Location: Ashwick Corridors — Muchachos Restaurant — Night
Elijah walked through the door of Muchachos.
The bell above the frame chimed—a cheap, tinny sound that announced his arrival to everyone inside and no one who mattered. The air was thick with the smell of fried peppers, simmering pork, and the faint, sweet undertow of Haze drifting up from the basement vents.
He found a booth near the back. Red vinyl, cracked, patched with silver tape. The table was sticky. A menu was wedged between the salt shaker and a small plastic container of salsa that had seen better days.
Andreas Ferrano, Elijah thought. The man with the most voting power in the Ferrano council. Not because he's the smartest. Not because he's the strongest. Because he's the easiest to approach.
The other two—Mei-Lin of Long Walk and Yakov of Kuvitich—they're harder to reach. More careful. More paranoid.
But Andreas? He sits in his office above this restaurant, counting money, eating tacos, and thinking he's untouchable.
He doesn't know that the last decade has seen twenty-three changes in management among the Ferrano leadership. Twenty-three corpses buried in shallow graves, and the ones who replaced them were just as blind as the ones before.
The first was Katya Volkov.
---
Katya Volkov.
The name surfaced in Elijah's memory like a body rising from a frozen lake. Russian. Tall, blond, with eyes the color of steel and a smile that never reached them. She had been the most voting power for three years. Three years of terrorizing the corridor, of taking her cut, of treating everyone beneath her like dogs.
She was a real bitch, Elijah thought. Always bossing everyone around. Always making sure they knew she was the one in charge.
Her death was poetic.
A limousine, black, tinted windows, parked outside Kuvitich. Katya inside, alone, drinking champagne from a crystal flute. The drink was her favorite—a vintage that cost more than most people made in a month.
The limousine's windows were up. The doors were locked. Her bodyguard stood outside, scanning the street, his hand inside his jacket.
Katya took a sip.
Her throat closed.
Her hand went to her neck—clawing, scratching—as the champagne burned a path through her esophagus, her stomach, her blood. She tried to scream. The sound was a whisper. Her eyes bulged. Her body convulsed.
By the time her bodyguard turned around, she was already gone.
Poison, Elijah thought. In the bottle itself. Someone had access to her private stock. Someone she trusted.
No one ever found out who.
---
The third was Jian Guo.
Jian Guo. Chinese. A genius, by all accounts. He was the one who modernized the Ferrano corridors, who streamlined the logistics, who turned the haphazard operation into something that resembled a business.
Everyone loved him, Elijah thought. Respected him. Feared him.
But no one is loyal among criminals.
The scene played out in Elijah's mind.
A lorry, parked on a side street in the Fenwick district. The lorry was unmarked, white, its sides streaked with grime. Two men in coveralls stood beside it, hard hats on their heads, clipboards in their hands. They looked like cable inspectors—the kind who checked wiring and signed off on permits.
But their toolboxes were not full of tools.
Inside, stacked in neat rows, were bricks of cocaine. White, wrapped in plastic, stamped with the Ferrano logo. The men loaded them into the back of the lorry with the practiced efficiency of warehouse workers.
A third man approached.
He was dressed in the same coveralls, the same hard hat, the same clipboard. He nodded at the others—a quick, almost imperceptible gesture—and climbed into the lorry.
He opened a toolbox.
His hands moved fast. Too fast for anyone watching to see. He removed a brick, replaced it with something else—a tracking device, maybe, or a packet of poison—and closed the lid.
He climbed out.
The transaction was done. The lorry drove away. The men dispersed.
Jian Guo's genius, Elijah thought. His systems were so efficient that no one noticed the leaks. The thefts. The sabotage.
He was good. Too good.
And that's why he died.
A bathroom. Tiles, white, streaked with gray grout. A single fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Jian Guo stood at the urinal, his eyes half-closed, his mind elsewhere.
A figure appeared behind him.
No footsteps. No shadow. Just a hand, fast and precise, pressing something against Jian Guo's neck. A syringe. The plunger depressed.
Jian Guo's eyes flew open.
