in approval.
The military was uniquely suited for his proclivities.
And Thane? Double degree in logistics and biosecurity, which suited him well.
The lad who once couldn’t be touched without having a panic attack now built plans to contain pandemics and warzones.
Lirian did computer science and cybersecurity, hacking in his free time just for a laugh like national security sites was a game.
NASA. He helped pay off Zel’s tuition, cracking private accounts which no one would report, laundering NFTs and bitcoin before the government caught on.
In their thirties, just like their masterplan had detailed—once they had the right skill set—they started The Horsemen.
“Security’s our way in,” Zel had said. “We don’t break bones in public anymore; we build fortresses. We control information. Then we find the fuckers and they all pay.”
They had a fancy website advertising top security, with an equally impressive reputation. But if you knew where to look, hidden in between the layers, was a phone number whispered around in circles where bad things needed to happen and worse people needed stopping.
Plague. War. Famine. Death.
Each of them had their title. Each of them had their role.
Each of them had unfinished business.
Zel turned the Camaro’s key. It choked once, coughed, then roared to life like it still had one more fight in it.
“Let’s get to fuckin’ work.”