Jayden’s eyes snapped open to the sting of smoke in his lungs and the taste of iron on his tongue. His body ached like it had been dragged across the streets, beaten, and left for dead. His vision blurred before slowly focusing on a cracked ceiling.The room smelled of sweat, blood, and cheap alcohol. A single bulb swung overhead, its dying light stuttering. He tried to sit up, but pain flared through his ribs. His stomach clenched, memories rushing back music, laughter, a drink in his hand… then darkness swallowing everything.“About time you woke up,” Tariq’s voice came from the corner.Jayden turned his head slowly. Tariq looked worse than him his face swollen, lip split, shirt torn. Blood was dried on his cheek like war paint.“What happened?” Jayden’s voice was hoarse, each word scraping his throat.“What happened?” Tariq spat to the side. “We got played, Jay. Poison in the drink. By the time I realized, half the crew was already on the floor. By the time I dragged you out, they

The city slept uneasily. Smoke from the burned bodies still clung to the night air, mixing with the sour stench of sewage and charcoal stoves. Every alleyway whispered Razor’s bounty, every shadow felt sharper, every door carried eyes that weren’t meant to see.Jayden moved like a ghost through it all, keeping Tariq’s weight against his side. The man was bleeding badly, and though he kept his teeth clenched, Jayden felt every tremor in his friend’s body.“You should’ve let me take that cut,” Jayden muttered, jaw tight.“And let Razor win?” Tariq rasped, his grin stubborn even in pain. “Not a chance.”Jayden didn’t answer. He scanned the streets. The safehouse was compromised. Malikah was strong, but she couldn’t fight off a whole city while Tariq bled out in a cot. They needed someone with skills they didn’t have. Someone who could heal, someone who wasn’t already marked by the bounty.The thought of trust burned. But if he didn’t move, Tariq would die.They reached the back of a crum

The city never slept, but sometimes it felt like it stopped breathing. Jayden sat alone in the half-collapsed apartment they had taken shelter in, the broken windows letting in strips of moonlight that fell across the floor like prison bars. The machete still leaned against the wall, its edge crusted dark with blood he hadn’t yet cleaned. Every time his eyes flicked toward it, the memory came back sharp: the weight of the man collapsing, the hot spray across his hands.It should have shaken him. A week ago, it would have. But instead, all he felt now was clarity. The blood was proof. Razor had shown his hand, and Jayden had answered. From here on, the war wasn’t one-sided anymore.Yet clarity didn’t mean trust.Tariq slept in the corner, back against the wall, gun across his lap even in dreams. Malikah lay stretched out on a thin blanket, her breathing steady. They looked loyal. They looked like family. But the streets had a way of teaching you that what people looked like and what th

The blood was still on Jayden’s hands.Even after the feast ended in ruin, after the bodies were dragged out, after the whispers of fear trailed into the night the blood lingered. Thick, sticky, staining his knuckles, seeping into the creases of his skin. No matter how many times he wiped them against his jeans, the red clung stubbornly, as if mocking him.He sat in silence inside their new hideout, a gutted apartment building deep in the backstreets. Tariq paced like a caged animal, his boots echoing against the cracked floor. Malikah stitched a wound across her own arm with trembling hands, her face pale but focused. Amara leaned in the corner, hood shadowing her expression, but her voice was steady when she finally spoke.“He humiliated you, Jayden.”The words landed heavy.Jayden didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the machete resting beside him the same blade he had used days ago in the smoke and fire. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, still carrying a faint reddish tint.“H

The whispers reached Jayden before the letter did. Boys in the alleys spoke in low tones about a gathering, one that only happened once every few years when the streets felt too restless, too bloody. The Street Council.When Tariq dropped the folded paper on the table in front of him, Jayden didn’t touch it right away. He watched it like it was a snake, waiting to strike. Malikah leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her face unreadable in the dim light of the safehouse. Amara sat silently by the window, the pale glow of dawn catching the edges of her hair.“You’ve been invited,” Tariq said. His voice carried both caution and pride. “They don’t call just anyone.”Jayden finally unfolded the paper. The words were brief, written in sharp strokes that belonged to someone who had no time for flourishes.Midnight. Abandoned textile mill. Respect, or exile.No name signed, but none was needed. Every leader in the slums knew the Council. Old men with scars like maps, women who commanded