His hand went to his neck. His mouth opened. No sound came out. His knees buckled. He fell forward, his forehead striking the tile, his body twitching once, twice, then still.
No one saw the face, Elijah thought. No one ever did.
Another voting power gone.
---
The twelfth was Dmitri Volkov.
No relation to Katya. Different family, different region, different temperament. Dmitri was a brute—thick-necked, heavy-fisted, the kind of man who solved problems with his hands and never remembered the solutions the next morning.
He was ruthless, Elijah thought. And he was paranoid.
The scene: a warehouse, somewhere in the industrial district. Four men knelt on the concrete floor, their hands bound behind their backs, their faces bloodied. Dmitri stood before them, his arms crossed, his expression the face of a man who had stopped being surprised by betrayal.
"You sold me fake product," Dmitri said.
His voice was low. Rumbling. The voice of a man who had swallowed gravel and learned to speak around it.
"Rice. You ground up rice and painted it white and sold it to my customers."
He paced.
"You played with their feelings. With their trust. With the loyalty of someone who took you from the gutters and gave you a chance to be something."
He stopped.
"That's wrong. Very, very wrong."
One of the kneeling men opened his mouth.
Dmitri's hand shot out. His fingers closed around the man's throat. The man's eyes bulged. His hands—bound—tried to rise, to pry the fingers away. His breath came in choked, wet gasps.
Behind Dmitri, a bodyguard. Six foot seven. Built like a refrigerator. His face was a mask of professional indifference.
"Kill them," Dmitri said.
The bodyguard stepped forward.
His hands closed around the throats of the remaining three men—one in each hand, then the third with a knee to the chest, his fingers squeezing, squeezing. The men convulsed. Their faces turned purple. Their struggles faded.
They slumped.
"For a time," Elijah thought, Dmitri's methods worked. The corridor ran smoothly. The money flowed. No one dared cross him.
But Dmitri had a snake in his shield. His bodyguard. The one he trusted most.
The one they called Grigori.
---
Grigori.
Dmitri's shadow. His right hand. The man who had killed for him, bled for him, stood between him and every threat for seven years.
And then someone offered him more.
The scene: Dmitri's private quarters. A penthouse, high above the city, its windows looking out over the lights of the Fenwick district. Music played—something with a beat, something with bass that vibrated through the floor.
Women danced.
Not professionals. Not escorts. Women who had been brought here for the evening, who laughed and swayed and draped themselves over Dmitri's shoulders like jewelry.
Dmitri was drunk. Not stumbling, not slurring—just loose, relaxed, his guard down for the first time in months.
The music shifted.
One of the women reached into her purse.
Her hand emerged holding a pistol, small, matte black, with a silencer already attached.
She raised it.
The first shot took Dmitri in the shoulder. He spun, his hand going to the wound, his face a mask of shock and pain. The music kept playing. The other women screamed.
Dmitri dove behind the couch.
"Grigori!" he shouted. "Grigori, help me!"
More shots. The couch's fabric shredded. The wall behind it cratered.
Dmitri crawled toward the door.
"Grigori!"
The door opened.
Grigori stood in the threshold.
His face was calm. His hands were empty. His eyes—cold, flat, empty—found Dmitri's.
"I'm here," Grigori said.
"Kill them! Kill them all!"
Grigori didn't move.
Dmitri's expression shifted. Confusion. Then understanding. Then something that looked like the beginning of a scream.
Grigori raised his hand.
The pistol was in it. He had drawn it from somewhere—his jacket, his belt, the air itself.
He aimed.
"You're nothing without me," Grigori said.
His voice was quiet.
"Nothing."
He fired.
The bullet struck Dmitri's forehead. His head snapped back. His body collapsed.
Grigori holstered the pistol.
He turned to the women.
"Clean this up," he said.
He walked out.
---
The eighth, Elijah thought. The one who screamed in his office, who burned with ambition and died with a bullet in his brain.
He was the first to realize the truth.
That the world they thought was at their feet was just wishful thinking. The power they thought they had—the authority, the empire—was an illusion.
They were being pulled by invisible strings.
