Rise of the Street King

Chapter 5 – The First Job

The night was thick with silence, broken only by the low hum of a distant generator. Jayden crouched in the shadows across from Razor’s stash house, his breath shallow, his palms slick. The paper Ghost had given him was folded tight in his pocket, but he didn’t need to look at it anymore. He’d memorized every line, every broken window, every escape route.

The two-story building loomed like a predator, scarred with graffiti and barbed wire on the roof. Men in black hoodies lingered near the front, smoking and laughing, their AKs resting casually against the wall. It wasn’t just a house — it was a fortress, and Razor’s reputation was written in every bullet hole that marked the door.

Jayden’s chest tightened. He had fought kids before, brawled in alleys, bled and kept standing. But this was different. This was walking willingly into the lion’s den.

“You’re shaking,” whispered a voice.

Jayden nearly jumped, twisting to his side. It was Hassan, the mechanic who had patched him up countless times. The old man had followed him, stubborn as always.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jayden hissed.

“And leave you to die alone? I taught you to use your fists, boy. Now I’ll teach you to keep your head. Just don’t make me regret it.”

Jayden swallowed hard and nodded. He couldn’t show weakness, not now. Ghost’s words echoed in his head: Don’t get caught. Don’t get killed. Simple rules. Impossible rules.

He waited for the guards to slip inside for a smoke break. Then, crouched low, he sprinted across the cracked road, Hassan close behind. They pressed themselves against the wall, the stench of piss and damp concrete filling their noses.

Jayden pointed to the back a boarded window just wide enough to squeeze through. Razor’s men rarely watched it. It was the only chance.

He slipped a rusted crowbar from his waistband, wedged it under the plank, and pushed. The wood groaned, nails snapping loose. Sweat poured down his temple, and every sound felt amplified, like the night itself was watching.

Finally, the board gave. Jayden slid inside first, landing silent on the dusty floor. Hassan followed, his heavier frame making a dull thud. They froze, listening.

Nothing.

The stash house smelled of mold, chemicals, and stale smoke. A single bulb flickered overhead, barely piercing the darkness.

“This way,” Jayden whispered, creeping down the hall.

Every step was a battle against fear. The walls were lined with crates, taped tight and marked with Razor’s insignia a bleeding crown. Jayden brushed his fingers over one, his pulse racing. Inside was cash, drugs, weapons. Enough power to topple a small army.

But he couldn’t take everything. Ghost wanted proof, not greed. He needed something that mattered.

Then he saw it: a metal briefcase, tucked on a shelf behind a half-open door. It was small, but the lock gleamed new, untouched by dust. Important. Valuable.

Jayden motioned to Hassan, then slid into the room. He lifted the case, wincing at the weight.

That’s when the floorboard creaked.

Both men froze.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Two voices, rough and lazy.

“…Razor said check the back, didn’t he?” one muttered.

“Man, it’s dead quiet. Who the hell’s dumb enough to

The door slammed open.

Jayden reacted without thinking. He swung the crowbar, cracking the first guard across the jaw. Bone shattered, blood sprayed, the man collapsed. The second froze for a split second too long. Hassan charged, tackling him to the ground.

“Go, boy!” Hassan barked, wrestling the guard as the man clawed for his pistol.

Jayden’s chest screamed to stay, to help, but Ghost’s words burned hotter: Survive. Prove yourself.

He grabbed the case and bolted through the hall, feet pounding against the concrete. Shouts erupted behind him. More footsteps, more guns cocking.

“THERE! THE WINDOW!”

Bullets tore through the walls as Jayden dived, glass shattering around him. He hit the ground outside, rolled, and sprinted into the night. His lungs burned, his legs screaming, but he didn’t stop.

A car engine roared nearby. He glanced over his shoulder — Hassan never made it out.

The stash house door flew open. Razor’s men poured out, guns flashing in the moonlight. One of them spotted Jayden.

“HE’S GOT THE CASE!”

Jayden’s world narrowed to the sound of his heartbeat. He darted through alleys, cutting corners sharp enough to scrape skin. Dogs barked, lights flicked on, but he didn’t care. The case banged against his side with every stride.

He didn’t know how long he ran, only that the voices behind him grew fainter until finally, silence swallowed the night again.

Jayden collapsed in an abandoned lot, chest heaving. He pressed the case to his chest, knuckles white. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe he had survived. That maybe, just maybe, he had passed Ghost’s test.

Then his phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

Nice work, boy. But you left something behind.

Jayden’s stomach dropped. He scrolled further.

A photo. Hassan, beaten bloody, tied to a chair. Razor’s bleeding crown spray-painted on the wall behind him.

Beneath it, a single line:

If you want him alive, bring the case.

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