The backroom of the Black Swan Bar, Wright Jackson's office.
The air was thick with smoke. Wright sat on a leather sofa, a Cuban cigar between his fingers. In his forties, broad-shouldered and scarred by years of street fights, his face carried the weight of a man who'd survived too much.
"Boss, Scarface is back." A thug pushed the door open.
"Send him in." Wright didn't even lift his head.
Scarface stepped inside, his face tight. He lingered at the doorway, struggling to find the right words.
"What's wrong?" Wright finally looked up, tossing his pistol onto the table. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Boss… about that Voss Nebber job." Scarface swallowed hard. "There's a problem."
"What problem?" Wright's eyes narrowed, dangerous. "Don't tell me that useless writer is still breathing."
"That's exactly it," Scarface said, bracing himself. "I saw him today. Walking down the street, lively as ever. Bought himself a phone and a laptop."
"What?!" Wright shot up, the pistol clattering to the floor. "Say that again!"
"I'm certain it was him," Scarface insisted. "I'd never mistake that face. It was Voss Nebber."
Wright's face twisted with rage. "Didn't you tell me you finished the job?"
"I did!" Scarface snapped back. "I shot him in the back of the head! Checked the body myself. He was dead, boss."
"Then explain this!" Wright kicked the coffee table over. Glass shattered, bottles rolled across the floor.
"Is he a damn vampire?!"
The room went dead silent. Nobody dared to speak when Wright lost his temper.
Scarface wiped cold sweat from his brow. "I don't know how, but I swear on my life—I'm not lying."
Wright began pacing, his mind racing. Voss was a nobody, just some hack novelist with no backing, no skills. Resurrection wasn't supposed to be possible. Yet…
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Wright slammed his fist on the table, rattling the glasses.
"Everyone out. Scarface stays."
The others hurried out, leaving the room heavy with silence.
Wright leaned in, his eyes sharp and panicked. "Do you realize what this means? If that writer talks about what he saw…"
Scarface stiffened. He knew exactly what his boss was thinking. That shootout hadn't been some random gang scrap.
Three months earlier, Wright's crew had pulled a high-risk play. They were supposed to smuggle in a batch of pure Colombian cocaine, but Wright didn't have the cash to cover it. So he set up a double-cross.
He lured the Viper Gang into "partnering" on the deal, tricking them into pooling their money. On the night of the exchange, Wright and his men ambushed them. After a bloody firefight, the Vipers were wiped out. Wright walked away with both the coke and their entire bankroll.
Perfect. Except for one thing. He'd broken the only rule that mattered in Hell's Kitchen.
"Kingpin's rule…" Scarface muttered, face draining of color.
Everyone in the Kitchen knew it: you could kill rivals, absorb their turf, expand by any means. But you never—ever—double-crossed. That rule came straight from Wilson Fisk himself. The Kingpin.
And Fisk didn't forgive. In the last decade, five gangs had vanished off the map for breaking that one law. No survivors.
"If Kingpin finds out we pulled a double-cross…" Wright's voice trembled. "He'll erase us."
Scarface's gut twisted. "But boss, we cleaned it up. No witnesses. That writer was the only loose end, and he was—"
"Alive now!" Wright roared. "What if he puts it in one of his novels? What if someone pieces the truth together?"
Silence crushed the room.
Wright had been in Hell's Kitchen two decades. He'd seen every kind of bloodshed imaginable. But Kingpin? Kingpin was something else. A monster in a tailored suit. Two meters tall, nearly four hundred pounds, but fast, smart, ruthless.
The stories haunted everyone. The last boss who broke the rule lasted three hours while Fisk drove a single finger through his chest. Slowly.
Scarface shuddered.
"What do we do, boss?"
Wright stopped pacing. His eyes burned cold. "If we couldn't kill him once, we'll do it again. This time, I'll see his corpse myself."
Scarface hesitated. "But what if he really is some kind of monster?"
"Then we use this." Wright yanked open a drawer and pulled out a silver pistol. "Special load. Bought it off an arms dealer. Bullets are treated for dealing with superhuman freaks."
Scarface stared at it, still uneasy. "Boss… maybe we should run. Leave New York, find somewhere Kingpin can't reach."
"Run?" Wright sneered. "You think Fisk's hand doesn't reach every city worth a damn? I built this gang with my own blood. I'm not throwing it away."
He strode to the safe and unlocked it. Inside, a small black box waited. Wright opened it, revealing a tiny capsule.
"What's that?" Scarface asked.
"Insurance." Wright held it up. "A memory eraser. Cooked up by some lunatic scientist. Wipes out the last few months of someone's mind. Might leave 'em brain-dead, but better that than Kingpin finding out."
Scarface's jaw tightened. His boss had thought of everything.
"We move tonight." Wright slipped the capsule back into the safe. "No mistakes this time. No witnesses."
"Just us two?"
"Just us." Wright lit another cigar, eyes blazing. "The fewer people who know, the better."
Outside, a car horn blared. Both men froze.
"Kingpin's crew?" Scarface whispered.
"No," Wright muttered. "They don't use cars. They like to walk. Harder to spot."
The noise faded, leaving only the burn of tobacco and tension.
Scarface broke the silence. "Boss… what if we still fail?"
"Then we tie him up," Wright said, his grin turning feral. "And we break him. Piece by piece. Until he swears he'll never speak a word."
Scarface shivered. He'd followed Wright long enough to know his boss meant every word.
"Get ready. After dark, we end this." Wright exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. "That writer isn't escaping again."
What Wright and Scarface didn't know was that Voss had no idea about Kingpin's rule—or what a double-cross even meant. To him, that bloody night was just another gang shootout.
Right now, his only concern was teaching Aqua how to use a laptop, celebrating his books selling well. Danger never crossed his mind.
But Tom, perched on the windowsill, twitched his whiskers. Something in the air felt wrong.
The storm was already on its way.