Rain slicked the streets of Harbor District, turning neon signs into bleeding halos. Alex Kane hunched under his black umbrella, staring at the faded sign above the derelict gym: Kane's Ironworks. His phone buzzed—late again for the lawyer's meeting—but something about the place tugged at him. Grandma Elena had insisted: "Your uncle left it to you, mijo. Don't let the wolves take it."Inside, the air smelled of rust and forgotten sweat. Mr. Hargrove, a pinched-face lawyer, waited by a dusty ring. "Mr. Kane, the late Don Vincenzo Kane bequeathed this property to you. Sign here." Alex blinked. Don? Uncle Vinny had been a pizza guy, not some mobster. "Uh, sure. Thanks."As Hargrove left, shadows stirred in the corners. Three thugs in leather jackets emerged, tattoos snaking up their necks. The leader, Scarface—appropriately scarred—sneered. "So you're the new boss? Vinny owed us protection money. Pay up, or we torch this dump."Alex sighed, rolling up his sleeves. Not a fighter, but he'd fixed enough busted engines to know leverage. "Protection from what? Leaky roofs?" He grabbed a wrench from a nearby bench, not as a weapon, but to point at the crumbling beams. "See? Structural failure imminent. I fix that for free—community service."Scarface laughed, cracking knuckles. "Big talk for a dead man." They lunged.What followed was less a brawl, more a clinic in efficiency. Alex sidestepped, tripped one into a pile of mats, short-circuited another's cheap taser with the wrench, and talked the third into surrender by promising free gym memberships. "You're not bad guys—just broke. Work it off here."By dawn, the thugs—now dubbed "recruits"—were sweeping floors, eyes wide with awe. "Boss," Scarface muttered, "you're ruthless. Like Vinny, but scarier."Alex groaned, wiping sweat. Ruthless? I just wanted coffee. Outside, a food truck owner across the street whispered into his phone: "The Kane Syndicate's back. And they're ghosts."
