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Chapter 2 - Smoke after the fire

The room smelled like rust, cigarette smoke, and something fresh—blood that hadn't dried yet.

Harry James stood at the far end, coat still draped over his chair. His sleeves were rolled up. No music played. Not even the cheap jazz the guards liked when they cleaned up after one of his storms.

This wasn't cleanup.

This was correction.

Two of his men were on their knees. One was trembling. The other had already accepted it. No tears. Just sweat.

"A man's value," Harry said slowly, "isn't in what he earns. It's in what happens when he dies."

He picked up a glass, swirled the liquor once, and didn't drink it.

"They were under you," he added. "And now they're dead."

The first man spoke, his voice breaking. "I didn't know the meet was hot, I swear. They went quiet before I could—"

Harry raised a hand. Silence dropped.

"You didn't know." He let the words hang. "You didn't stop it. You didn't follow."

The trembling one started to stammer something else, but Harry pulled the pistol from his waistband and shot him once in the head.

He didn't look at the body. Just stepped around it.

"You know why we count percent, Andre?"

The second man—Andre—nodded slowly. His voice was low. "It's all that matters."

"And when a percent fails?" Harry asked.

No answer.

"It's like bad math," he said, pressing the barrel to the man's chest. "And I hate bad math."

The second shot echoed through the warehouse.

It was quiet after that.

The guards didn't move. They knew better.

Harry set the pistol down on the crate next to him, adjusted his sleeves, and finally took a sip of the drink.

"The system's watching now," he muttered. "And I don't blink first."

He stepped out into the daylight. Somewhere across the city, he knew the whispers had already started.

Two politicians—one man, one woman—murdered in a laundromat last night. Both deep in the network. Both known to only a few, and only by whispers. The kind of people whose value didn't come from power—but from the weight of silence they controlled.

Harry didn't kill them.

But that didn't matter.

They died under his roof.

And in this city, when your people bleed, your number shakes.

And shaking was weakness.

He lit a cigarette and walked away.

> "Replace them," he told his men. "Better ones. Ones who don't die quietly."

Somewhere across town, Jack woke up.

His neck hurt. The side of his face was pressed against cold pavement. Behind him, the wall of the bakery hummed faintly from a vent inside.

He sat up slowly, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

The alley was empty. The city wasn't.

He could already hear the buzz in the distance—sirens somewhere west. Tires screeching. Raised voices. Same city, new victims.

His stomach growled.

He reached under his hoodie and touched the base of his ribs—just bone and air. His mouth was dry.

Jack stood, wiped the back of his hand across his nose, and stepped out into the street.

No plan. Just hunger.

The corner store was two blocks down.

He pushed the door open slowly. A bell rang.

The man behind the counter looked up.

Gray hair. Thick glasses. Wrinkled hands resting on a ledger that didn't need balancing.

Jack walked past him, silent.

He picked a loaf of bread. A bottle of water. Then—hesitated—and took a chocolate bar too.

He walked straight to the door. Didn't run. Didn't hide.

The shopkeeper looked up again. Their eyes met.

Jack didn't blink.

The man said nothing.

Jack stepped outside and kept walking.

The man didn't follow him or even call him back.

From across the street, Spitz — one of the gangster wannabes watched.

He leaned against a dented pole, chewing on a cracked toothpick.

"Kid didn't even twitch," he muttered to himself.

He'd seen people steal before. Most ran. Some begged. A few got brave and shouted on their way out.

But this one?

This one looked like he'd already paid for it.

Spitz pushed off the pole and started walking, hands in pockets.

Elsewhere, a group of low-level runners crowded under a torn awning. Rain had started spitting again—thin and annoying. No one liked this kind of weather.

"I heard they were worth ten percent," one said.

"Nah. Seven. Tops."

"You can't kill someone that ranked and expect silence."

"They're under H.J's territory."

"He's gonna be pissed. Real pissed."

Harry Jones wasn't a name to be mentioned anyhow, people started abbreviating his name to avoid trouble.

One of them, a girl with a busted lip and two knives strapped under her coat, exhaled slowly.

"Doesn't matter who did it," she said. "Someone's getting buried for it."

They all nodded.

Even the ghosts in this city could make things bleed.

Jack sat on a bench and chewed quietly.

He didn't notice the boy in the red hoodie approach until he was standing right in front of him.

"You always eat like that?" Spitz asked. "Like you earned it?"

Jack didn't answer.

"Name's Spitz," the boy added. "You got one?"

Jack kept chewing.

"No name? That's fair. Ain't safe to say names lately."

Spitz sat beside him.

"You alone?"

Still no answer.

"Cool. You hungry again tomorrow?"

Jack finally spoke.

> "Maybe."

Spitz grinned.

"Then come with me. Got a crew. Not big. Not loyal. But we don't starve. I'll inroduce to Reef, he's alright."

Jack looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

The warehouse wasn't clean.

It smelled like sweat, rust, and betrayal.

There were six of them inside—four teens, two younger. All looking worn out but sharp, all armed in different ways. One had a pipe. One had brass knuckles. One had nothing but a stare that made people step back.

Their leader was Reef.

A 18 year old teen with a busted nose and no patience.

He didn't ask who Jack was. Didn't ask what he'd done.

He just looked once and grunted.

"Sleep by the back wall. Eat what's left. No talking stupid."

Jack nodded.

Spitz winked. "Told you he's alright."

No one else spoke.

Jack didn't need them to.

He wasn't here to talk.

That night, Jack lay on a thin mat by the wall. His stomach was full, barely. His head buzzed with silence.

He didn't think of his father.

Or his mother.

Or the blood.

Just numbers.

The ones he didn't have yet.

And the ones this city bled for.

"I didn't want to rise.

I just didn't want to vanish."

Jack was lying down, back against the wall, eyes half-shut. He wasn't sleeping—just quiet. The room had gone cold, and it wasn't because of the broken window above.

He felt it first.

Someone watching.

He opened his eyes slowly.

She was standing in front of him.

Not crouched. Not polite.

Just there.

Tall, pale, with messy bangs shadowing her face and a black hoodie two sizes too big. One of the sleeves hung empty. Her eyes didn't blink—they just stared through him like she was waiting for something to twitch.

He didn't see her when he first came.

"That your spot now?" she asked.

Her voice was dry. Not angry. Just hollow.

Jack didn't answer. He sat up slowly, cautious.

She kicked the corner of his mat.

"Did I say you could sleep here?"

Still no reply.

She crouched down—fast. One motion. A switchblade appeared between her fingers like it had always been there. She didn't point it. She just rested the tip on her own knee.

"Spitz likes bringing in strays. You gonna stay long?"

Jack stared. Quiet.

"You're mute. Good." She tilted her head. "But next time you look at me too long, I'll take your eye."

She didn't wait for him to respond.

Didn't smirk. Didn't blink.

She stood up and walked off, trailing a faint smell of steel and cigarette smoke.

Jack exhaled once. Only once.

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