THE BRUTAL REVENGE

The towering gates of Blackwood College loomed before Jones as a reminder of his past humiliation. A year ago, he had ruled these grounds, his name whispered with a mix of fear and respect. But all of that had been stripped away the night Clinton and his crew took everything from him.

They thought they had buried him.

They were wrong.

A cold breeze brushed against his face as he stepped forward, his boots pressing against the familiar pavement. His black hoodie concealed most of his face, but it couldn’t hide the fire in his eyes. The moment he crossed the threshold, heads turned. Conversations died. The weight of a hundred stares settled on him.

"No way…"

"Jones? I thought he was gone for good."

"He looks different… colder."

Jones barely acknowledged the murmurs. Let them talk. Let them remember. They had stood by when Clinton humiliated him. They had watched him bleed. Now, they would witness his return.

He didn’t come back for nostalgia. He came back for war.

His destination was clear.

The Den.

The underground hub of Blackwood College had always been Clinton’s playground. It was where bets were placed, alliances were forged, and debts were paid, sometimes in blood. The last time Jones had walked in there, he had left barely able to stand.

Tonight, he would walk in differently.

Two of Clinton’s men blocked the entrance, Mickey and Troy. Mickey, with his rat-like grin, was the type to run his mouth but never back it up. Troy, on the other hand, was a brute, all muscle and no brain.

Mickey smirked. “Well, well, if it isn’t the dead man walking.”

Troy folded his arms, his biceps bulging. “This ain’t your place anymore, Jones. Run along before you get hurt… again.”

Jones tilted his head slightly. The old him would’ve wasted time arguing. The new him didn’t need words.

He moved.

His fist drove into Mickey’s gut with the force of a hammer. The rat-faced lackey let out a choked gasp, his knees buckling as the air shot from his lungs. Before he could recover, Jones slammed his knee into Mickey’s nose. A sickening crunch echoed as blood splattered against the wall. Mickey collapsed, groaning.

Troy lunged with a wild punch. Too slow. Jones sidestepped, grabbed the bigger man’s wrist, and twisted. A sharp cry of pain tore from Troy’s throat as his arm was wrenched at an unnatural angle. Jones finished it with a brutal elbow to the jaw.

Troy crumpled like a felled tree.

Jones adjusted his hoodie, stepping over their bodies.

“Tell Clinton I’m back.”

Then, without a second glance, he pushed open the doors.

The Den was alive with activity, smoke curling from cigars, dice rolling across velvet tables, wads of cash exchanging hands. The air reeked of whiskey and sweat.

At the far end of the room, lounging on a leather couch like a king on his throne, was Clinton.

He hadn’t changed. Same sharp suit, same expensive watch, same smug expression. The only thing different was the subtle twitch in his jaw when he saw Jones.

Beside him sat Vanessa and Logan.

Vanessa, the strategist, had a cruel smirk curling at the edges of her lips. Her icy blue eyes scanned Jones with practiced calculation, already dissecting his next move.

Logan, Clinton’s enforcer, didn’t bother with words. He cracked his knuckles, his expression promising pain.

Clinton swirled his whiskey lazily. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

Jones pulled out a chair and sat across from him, mirroring his smirk. “I came to take back what’s mine.”

The room fell silent. The gamblers, the thugs, the bystanders—they all knew what this meant.

Clinton let out a slow, mocking chuckle. “Yours?” He tilted his head. “You must’ve hit your head too hard when we left you bleeding in that alley.”

Jones leaned forward. “Last time, I was alone. This time, I’m not.”

As if on cue, the doors swung open behind him.

Three figures stepped inside.

Mason. Leo. Lisa.

Mason, the tactician and a strategist. A genius at mind games, always thinking ten moves ahead.

Leo, the muscle. A powerhouse with a reputation for making people disappear.

Lisa, the hacker. If Blackwood had secrets, she owned them.

Jones smirked as he met Clinton’s gaze.

“We’re just getting started.”

Clinton’s expression didn’t falter, but Jones saw the slight tension in his fingers as he gripped his glass a little tighter.

Vanessa’s smirk remained, but her eyes darted between Jones’ crew, calculating.

Logan leaned forward. “I hope you didn’t come here thinking this was gonna be easy.”

Darius grinned. “I hope you didn’t think we’d come unprepared.”

Lisa tapped her phone. The music in The Den cut off. The lights flickered. Phones across the room vibrated simultaneously.

A message flashed on every screen:

“Blackwood belongs to Jones now. Choose your side wisely.”

Murmurs erupted. Uncertainty filled the air.

Clinton’s smile finally cracked.

Jones leaned back, savoring the moment. “Looks like the tide’s turning.”

Clinton finished his whiskey and set the glass aside. “You think this little stunt is enough to take me down?”

Jones tilted his head. “It’s not a stunt. It’s a warning.”

For the first time that night, Clinton’s mask of arrogance slipped.

Jones stood, his crew following close behind.

Blackwood College was about to become a war zone.

And this time, Jones wasn’t going to lose.