King of the Underground

Back Alley Baptism

Chapter 4: Back Alley Baptism

Midnight wrapped Cape Heights in a dirty blanket of rain and shadows. Thunder rolled somewhere above the skyline as lightning cracked between skyscrapers, bathing the city in a moment of truth.

Jaxon Creed didn’t flinch.

He stood in the alley behind Iron Hand Casino, arms loose at his sides, a cigarette dying between his fingers, the rain dripping from the edge of his leather coat. The streetlights above buzzed and flickered, like even the power grid feared what was about to go down.

Word had spread fast.

He’d sent a whisper through the veins of the underworld:

“Meet me behind the Iron Hand at midnight. No masks. No mercy.”

He didn’t bring back-up. Didn’t need to. His backup was pain, anger, and five years of betrayal hardening into bone.

And they came.

Six men stepped into the alley—muscle-bound, all in black, each wearing a red armband marked with Kade Creed’s insignia: a bleeding fang. Executioners. Street-cleaners. Men who didn’t hesitate.

The kind Kade sent to make a problem vanish.

Their leader was a tank of a man named Briggs. Six-foot-five, bald, covered in faded prison ink and hate. He cracked his neck as he stared at Jaxon like sizing up a meal.

“Thought you’d be taller,” Briggs said, spitting into the rain. “Thought you’d be smarter.”

Jaxon dropped the cigarette, ground it out with his heel. “Thought you’d be faster.”

Briggs smirked. “Big words for a man standing alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Jaxon replied, glancing at the rooftops above.

Dark shapes lingered—watchers, street kids, ghosts of the past. Jaxon had told no one to help. But they came anyway. Just to see.

Briggs laughed. “Cute. You always were dramatic.”

Jaxon rolled his shoulders, his tone calm as death. “You came here to bury me, Briggs. You better dig deep.”

Briggs didn’t wait.

He charged, fists like wrecking balls. Jaxon ducked the first, weaved left, caught Briggs under the ribs with a brutal elbow. The man grunted but didn’t go down.

Another thug lunged with a switchblade.

Jaxon spun, caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted hard until the bone snapped like dry wood. He slammed the thug’s face into the brick wall, blood splattering across the rain-slicked alley.

Then chaos erupted.

Steel flashed. Fists flew. Grunts and curses and screams echoed in the narrow space. Jaxon fought like a man born in violence, his movements precise and punishing. He didn’t waste energy. Every blow was meant to break, not bruise.

A pipe came swinging toward his head—he ducked, grabbed the attacker’s jacket, and used the man’s momentum to throw him into a dumpster with a metal clang.

Another tried to grapple him. Jaxon drove a knee into the man’s stomach, grabbed his collar, and delivered a savage headbutt. Blood poured instantly.

But Briggs wasn’t done.

The big man surged forward, catching Jaxon in the ribs with a brutal right hook. Pain exploded in Jaxon’s side as he staggered back, rain stinging the gash on his cheek from the concrete wall.

“You’re getting old, Creed!” Briggs shouted.

“No,” Jaxon growled, wiping blood from his mouth. “I’m getting focused.”

He rushed Briggs, ducked a wild swing, and drove his fist into the man’s throat. Briggs choked, gasped, dropped to one knee—Jaxon didn’t let up. He landed blow after blow until the enforcer collapsed, coughing up blood into the gutter.

Silence fell.

Five men groaned on the ground. One didn’t move.

And Jaxon Creed stood tall in the rain, alone but undefeated.

A slow shuffle of feet echoed behind the dumpsters.

Figures emerged from the shadows—dealers, hustlers, street rats. They’d come to see if the legend was real.

He looked at them, eyes dark with fury and purpose.

“I don’t need an army,” he said, his voice calm but sharp as glass. “I am the war.”

They didn’t cheer. They didn’t speak. They just stared.

One kid—barely sixteen, hoodie drenched—murmured, “They said you were dead.”

Jaxon looked him in the eye. “I was. But death wasn’t deep enough.”

And then he turned and walked away, leaving the broken bodies in his wake.

By morning, the footage was viral.

One of the rooftop kids had filmed it—shaky, grainy, but raw. It flooded the underground forums, whispered between texts, passed through burner phones like fire through dry brush.

They called it:

The Back Alley Baptism.

The city knew.

The King had returned.

Across the city, in a penthouse soaked in silence, Kade Creed watched the video play on a giant screen. His jaw flexed. His wine glass trembled in his hand.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

Viktor stood nearby, unreadable. “The streets are listening again.”

Kade didn’t blink. “Then make them deaf.”

He tossed a photo on the table.

Lyra.

“She’s the crack in his armor,” Kade said coldly. “Remind her who she belongs to.”