KING OF THE CONCRETE JUNGLE

Chapter One — Coins in the Slum

The rain had a way of making everything look dirtier in this city, Not cleaner. Not washed. Dirtier, like it coaxed all the grime to the surface and let it run in thin rivers along the cracked sidewalks.

Ethan Cole stood under the crooked awning of Riverside Finance, clutching a plastic bag with all the belongings from his desk, one coffee mug with a chipped rim, two pens, and a tattered notebook.

The office door behind him clicked shut, followed by the sound of laughter. His former coworkers didn’t even wait until he was gone to start celebrating.

“You’re lucky they didn’t charge you for using the breakroom coffee,” a voice called after him. It was Donald Price, his ex-boss, leaning half out the doorway with a smug, wet-lipped grin.

Ethan forced himself to keep walking.

Donald didn’t like that. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” He stepped out, pulling a handful of coins from his pocket. “Here. Your severance package.” He tossed them toward Ethan, silver clinking against the wet pavement. A quarter rolled into the gutter.

The laughter from inside grew louder, Ethan froze. Rain dripped from the tip of his nose. His chest tightened so hard he thought his ribs might crack. He bent, not to pick up the coins, but to steady himself.

Donald sneered. “Look at you, crawling already. Knew you’d end up like this.”

Ethan straightened slowly, meeting his ex-boss’s eyes. “One day,” he said quietly, “you’re going to regret this moment.”

Donald chuckled, brushing rain from his expensive coat. “Sure. I’ll pencil it in right after I regret marrying my wife.” He turned back inside. The door slammed, leaving Ethan alone with the coins. Two blocks away, his phone buzzed. Maya.

He almost didn’t answer, his ex-girlfriend had a talent for calling at the worst possible moments, but the rain was loud, the night was miserable, and maybe he just wanted to hear another human voice.

“Ethan,” she said, her tone dripping with the fake sweetness she used whenever she was about to twist the knife, “I heard you got fired.”

News traveled fast in this city. “Yeah,” he said. “Guess your new boyfriend’s the office grapevine now?”

She laughed. “Oh, honey, everyone knows. You were the joke of the day in three group chats. Even my mother heard.”

His grip on the phone tightened. “Why are you calling?”

“I’m at La Fontaine,” she said, naming the city’s most exclusive rooftop bar. “With friends. We were wondering if you wanted to drop by.”

Ethan almost laughed. “So you can humiliate me in front of them?”

“Oh, Ethan. You’re so sensitive.” Her voice dropped to a mocking whisper. “We just thought it’d be funny. You know… since you’re trash now.” The line went dead.

An hour later, Ethan sat alone on a splintered bench outside his apartment building, staring at the rain pooling in the potholes. His clothes clung to him like wet paper. He’d been planning to go upstairs, open a bottle of cheap whiskey, and forget the day.

That’s when the sound came deep, smooth, mechanical. Engines. More than one, From the corner of the street, three black cars appeared, their headlights slicing through the rain like knives. They moved slow, deliberate, tires hissing over wet asphalt.

Ethan straightened. His first thought was debt collectors, though none he owed money to could afford this. The cars stopped in perfect alignment in front of him, engines purring like predators.

From the lead car, a man stepped out. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that seemed immune to the rain.

His shoes gleamed under the streetlight. He didn’t look at Ethan right away, he scanned the street first, like someone used to danger. Then his gaze locked on Ethan.

He approached with measured steps, stopping just close enough for Ethan to smell faint cologne and rain-soaked wool. Without a word, he reached inside his coat and withdrew an envelope.

Thick. Sealed in gold wax stamped with an unfamiliar crest. “Mr. Cole,” the man said, his voice deep and steady. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Ethan frowned. “Do I… know you?”

The man ignored the question, holding out the envelope with both hands a gesture so formal it felt almost archaic. “By order of the Board, I am authorized to deliver this in person. Congratulations. You are now the sole heir to the Cole-Harrington Consortium.”

Ethan blinked. “The… what?”

The man’s lips curved just enough to suggest he knew a secret. “The most powerful private financial network in the world.”

Ethan laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The man didn’t move. “Your father was Marcus Cole. Your mother, Eleanor Harrington. They left you… everything.”

Ethan froze. Those names… he hadn’t heard them spoken in years. Not since the accident, The man’s voice lowered. “You may want to open that inside. Standing in the rain is bad for your health.”

For a long moment, Ethan just stared at the envelope. It felt heavier than it should, like it carried the weight of something far bigger than money. Finally, he took it.

The man stepped back, and the rear doors of the black cars opened in unison, revealing leather interiors and dim golden lights. “Shall we?”

Ethan hesitated. The smart thing would be to go upstairs, lock the door, and pretend none of this ever happened. But there was something in the man’s eyes, something that told him life as he knew it was already gone.

He stepped toward the car. The man smiled faintly, gesturing him inside, As Ethan ducked into the leather-scented interior, he glanced at the gold seal on the envelope again. It was an intricate crest, two lions, a crown, and a dagger.

The car door shut with a heavy thunk. The sound was final, like a vault locking. The man slid in beside him. The convoy began to move, pulling away from the curb. Rain streaked the tinted windows.

Ethan broke the seal and pulled out the thick folded document inside. His eyes scanned the first line, Effective immediately, Ethan James Cole is granted full control of all assets, holdings, and operations of the Cole-Harrington Consortium.

His pulse hammered. At the bottom, in bold red ink, was a final line: Your inheritance is conditional upon survival.

Ethan looked up sharply at the man. “What does that mean?”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “It means,” he said quietly, “that people will try to kill you before sunrise.”

The car turned sharply, headlights slicing across a shadowy figure in the road ahead, someone holding what looked like a rifle.