The smoke hadn’t lifted by dawn.It clung to the alleys, thick and bitter, masking the dead with its choking veil. Jayden stood on the cracked roof of what was once his safehouse now half a ruin, walls pocked with bullet holes, the yard painted in blood. Below, Malikah’s voice cut through the silence as she counted survivors, every name spoken like a prayer and a curse at once.The Burned Boy limped out of the wreckage, blood drying along his cheek, a machete still clenched in his small hand. He looked more specter than child, but his eyes blazed, refusing to dim.Jayden’s grip tightened on his own blade. His chest rose and fell, each breath tasting of ash. The crown he had declared was already dripping away, washed in crimson.The siege hadn’t been a battle. It had been a butcher’s table.By the time the sun split the smoke, the dead outnumbered the living.Fifty-seven of his crew had stood at dusk. Twenty-three now answered Malikah’s roll call. The rest lay in the yard some too mang

The streets still carried the stink of smoke. Charred timber, plastic, the faint copper of blood—every corner Jayden walked through reeked of last night’s fire. The people didn’t meet his eyes anymore. They glanced at him, then quickly away, like he carried the blaze inside his chest. Maybe he did.The safehouse was ash. The fighters who survived staggered like shadows, dragging crates of salvaged weapons and medicine toward the narrow alleys of Ojuwoye. Jayden had promised them survival; what he gave them was another war.Malikah appeared from the haze, scarf tied tight against her face. “We can’t stay open like this. Too exposed.”Jayden nodded. He had already thought it through. Hide. Split. Regrow.“Spread them out,” he ordered. “No more single nests. Three cells, maybe four. Each runs food, ammo, and watchmen. If one burns, the others live.”Malikah clicked her tongue but didn’t argue. Not today.The New Cells....The relocation began at dusk. The Burned Boy, limping but unbroken

The radio voice still burned in Jayden’s skull. Priority one: Jayden Cole.He hadn’t slept in two nights. He sat in the tailoring shop, elbows on his knees, watching the rain streak through the cracked windows. Malikah leaned against the wall, sharpening her dagger with steady strokes. The Burned Boy paced like a caged dog. The younger recruits whispered in corners, restless.If they did nothing, Razor’s shadow would stretch wider. If they moved wrong, the cops would crush them before Razor even had to swing a blade.Jayden finally lifted his head. “We hit him where it hurts.”Malikah’s blade stopped mid-stroke. “You mean his convoy?”Jayden nodded. “The supplier run. Razor’s men guard it like it’s their bloodline. Take it, and they bleed out.”The Burned Boy grinned, teeth flashing. “Now you’re talking, King.”Planning the Cut..The table was littered with chalk marks and bottle caps for pieces. Jayden pushed them into position, voice sharp and precise.“They move through the old tra

The city felt different after the convoy hit. Jayden’s crew walked with their shoulders back, the Burned Boy grinning like someone who had survived a flood. Razor’s men had been bloodied, and word had spread like wildfire through the corners: Jayden Cole had taken food off Razor’s table.But victories brought hunger. Hunger for more land, more money, more respect and Jayden knew hunger was never satisfied. It grew.The safehouse was too small for what they were becoming. Men crowded in the hallway, kids with knives argued over scraps of bread. Malikah leaned against the doorframe, eyes sharp.“You can’t keep this held together with scraps and goodwill,” she said. “If we’re kings now, the streets gotta pay their dues.”Jayden didn’t answer right away. He stared at the map tacked to the wall chalk lines cutting through alleys and blocks. Each line meant a fight, a corpse, or a promise made. He pressed his thumb against the spot marked Corner 12. A week ago, it had belonged to Razor. Now

The safehouse felt different after Malikah’s return. The crew tried to read her expression, but she gave them nothing. She carried the Chair’s words like poison in her chest, and only Jayden had seen the tremor in her hands when she’d lit her cigarette.Jayden didn’t speak about it in front of the others. He let them think the Council had blustered and nothing more. But in private, the silence between him and Malikah told its own story. Something larger than the Council was moving, and neither of them had the shape of it yet.Still, the streets didn’t wait. Power never paused.It began with a knock. Not the frantic hammering of someone chased, not the coded taps of one of their scouts. Just three measured raps, calm, deliberate.The Burned Boy opened the door, machete in hand. Three men and a woman stood outside, clothes ragged, eyes sharp. They looked like hustlers, corner runners, the kind who made a living on scraps and speed. But there was steel in their gaze.One stepped forward,