Jayden didn’t sleep the night the map came in. While the crew took turns speculating half eager to test it, half afraid it was only him and Amara who sat quiet, both listening to the silence like it carried answers. The lantern burned low, shadows stretching against the walls of the safehouse, until finally Jayden exhaled through his teeth.“This stinks,” he said flatly. “Too neat. Too fast. He didn’t even try to stall.”Malikah frowned, arms crossed. “You wanted maps. You got maps. If you think it’s bait, then toss it.”Jayden tapped the paper. “No. Bait cuts both ways. If they think they’ve set a trap, then we set a deeper one. Razor’s people are bleeding us at the edges, and the Council’s hand is somewhere on his shoulder. This map…” His voice hardened. “We burn him with it.”The Burned Boy leaned forward, eyes bright. “So we move?”Jayden shook his head. “Not yet. We pretend to move. I want whispers on every corner that we’re pulling back from sector six. Make it look like we’re s

The night bled into morning, and the city carried its usual weight of smoke, sirens, and silence where no sound should be. Jayden sat alone in the small backroom of his gambling front, staring at the dying embers in the ashtray. His hands trembled not from fear, not anymore, but from the truth whispering in his bones:Power demanded blood.The vendor’s corpse from last night still hung in his head like a warning bell. Whoever had murdered him had scrawled Jayden’s name in crimson. The city wanted a response. Razor wanted him weak. The Council wanted proof he wasn’t just noise. His people wanted protection.And now, Jayden knew what he had to do.He closed his eyes, exhaled slow.The lieutenant.The bastard in uniform who had been bleeding the block dry for years. He walked through the slums like a king, pocketing bribes, beating vendors who couldn’t pay, feeding Razor information every time Jayden tried to move product. Everybody knew him, everybody feared him.If Jayden let him breat

The city had not forgotten.A week after the lieutenant’s execution, the streets were quieter not from peace, but from exhaustion. Police raids had scorched through the alleys, leaving bruises, broken windows, and pockets emptied by “searches.” But even violence has a rhythm, and once the first wave passed, the slum adapted.People still had to eat. Markets opened again. Smoke rose from roadside grills, vendors hawked roasted corn, and children ran barefoot, dodging patrol vans as if it were a game.And through it all, Jayden’s shadow stretched longer.Every coin paid to a market boy for carrying loads, every gambler’s dice rolled in the backroom dens, every night vendor’s lantern lit under his protection each one was a thread weaving the slum’s survival into Jayden Cole’s name.But he knew survival wasn’t enough anymore. Not if he wanted to hold what he’d taken...The meeting was held in a shuttered textile warehouse, dust thick in the air, bolts of faded cloth stacked like barricade

The city’s newspapers spun the story of the slain lieutenant into every corner. Headlines screamed about “street law,” “public executions,” and “the rise of a slum king.” Politicians argued on radio shows, cops muttered in smoke-filled rooms, and ordinary people whispered in fear and admiration.Jayden had expected noise. What he hadn’t expected was the silence in certain corners of the police.The ones who didn’t take his bribes. The ones who still clung to duty like a drowning man clutches driftwood.They weren’t many, but they were dangerous...Detective Arukwe sat in a dim office long after sunset, the city’s hum bleeding through the cracked window. He wasn’t flashy. No one would’ve picked him out in a crowd a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a limp in his left leg, and eyes that carried too many sleepless nights.On his desk were stacks of reports, half-finished cigarettes, and photographs. A body sprawled in the street. Faces of slum boys lining alleys with machetes in hand.

The slums woke to smoke.Vendors stood weeping beside charred stalls, their life savings turned to ash. The gambling den Jayden had opened a careful front for washing money was nothing but smoldering beams. His corners bled fire and fear, whispers saying Razor had risen from the shadows with a vengeance.Jayden stood at the edge of the ruins, jaw clenched, the smell of burnt wood mixing with something more acrid burnt flesh. A gambler who’d been locked inside hadn’t made it out. The body was still curled in the doorway, skin peeled like paper.The Burned Boy looked up at him, fists balled. “Boss… he’s playing us. Piece by piece.”Jayden said nothing. His eyes tracked the smoke climbing into the sky like a signal. Razor wasn’t just attacking his pockets; he was sending a message.By evening, the message was louder. A truck carrying his tribute collections was ambushed. Three of his men were gunned down, their bodies left sprawled in the dirt with mocking graffiti sprayed over them: “Ra