The real masterminds were never in the corridors. Never in the restaurants. Never in the back rooms where deals were made and bodies were buried.
The Mysterium clan.
Seventy percent of the wealth always flowed back to them. The rest was scraps for the dogs to fight over.
And those who opposed?
Ask Andreas Ferrano. He knows.
---
The image shifted.
A private jet. White, sleek, its engines humming on a tarmac somewhere in the southern state of Eva. The sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
Inside, a man sat in a leather chair.
He was older—sixty, maybe—with silver hair slicked back and a mustache that curled at the ends. His suit was white, immaculate, tailored to hide the bulk of his chest. A cigar smoldered between his fingers. Around him, women in evening gowns laughed and tossed bundles of cash into the air.
The Lord of the Skies, Elijah thought. The wealthiest drug king on the planet. The one who built an empire on chalk and Haze.
His name was Santiago Fuentes.
And he was untouchable.
Or so he thought.
The scene shifted.
A prison. Maximum security. Gray walls, gray floors, gray light. Santiago stood in the visitation room, his wrists shackled, his orange jumpsuit hanging loose on his frame.
He had been caught, Elijah thought. Peddling Haze in the streets of Ciudad del Sol. He had evaded the cops for five years—five years of running, hiding, sleeping in safe houses and moving money through shell companies.
But they caught him.
And someone was watching.
A man in a dark suit sat across from Santiago. His face was unremarkable—middle-aged, bland, the kind of face that disappeared in a crowd. But his eyes were sharp. Calculating.
"I have a proposition for you," the man said.
"I'm listening."
"You work for us. You do what we say. And we make all of this go away."
Santiago's eyes narrowed.
"Who is 'us'?"
"The Mysterium clan."
The scene shifted again. A handshake. Smiles. Hugs. A photograph of Santiago and the bland-faced man, their arms around each other, their faces lit by a flash.
He accepted, Elijah thought. Of course he accepted. Who wouldn't?
But he didn't know that he was trading one cage for another.
---
The private jet again.
Santiago sat in his leather chair, a glass of champagne in his hand, a woman on each arm. Money floated through the air like confetti. His smile was wide. His eyes were bright.
He thought he had won, Elijah thought. He thought he had made a deal with the devil and come out ahead.
But the devil always collects.
The scene shifted.
A mansion. White walls, red tiles, a courtyard with a fountain. Palm trees lined the driveway. A pool glittered in the moonlight.
Santiago's wife, Josefina, sat on a couch in the living room. Her daughters—Clara, Isabel, and Sofia—were scattered around the house, reading, talking, laughing.
The doorbell rang.
Josefina stood. She walked to the door. She opened it.
A package sat on the doorstep.
It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. No return address. No label.
She picked it up.
She carried it inside.
She set it on the table.
The package, Elijah thought. The one that would end Santiago's dream forever.
Josefina pulled the string.
The paper fell away.
Inside, a box. Wood, dark, polished. She opened the lid.
---
The explosion was not loud.
It was final.
Light bloomed—white, blinding—and then the walls of the mansion peeled apart like petals of a dying flower. The roof lifted, hung for a moment, and then collapsed. The fountain shattered. The pool boiled. The palm trees bent and broke.
Josefina was gone.
Clara was gone.
Isabel was gone.
Sofia was gone.
The mansion was a crater.
Santiago learned, that night, what it meant to bark at his master, Elijah thought. He learned that the Mysterium clan did not tolerate ambition. Did not tolerate betrayal. Did not tolerate anyone who forgot their place.
He lived, of course. He always lived. But his heart died in that crater.
And he never forgot.
---
Elijah picked up the menu.
The vinyl cover was sticky. The pages were worn, stained with salsa and grease and the fingerprints of a thousand customers.
And now, he thought, I'm here. In Andreas's restaurant. Waiting for him to come down from his office and meet his fate.
He smiled.
The Ferrano corridors have seen twenty-three changes in leadership. Twenty-three corpses. And I'm about to make it twenty-four.
But this time, the one pulling the strings isn't one of their own.
It's me.
He ordered a taco.
And he waited.
---