The smoke hadn’t settled by dawn. It rolled over the district like a shroud, heavy and thick, carrying the scent of burned rubber, blood, and rain-soaked ash. The war Jayden started had taken on a life of its own.The streets pulsed with chaos gangs moving under new banners, old debts being paid in bullets. The whispers of the Ghost King had turned into open chants. But Jayden knew what they were really worshipping: not him, but the myth.And myths had to bleed before they ruled.Inside the hollowed-out warehouse he’d taken as his new base, Jayden stood before a small circle of his people Malikah, Burned Boy, Kola the Thin, and a handful of hardened lieutenants. A cracked bulb swung overhead, painting them in restless shadows.Kola fidgeted, wringing his hands. “Boss… the streets are spinning out. Eastside’s already declaring for you, but South Bloc’s split. Razor’s boys are feeding the rumor that you’re backed by foreign cash. They say you’re a puppet yourself.”Jayden didn’t move. “

The slums used to hum with chaos screaming vendors, clanging metal, sirens somewhere in the distance. Now, they marched to a different rhythm.Razor’s rhythm.Every corner carried his insignia: the black serpent wrapped around a blade. Men in tactical gear, better trained than the average thug, patrolled with silent precision. No drug deals without his tax. No shipment without his mark. The slums, once wild and free under Jayden, now breathed in Razor’s chokehold.But Razor didn’t do this alone.Behind the steel walls of the renovated glass tower once owned by a corrupt politician, the new “Order Division” was born funded, armed, and orchestrated by the puppetmaster’s private army.From that high office, Razor watched the city burn beneath his boots.He was broader now, scar crossing his left brow, gold tooth gleaming when he smiled. Power fit him well, like a suit tailored in blood. Behind him, screens flickered with surveillance feeds alleys, warehouses, even faces from the Street C

The sirens had gone quiet in the slums too quiet.Not because the police had stopped coming, but because they now came only when summoned.Jayden Cole stood at the corner of Sabo Street, his hood shadowing his face, eyes fixed on the checkpoint the city police had built from corrugated steel and arrogance. Once, they’d used it to harass, extort, and humiliate his people. Now, it would serve him.“Three cars today,” Malikah whispered beside him, watching the patrol jeeps parked under flickering floodlights. “Same crew as last week. They collect from market women and bike riders, say it’s for ‘safety permits.’”Jayden’s jaw flexed. “Good. Let them fill their pockets. Tonight, we collect our own tax.”The Burned Boy older now, lean and dangerous adjusted the strap of his SMG. “You sure about this, boss? Cops ain’t street rats. They got chain of command.”Jayden turned his head slightly. “Then let’s start cutting that chain.”By midnight, the checkpoint was a trap waiting to spring. Stree

Rain hissed on the rooftops like a whispering crowd. The city was no longer calm; it throbbed with the tension of something alive and furious. Jayden stood by the window of the safehouse, watching smoke rise from the distance a protest turned riot, sparked by his broadcast.He could feel the city’s heartbeat syncing with his own.But chaos alone wouldn’t bring the puppetmaster down.Tonight wasn’t about fire.It was about precision.Kola the Thin hunched over a cracked laptop on the table, his fingers a blur of twitchy motion. Around him, papers, flash drives, and a web of red marker lines connected banks, shell companies, and government contracts across a makeshift corkboard.“This,” Kola said, pointing at one of the lines, “is where the money breathes.”Jayden leaned closer. “Talk.”Kola licked his lips, nervous. “You remember that courier account Amara pulled before she disappeared? The one tied to that offshore bank?”Jayden nodded.“Well, I cracked the encryption trail. It loops

The night bled silence.The safe house under the abandoned church was cloaked in candlelight, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and gunpowder. Amara lay motionless on a cot, her breathing shallow. Bandages wrapped around her ribs, where shrapnel from the explosion had torn deep.Jayden sat beside her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight enough to crack his knuckles. Malikah stood behind him, pacing like a caged panther.“She’s stable,” Malikah said finally. “But she needs real care, Jay. Not street doctors.”“She’ll get it,” he muttered.“When?” Malikah’s tone sharpened. “You’ve got every merc in the lower districts looking for you. The puppetmaster’s offering money, protection, hell citizenship for anyone who brings your head. You think she’s safe here?”Jayden’s eyes didn’t move from Amara. “She’s not leaving my sight.”Malikah stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You can’t fight a war and play nurse. Pick one before both kill you.”Jayden looked up slowly, and the loo