Empire of Shadows

Kent’s trusted enforcer grumbled under his breath, silently cursing his boss and his entire family as he stood at a deli counter ordering lunch.  

This meal was coming out of his own pocket.  

It wasn’t the first time Kent had sent him on errands without providing money. While the enforcer resented the unfairness, he tolerated it because his paycheck, though meager, was reliable.  

Sometimes, tolerating injustice is a mistake. Give an inch, and they’ll take a mile.  

The Imperial District didn’t have many fast-food options, just bakeries and delis. True fast-food restaurants were clustered around gas stations farther away.  

Empire immigrants hadn’t yet developed a taste for Federation-style fast food. The younger generation, born or raised here, was starting to embrace it, but the older immigrants clung to their traditions.  

The enforcer ordered a modest lunch: several chunks of fried pork knuckle, a pile of the cheapest bread, a large bag of fruit salad worth a dollar, and a pack of cold beers.  

He popped a piece of pork into his mouth as he carried the food back. The fried skin crunched satisfyingly, releasing a burst of fatty juices and meat flavor. The best part of this trip, he thought, savoring the morsel.  

He intentionally picked out the juiciest pieces for himself, planning to let the others eat whatever was left.  As he passed a side alley near the casino, he noticed three parked cars.  

Strange, he thought. Cars were uncommon in this area, especially parked like this. Most Empire immigrants prioritized owning homes over vehicles, and it was rare to see cars idling in these streets.  

Curiosity piqued, the enforcer stopped at the alley’s entrance, lit a cigarette, and peered inside.  

His heart sank when his eyes met Lance’s.  

Lance stared back for several seconds before barking, “Grab him!” and sprinting forward.  

The enforcer’s instincts took over. He dropped the food and bolted, running faster than he ever thought possible.  

Maybe I missed my calling as a sprinter, he thought, fleetingly imagining himself winning medals.  

But his stamina quickly faltered. Less than 50 meters into the chase, his legs burned, and the weight of the food he was carrying slowed him down. Desperately, he flung the bag behind him, hoping to trip his pursuers.   ṚＡŊ𝐨𝖇ÈŜ

The group chasing him, all in their twenties and brimming with youthful energy, closed the gap rapidly.  

Lance reached him first, shoving him hard in the back. The enforcer stumbled, lost his balance, and hit the ground hard.  

Scrambling to get back up, he managed to roll over before Elvin crashed into him, tackling him to the ground again.  

Within moments, the enforcer was surrounded.  

The enforcer’s face twisted in anger as he glared at Lance. He mustered a defiant tone. “You’re starting a war, Lance!”  

Lance, slightly winded, looked down at him and smirked. “War, huh?”  

Without warning, Lance stomped his boot onto the enforcer’s head, pressing his cheek into the dirt. “Running, were you?”  

“Hm?”  

He ground his heel against the enforcer’s face before stepping back. Kneeling beside him, Lance patted his bruised face. “I like your attitude. Here’s the deal: open the door for us, and I’ll let you walk away.”  

The enforcer said nothing, his glare laced with defiance. His silence spoke volumes: Your threats don’t scare me.  

Ethan moved in to strike, but Lance stopped him with a hand. “No need,” he said.  

Lance understood the enforcer’s bravado. His experience told him these types didn’t break easily—they relied on the belief that their assailants wouldn’t dare go too far. He likely thought, The more I endure, the harsher my revenge later.  

But Lance wasn’t interested in a prolonged game of intimidation.  

He pulled out his folding knife and, without hesitation, stabbed the enforcer in the buttocks.  

The man’s bravado evaporated instantly. He gasped, trying to scream, but Lance’s fist cracked into his jaw, cutting him off mid-shout.  

“Next one might hit an artery. What do you think?”  

Lance’s voice was calm, almost casual, as he continued. “This is between me and Kent. If you want to get involved, I’ll make sure Angel Lake mourns you.”  

The enforcer’s earlier courage drained away.  

“Fine,” he muttered weakly.  

Lance stood, revealing the handgun tucked under his jacket. “Good. And don’t worry—I’ll make sure everyone knows you had no choice. You’re innocent.”  

The enforcer hesitated, then sighed in resignation. “Kent’s brother… he’s a high-ranking member of the Camille Gang. You sure about this?”  

Lance didn’t even flinch. “That’s tomorrow’s problem. Today, I’m dealing with Kent. Move.”  

With no other option, the enforcer limped toward the casino. Fear and pain stripped him of resistance.  

They approached the casino entrance. Onlookers who noticed the group quickly turned away after receiving a wordless warning: a two-finger gesture from the young men, signaling they’d been “marked.”  

Anyone foolish enough to linger might later find themselves targeted as “witnesses.”  

When they reached the door, the enforcer pounded on it. “Open up, damn it! Hurry!”  

A voice from inside called back, “What’s for lunch? Fried chicken or pork knuckles?”  

The door swung open, and the guard inside froze at the sight of the enforcer’s battered face and bloodied side.  

Before he could react, Lance pressed a gun to his head.  

The guard raised his hands slowly. “Let’s stay calm, friend. No need to escalate.” His angry glare at the enforcer betrayed his frustration: Thanks for dragging me into this.  

Behind Lance, the rest of the group filed in, their presence unmistakably hostile.  

The guard quickly declared, “This isn’t my fight. I didn’t touch anyone yesterday!”  

Lance tilted his head toward the stairs. “Downstairs. Now.”  

The guards exchanged panicked glances, silently cursing their boss for choosing a basement casino. Once a place of safety, the underground venue now felt like a death trap.  

Reluctantly, they descended, the black barrel of Lance’s gun guiding their every step.  

Kent was oblivious to the danger closing in. He sat in the basement, scratching his feet and laughing at crude jokes with his men.  

The sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs brought a smile to his face.  

“Damn it, took you long enough! I’m starving!” he called out, turning toward the noise.  

“Let’s see what you got for me—”  

His words caught in his throat as he locked eyes with Lance, who was framed by a dozen young men, each holding a weapon or burning with a fierce determination.