Ten years earlier.
The storm that had devoured the rooftop tonight had no place in Kyle's memory of the past. Instead, the days of his final year in college were filled with the golden haze of youth—carefree laughter, swaggering arrogance, and the reckless certainty that the world was his to conquer.
Kyle was twenty-one then. Sharp-eyed, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding even before he spoke. His black hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and his lean, honed frame carried the grace of someone who had lived in motion since childhood. Years of training in martial arts had etched strength into every muscle.
From his earliest days, martial discipline had been his constant companion. His father had placed him into judo before he was ten. Karate followed, then taekwondo, then kung fu. He'd studied them all with the devotion of a craftsman and the hunger of a predator. By the time he reached college, his body was a living weapon, his fists and legs extensions of will. Black belts adorned his past, but he wore none of them in his day-to-day life. He didn't need cloth around his waist to remind him of what he was capable of.
By then, he'd also added boxing and kickboxing to his repertoire. His style was not just disciplined—it was adaptable. A storm of techniques, flowing from one to another with ruthless efficiency. To his friends, he was unbeatable. To his enemies, he was terrifying. To himself, he was unstoppable.
And with that belief came the hunger for more.
The underworld had always been a shadow on the edge of the city. In the neighborhoods around his college, small gangs carved out pieces of territory like hyenas squabbling over scraps. Most were college dropouts—guys who had left classrooms behind for fists and knives, believing brute force could buy them respect.
Two such gangs dominated Kyle's area.
The first, known as the Razorbacks, were brutal but sloppy. Their leader, Javed, was a man with scarred knuckles and a taste for intimidation. They ran protection rackets around cheap hostels and bars, using their fists to shake down whoever dared resist.
The second, the Iron Fangs, were sharper. Their leader, Raghav, had once been a promising athlete before dropping out. His gang was disciplined, organized, and dangerously ambitious. They controlled street gambling and small drug trades, claiming territory with methodical precision.
Both gangs had clashed for years, neither strong enough to wipe the other out, neither weak enough to vanish. Their war left cracks in the district, and it was in those cracks that Kyle began to build his own foundation.
At first, it was nothing serious.
A handful of friends—classmates, fellow martial arts enthusiasts, kids who were tired of being pushed around by the Razorbacks or the Iron Fangs. They came to Kyle for leadership without him even asking. His charisma drew them in, his fists kept them safe, and his vision gave them something to fight for.
They didn't call themselves a gang, not at first. Just a crew. A brotherhood. But as days blurred into weeks, they began to grow.
It started with small things: defending their hangouts, walking unafraid through streets where Razorbacks usually preyed, pushing back when Iron Fangs tried to bully students for money. A few bloody noses here, a few bruises there. Kyle always stood at the center, his strikes faster, cleaner, more devastating than anyone else's.
The fights came, and the fights went. They were still students then, balancing exams with bruised knuckles, lectures with late-night confrontations. It was reckless, but it was exhilarating.
"Boss," one of his boys—Arjun, a wiry kid with quick hands—called him one night after a scuffle. They were sitting on the college terrace, the city glowing beneath them. "That's what you are, you know? The boss. You lead, we follow. Simple as that."
Kyle had laughed then, shaking his head. "I'm no boss, Arjun. We're just a crew."
But deep down, the word tasted right.
Boss.
It wasn't long before the Razorbacks noticed.
One evening outside a tea stall near campus, Javed and half a dozen of his men cornered Kyle and three of his friends. Their heavy boots scuffed the pavement, cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
"You kids think you're something special?" Javed sneered, his scarred knuckles flexing. "This is our block. You walk it because we let you."
Kyle had stood calm, hands in his pockets, his voice steady. "No. We walk it because we live here. And we'll keep walking it, whether you like it or not."
The fight was inevitable. It exploded in seconds—fists, chains, sticks. Javed's men swung with brute force, but Kyle flowed between them like water. His movements were precise, honed, devastating. A kick sent one man sprawling against the tea stall's shutter. A palm strike broke another's nose. He weaved through them, his crew following his lead, and within minutes the Razorbacks were retreating, cursing and clutching their wounds.
That night, Kyle's crew wasn't just a crew anymore. They were a gang.
Word spread fast. The district whispered of a new name on the streets. A college gang, yes, but one with discipline. One with a leader who fought like no one else.
The Razorbacks seethed, licking their wounds. The Iron Fangs watched with interest, their leader Raghav especially curious about this new player.
Territories were being drawn and redrawn.
At first, Kyle wanted only to protect his people—students, shopkeepers, small-time vendors who suffered at the hands of gangs. But the more he fought, the clearer the path became. Protection wasn't enough. If they wanted peace, they needed control.
And so Kyle began distributing territories.
It was subtle at first. He marked the tea stall as theirs, then the alley near the hostels, then the basketball court where his crew often trained. He ensured no Razorbacks or Fangs stepped into those places without consequence. Every time a rival tried, they were met with fists and fury. Every victory stitched his gang tighter together, built their reputation higher.
His friends began calling themselves the Black Vultures, inspired by the black cape Kyle often wore. He didn't pick the name, but he didn't reject it either. The vulture was not glamorous, but it was relentless. Patient. Always circling, always watching, never letting go of what was theirs.
For Kyle, these were golden days.
The battles were dangerous, yes, but they carried a thrill. The weight of destiny had not yet fallen on his shoulders. The rooftop storms of the future were still far away. In those days, there was only fire in his chest, laughter in his throat, and the satisfaction of knowing he was building something that mattered.
Sometimes, late at night after another victorious clash, he would sit with his boys on the rooftop of a hostel, overlooking their small patch of the city. The neon lights glowed, motorcycles roared in the distance, and the city seemed infinite.
"This is ours now," Arjun would say, grinning with a split lip.
"Not all of it," Kyle replied, calm but certain. "Not yet."
They laughed, their wounds stinging but their spirits soaring.
But the underworld is never patient.
The Razorbacks nursed their grudges. The Iron Fangs sharpened their gaze. And Kyle, whether he knew it or not, was standing at the edge of a precipice.
He had formed a gang. He had declared his presence. And in the city's shadows, once you stepped onto that path, there was no going back.
For now, though, Kyle relished the climb.
He was twenty-one, a master of every strike and every throw, his crew loyal, his enemies wary. The world lay before him, wide open, filled with promise and danger alike.
And in those fleeting days, he believed himself untouchable.