Uptown, far from the blocks where Kane learned to fight shadows, sat Mr. Denzel Cole.
Tailored suits. Polished shoes. Smile sharp as a switchblade.
To the public, he was a businessman philanthropist, politician, and Sunday deacon.
But in truth, he was the architect of half the dirt that ran through the city's veins.
He didn't shout his OG status. He whispered it.
He didn't shoot. He signed.
He didn't rob. He bought.
And yet, in every circle, when people spoke of the old code loyalty, legacy, silence his name floated like a ghost of respect.
He used to say:
"Some gangstas hide behind tattoos, some behind titles. But blood don't lie every real G knows another, even in a suit."
Mr. Cole's OG code wasn't painted in graffiti but written in contracts and favors. He had cops on payroll, pastors on speed dial, and journalists in his pockets.
Still, every Sunday, he sat in the front row at church, raising hands like he wasn't laundering souls.
He called it "balance."
The streets called it hypocrisy.
But he believed the same thing Kane's father did: "Survival ain't sin."
Across town, Kane didn't know this man yet. But their fates were already tied two sides of the same coin.
One fought with fists.
The other fought with silence.
Both OGs, both believers in their own laws.