Ethan stepped out of The Black Howl, the bar he lived under, and immediately slipped a cigarette between his lips, lighting it without hesitation.
The smoke burned harsher than usual.
Despite the excitement bubbling in his chest, the hangover still clung to him. His head throbbed, his body felt heavy, and his patience was thin.
Today wasn't a day for anyone's bullshit.
Ethan liked his space, and only a handful of people ever saw his laid-back, joking side.
Mark was one of them.
"Yo, what's cracking, Ethan?"
"How's big Mark doing these days?"
The voices drifted over from the corner outside Mr Cho's Bodega.
Three men lingered there, leaning against a lamppost like they owned the street. Jackets zipped up despite the mild weather, hands tucked inside like they were holding onto something reassuring.
One of them stood out.
He had a broken nose, crooked like it had never healed properly, as well as a thick neck. His eyes never quite settled, always sharp, always wary.
He was a familiar face to Ethan.
Mace.
The other two, barely out of their teens, were the kind of idiots who thought they were tough and acted friendly with everyone. They were the ones who'd called out to Ethan.
"What the fuck'd you do that for?" Mace muttered under his breath, smacking the back of one youngster's head.
"Why?" he shot back. "You scared?"
"And aren't you a Tit-" the other started.
Mace snapped his head toward him so fast it was almost violent.
The youth froze mid-word.
Mace's glare was lethal, the kind that promised consequences far worse than bruises
"You ever finish that sentence," he growled, "and I'll make sure you don't get another one."
Both of them swallowed nervously.
Mace lowered his voice. "I already told you. Marcus Reed and Ethan Crowe are off-limits."
They scoffed under their breath. "But they ain't shit anymore."
Mace's jaw tightened.
"You don't get it," he said quietly. "And you don't want to."
Ethan finished his cigarette slowly before finally glancing their way. His eyes passed over them once, dismissively, before he walked over while lighting another.
He stopped a few feet away, exhaling smoke.
"What did I tell you about hanging around here, Mace?" Ethan said calmly, blue eyes locking onto him. "Go sell that shit somewhere else."
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Mace stiffened and almost flinched.
"We hear you," Mace said quickly, gripping the shoulders of the two younger guys. "We were just passing by."
Ethan held his gaze for another second.
Then nodded once.
They moved off, tension trailing behind them like a bad smell.
As they walked, one of the younger men muttered, "You strapped, right?"
"Yeah," the other replied. "Why don't we just beat his ass next time? And if that big fucker Mark shows up, we smoke him. Isn't he just a bartender now?"
Mace stopped dead.
He grabbed them both by their jackets and slammed them against the wall, eyes blazing.
"You two are fucking stupid," he hissed. "They ran these streets before you even learned how to run product. Before Ethan got locked up. Before Marcus stepped away."
He glanced back over his shoulder, lowering his voice.
"Ethan might look like a washed-up drunk, and Mark a bar owner. But together? They were monsters. But that's not why we leave them be..." he stated. "It's the boss's orders."
That alone settled it.
He released them and nudged them forward.
"And besides," Mace continued, "that gun you have doesn't mean shit anymore. Not with Titled running around and everything else going to hell. The best way to make money now is staying under the radar."
"You want attention, or you want cash?"
They didn't even answer, still shaken by the mention of the boss.
Quick money was what they were after, not quick death.
"I'm gonna check on the others," Mace said. "You two move the product somewhere else. Call me when you're done."
He walked off, frustration rolling off him in waves.
He wasn't afraid of Ethan or Mark.
At least not anymore.
If anything, it was the opposite.
The memory of that day still burned, and just thinking about it made his blood boil.
'I don't get what the boss is thinking.'
But his hands were tied.
Grinding his teeth, Mace pushed it down and went to check on the rest of his crew.
-
Back at the corner store, Mr Cho poked his head out just in time to see Ethan walking by.
"What you doing? You late, boy!" the old man snapped, waving furiously. "Where you going?"
"That it, you no more work, Etan!" he yelled, fed up with Ethan being late despite living on the same street.
Ethan didn't turn around.
He flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath his shoe, and pulled his hood up.
"Sorry, old man," he muttered. "I can't do that shit anymore. I'll make it up to you somehow."
He raised a hand.
A yellow taxi pulled over.
Ethan almost never paid for rides - usually, he jumped subway gates and disappeared into crowds.
But today felt different.
Today felt like a turning point in his life.
He slid into the back seat.
"The Titled Association Headquarters."
The driver hesitated, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror.
Ethan looked exactly like what he was: a hungover thug with bad posture and worse life choices.
Then Ethan pulled out his wad of cash.
The cab rolled forward immediately, heading towards Lower Manhattan.
From Wall Street to government buildings wedged between steel and glass towers, it was historic streets layered with power and money.
Old stone crushed beneath modern ambition.
Ethan hated it.
Too clean. Too crowded. Too fake.
But this was where the Titled Association Headquarters stood.
He sat in silence the entire ride.
When they arrived, he paid slightly extra, which in total was nearly a quarter of all his cash.
'Worth it,' he thought as he stepped out. 'After all, I won't be broke for much longer.'
The Titled Association building dominated the skyline.
The tallest structure in the world.
Ever since the Burj Khalifa collapsed during a gate break, nothing had come close.
Ethan craned his neck, squinting upward.
"Jesus…" he muttered.
Inside, he froze.
Polished marble floors stretched endlessly. Floating holographic displays streamed live data. Guards in tailored suits stood at attention, eyes sharp, movements precise.
Power lived here.
Control.
'So this is where the real monsters work.'
He approached the front desk.
The woman behind it had neatly cut brown hair and a professional smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"How can I help you today?"
"I want to register as a Titled."
Her gaze swept over him, head to toe.
"Is that so?" she said flatly. "Identification. And your Title."
Ethan shrugged. "Don't have any on me. You can look me up."
The Titled Association was now the most major branch of the government, so of course, she could.
She sighed. "Name?"
"Ethan Crowe."
Her fingers stopped.
"Crowe?" she repeated softly.
The screen filled instantly: birth records, schools, arrests, and... convictions.
Her posture shifted.
The air felt colder.
"And your title?" she asked again, voice tighter.
Ethan met her gaze, reading the judgment plainly written there.
'Another criminal becoming a Titled, just what we needed.'
He smiled faintly.
"I don't believe I'm required to disclose that."
He was right.
Titles were weapons, and he would much rather keep his concealed, at least until he knew what he was capable of.
Some opted to reveal them, others didn't, but it was purely up to the individual.
She studied him for a long moment.
Then turned sharply.
"I'll have someone conduct your Titled Assessment."
Moments later, another woman approached.
She was smiling, more accommodating and hospitable than the receptionist.
But what caught Ethan's attention was the two thin antennae that rose from her scalp.
'Definitely a Titled.'
Ethan's heart kicked harder.
'Guess this is where I find out what I'm worth.'