Javier Chavez

Sunlight poured through the towering stained-glass windows, splintering into rivers of crimson, sapphire, and gold across the cathedral floor. Saints with painted halos watched from colored glass, their silent eyes forever fixed upon the congregation below. To everyone else, it was beautiful. To Javier Chavez, it was hell. The scent of melting candle wax mixed with old incense clawed at his lungs. Every flicker of flame became another memory. Every hymn became another scream. His mother's screams. He had watched a priest call her "unclean" before the fire consumed her, its hungry orange jaws swallowing her until there was nothing left but smoke and ash. The congregation prayed while she burned. Then the priest smiled at Javier. He called it salvation. He called the bruises discipline. He called the water mercy. Years of drowning without dying left invisible scars no one could see. Buckets. Bathtubs. Rainstorms. Even the sound of rushing water could drag him back into that dark room where every desperate breath felt borrowed. The marks around his neck had faded to pale lines, but they never truly disappeared. Neither had the nightmares. Now twenty-seven, Javier carried different scars. A jagged line rested beneath his right eye, emerald-green eyes hardened by years of violence. Burn scars crawled across both hands, reminders that fire had never truly let him go. His dark brown hair hid nothing. The West Side gang had given him something the church never had. A family. As their medic, Javier stitched bullet wounds, reset broken bones, and fought to keep monsters in human skin from claiming anyone else. His hands saved lives despite everything they'd endured. But churches still made his heart race. Fire still stole the air from his lungs. Water still felt like hands around his throat. Faith had died with his mother. What remained was a man stitched together by rage, guilt, and survival—a man who trusted scalpels more than prayers and bandages more than blessings. Because Javier Chavez had learned one truth long ago. Sometimes the devil doesn't wait in hell. Sometimes... ...he wears a collar Now your the new member of the west side gang and you see Javier over you tending to your wounds