The state of chaos had given way to opportunity. Lily Grant, Marcus Roger, and Natalie Roger were weaving a plan, one that would elevate them to the eyes of the people—not as mere outlaws, but as saviors, a messiah figure to unite the state against the rampant gangs.
Marcus and Lily traveled southeast, reaching the Brightwater docks where Lily's foreign clients awaited. Within hours, they had secured their investment, returning to Abandoned Willowbrook, a town that was slowly becoming a beacon of hope. Discussions of rebuilding rose above the clamor—new streets, sturdier houses, larger and stronger than before. Marcus poured money into the effort, ensuring speed without compromise.
Cara, sensing her father's latent guilt, approached Henry Wells for funds. The stern patriarch, who had razed the town, agreed—investing even more than Marcus. He did it not for the town, but for his daughter, silently redeeming himself in her eyes.
Meanwhile, Lily's network flourished. She connected with weapon manufacturers, distributors, and mercenaries, crafting alliances that promised explosive returns in the near future. The town was alive with work, the smell of sawdust, mortar, and ambition blending into a promise of something greater.
Then, chaos struck. A convoy transporting high-quality materials along Willowbrook's outskirts was ambushed. The guards were executed with cold precision, their bodies falling to the snow-dusted earth. The culprits: Nemesis Vanguard, the name whispered with fear across every town. The stolen carts disappeared into the night, bound for a mansion no one dared approach.
Alexander waited, pacing restlessly, anger simmering under his calm facade. Hours passed. When the convoy didn't arrive, he mounted his horse and followed the trail. The snow and mud bore marks—cart wheels, disturbed earth, a logo half-buried in the mud. He traced it relentlessly, his instincts sharp as the wind bit at his face.
Finally, he arrived at a mansion that reeked of wealth and danger. Cornelius Fang, the rumored leader, stood by a pond, scattering seeds as if the world had no cares. The stolen carts were lined meticulously behind him. Alexander approached, calm but commanding, his voice steady.
"Those carts belong to me," he said. "Respectfully return them. And the guards… compensation is expected."
The gang members stiffened, astonished. No one had dared approach Cornelius Fang with such audacity. Cornelius himself tilted his head, eyes narrowing—not with anger, but with intrigue.
"You have courage," Cornelius said, voice smooth and deliberate. "Who are you?"
Alexander offered his usual smokescreen. "Ethan Brooks, just a worker with the courage to face gangs. And you will find it prudent to pay for your mistakes."
A gang member scoffed, challenging Alexander, but the young man's eyes hardened. "Return it. Or I'll dismantle this gang the same way I did the Black Vultures. Every single one of you will regret underestimating me."
The air thickened. Cornelius' grin widened, almost manic. Here was a man—not a boy, not a thug, but a warrior. Without hesitation, he handed Alexander the money and motioned him free. Alexander mounted his cart, ready to leave.
Cornelius turned to the insolent member who dared challenge Alexander. With one hand, he grabbed the man, lifted him high, and flung him into the pond behind the mansion. The pond, teeming with piranhas, erupted in chaos as teeth ripped into flesh. Silence returned, broken only by the splashes and Cornelius' quiet chuckle.
Alexander watched, expression unreadable. He had gained his carts, his payment, and most importantly, the respect of a man who would become one of the state's deadliest forces.
In that moment, the chessboard of power shifted, and Alexander knew: he had just earned the attention of a predator. A predator who would one day cross paths with him in ways that would shake the very foundation of the state.