Blackwood College was falling apart.Smoke billowed through the ruined corridors, filling the air with the acrid scent of burning debris. The echoes of distant gunfire and clashing steel reverberated through the abandoned halls, a haunting reminder that this war was far from over.Jones staggered against a crumbling wall, his breath ragged. Blood still seeped from the knife wound Clinton had left him with, but he was alive. Barely.His body screamed for rest, but he ignored it. He had unfinished business.Dre’s voice crackled in his earpiece. “You’re pushing yourself too hard, man.”Jones wiped the blood from his lips. “Not hard enough.”Kayla crouched beside him, her hands quick as she wrapped gauze around his wound. “You nearly died last time.” Her voice was sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. “Clinton’s stronger than we thought.”Jones clenched his jaw. He remembered the way Clinton toyed with him, the smirk on his face as he twisted that knife into his side. The memory burn

The remnants of Clinton's escape haunted Jones. The message scrawled in blood-red paint—"CHECKMATE? NOT YET."—was a taunt, a challenge that gnawed at his resolve. He knew Clinton's network was vast, with spies, Syndicates, and loyalists embedded throughout Blackwood College. To dismantle it would require precision, cunning, and an unwavering commitment from his crew. In the dimly lit confines of their makeshift headquarters, Jones unfurled a detailed map of Blackwood College. Each mark represented a potential threat, a node in Clinton's intricate web. The room was thick with tension, the weight of their mission pressing down on them. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the faces of his most trusted allies, their expressions hardened with the burden they carried. Jones exhaled slowly. "We need to be surgical," he began, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "Clinton's strength lies in his network. We cut off his eyes and ears; we cripple him." Kayla, her face still

The air in the alley was thick with tension, the dim streetlights casting jagged shadows against the brick walls. Jones' mind raced, his pulse hammering in his ears. Clinton had anticipated everything. He had played them like pieces on a board, maneuvering them into check.But the game wasn’t over.Jones turned to his crew, his voice low but firm. “We need to hit back—hard and fast. Clinton thinks we’re out of moves. Let’s prove him wrong.”Dre wiped blood from his lip, nodding. “Say the word, man.”“We need a stronghold,” Kayla said, scanning their surroundings. “If we’re out in the open, we’re dead.”Jace’s jaw clenched. “We’ve lost our safe houses. Our contacts. We have nowhere to go.”Jones exhaled sharply, thinking. “We don’t need a safe house. We need a war zone.”Riley frowned. “What does that mean?”Jones’ eyes darkened. “Clinton controls Blackwood because people fear him. We take away that fear—we take away his power.”Kayla crossed her arms. “And how do we do that?”Jones lo

Jones’ ribs ached with every breath, but pain was the least of his concerns. Blood dripped down his temple, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. Riley clutched her throat, still coughing, her face pale. Jace groaned beside her, holding his side—likely a cracked rib or worse.And Dre…Dre lay motionless for a moment, groaning as he forced himself up, his lip split open. “We’re screwed, man.”Jones gritted his teeth. Not yet.They had barely escaped, but they weren’t done. Not by a long shot.They regrouped in a half-burned warehouse on the outskirts of campus. The air was thick with sweat, gun oil, and desperation. The flickering lights overhead cast long, jagged shadows as Jones paced in front of them.Kayla tightened her grip on her rifle. “We can’t keep running.”“No shit,” Jace muttered, spitting blood onto the floor.Jones turned sharply, his mind racing. “We don’t run. We strategize. Calhoun’s strong, yeah, but he’s not invincible.”Riley’s voice was hoarse. “Didn’t feel that w

Jones woke up to pain. A dull, throbbing agony that radiated from his ribs, his jaw, his knuckles. His body felt like it had been run over by a truck—no, by Calhoun.But he was alive.Barely.He blinked against the harsh light, his vision swimming. A broken ceiling fan spun lazily above him, the rusted metal groaning with every turn. The air smelled of dust, old leather, and something metallic—blood. His own.A shadow moved beside him.“Jones,” Riley’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “You with me?”He turned his head slightly. Riley was crouched beside him, her face streaked with dirt and dried blood. Her eyes, though tired, burned with something fierce. Determination.Across the room, Kayla was pressing a torn cloth to Jace’s shoulder, whispering something he was too weak to respond to. Dre was slumped against a crate, his breathing shallow but steady.They had all barely survived.And Clinton was still out there.Jones exhaled slowly, shifting, forcing himself to sit up de