Every leadership vote is messy when opinions differ—even one involving all the top brass of the 6th Street Gang. "General" Rick Morton was d
Every leadership vote is messy when opinions differ—even one involving all the top brass of the 6th Street Gang.
"General" Rick Morton was dead, and a new boss had to be chosen. Naturally, everyone present had their own opinions, but judging by the current situation, Will Cannon's rise to power seemed inevitable—even though everyone knew he probably had something to do with Rick's death.
But in gang politics, kindness and fairness are meaningless. Strength and influence are all that matter. While 6th Street wasn't as obsessed with brute force as the Maelstrom or the Animals, power still spoke the loudest. And now, after the General's death, no one held more sway within the gang than Will Cannon and his men.
By pushing aggressive policies and collecting protection money, Will had ensured a constant flow of new recruits and cash. He'd even gained backing from people inside Militech. To him, today's "election" was a mere formality. The outcome had already been decided.
What he really cared about now was how to deal with the General's loyalists—the remnants of the old guard. Chief among them was one man who hadn't yet arrived.
Nottingham Winry.
In the middle of the chaotic, repurposed barn that once served as a grain silo, Will Cannon sat silently in his chair, leaning forward and watching the entrance, waiting for that man to appear.
Nottingham was one of the few people in 6th Street who had more seniority than Will. In fact, Will took him more seriously than he ever did Rick Morton—because, unlike Rick, who had no idea how to build loyalty and allowed Will to grow unchecked, Nottingham had a base of support that had never wavered.
Sure, Will's forces now controlled most of 6th Street's key positions—but he knew what kind of people they were. At best, they followed him because they believed in his potential. At worst, they were parasites lured by promises of money and power. Protection rackets, smuggling, intimidation—those were the currencies of Will's faction. They were a coalition of opportunists.
But Nottingham's people were something else entirely. They were the remnants of the old 6th Street—the ones who hadn't forgotten what the gang was originally founded for. They might no longer be the majority, but their strength had never been something to ignore.
If Will wanted to solidify his position, he had to deal with them—either by winning them over or wiping them out.
In a perfect world, Will would've loved to recruit Nottingham. After all, his people were competent, disciplined, and loyal—exactly the kind of subordinates any boss would want. But he knew that was never going to happen.
And not because of some petty personal grudge.
No one understood Nottingham Winry better than Will Cannon. If Will had risen to power through legitimate means, Nottingham would've acknowledged him, even if he didn't like him. He would've followed orders and carried out his duties with loyalty. Will had no doubt about that.
But Rick's death? That had been Will's doing.
And with that, any hope of Nottingham accepting him was dead.
So Will had come prepared.
He scanned the 6th Street soldiers posted outside the barn. Calm. Confident.
Most of them were his. If this turned into a fight, he had the upper hand.
Sure, it was a shame he couldn't bring Nottingham into the fold. But once the man was gone, Will could take his time dealing with the rest of his people—persuade the ones he could, dispose of the rest. He'd even worried that keeping Nottingham around might eventually create a rival power structure under his leadership.
No. Better to clean house. Let him die alongside Rick.
Will didn't care if 6th Street lost strength or credibility due to internal strife. He'd been eyeing that top seat for too long. And now, it was finally within reach. There was no turning back.
He'd sacrifice whatever he had to.
"Will Cannon's our next boss."
"Yeah, he's the only real option."
"What choice do we have? The place is full of his men. Can't believe he pulled this off right after the old man's death…"
As the low murmurs of resignation filled the barn, Will's posture grew more relaxed. He could already see the outcome.
And then—new voices cut through the noise.
"I vote for Nottingham Winry."
"I support Nottingham."
"He may be stubborn, but at least he plays by the rules. With him in charge, we won't have to worry about getting stabbed in the back at night."
Among all the voices, one struck Will the hardest:
"Nottingham Winry is here."
The barn fell silent in an instant.
Every eye—including Will's—turned to the entrance.
There, striding confidently through the doors, was a blond-haired, sharp-eyed middle-aged man.
Nottingham Winry had arrived.
And with that, the only two men truly qualified to lead 6th Street were now face to face.
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