[Third Person POV]
The air in the cramped warehouse was thick with smoke, sweat, and the rhythm of cheap music blasting from battered speakers. Empty bottles littered the floor, and laughter echoed from every corner as Kyle's gang celebrated their victories. They had fought hard the past few weeks, pushing back the Razorbacks and Iron Fangs alike, claiming ground inch by inch. Tonight was supposed to be a night of triumph—a reminder that they were no longer underdogs, no longer nobodies.
But triumphs in the underworld never lasted long.
Unseen by those laughing inside, shadows were gathering at the edges of the district. Two gangs, once at each other's throats, had found common cause against a single enemy. Their numbers swelled as they moved through alleys and streets, blades glinting beneath the neon glow, eyes set on revenge.
Tonight was not a celebration.
Tonight was an execution.
[Kyle's POV]
I leaned back against a rusted chair, the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor. My boys were laughing, some dancing, some arm-wrestling on tables sticky with spilled beer. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe we'd made it. That maybe—just maybe—this madness would hold.
Arjun sat beside me, his smile wide even with the scar that cut across his lip from last week's fight. He nudged me with his elbow. "Boss, we're untouchable now. You feel it, right?"
I smirked. "Careful with words like that. They have a way of tempting fate."
He laughed, shaking his head. "You and your superstitions."
Then the door slammed open.
Not the casual swing of a drunken latecomer. Not the stagger of a friend. It burst inward like a gunshot, rattling the hinges. The music stuttered to silence as the first man stepped inside—machete in hand, rain dripping from his shoulders.
Behind him came dozens more. Razorbacks. Iron Fangs. Together.
For a heartbeat, the room froze. My crew stared, disbelief flickering into fear.
And then steel flashed.
The world erupted.
[Third Person POV]
The ambush fell like a storm. Razorbacks charged with chains and iron rods, Iron Fangs with knives and blades. The warehouse filled with the clash of metal, the screams of men, the sickening thud of weapons finding flesh.
Kyle's crew scrambled, grabbing bottles, chairs, anything they could turn into weapons. But they were outnumbered two to one, maybe more. The enemy's blades gleamed under the dim light, cutting through the chaos with ruthless precision.
Blood sprayed across the concrete floor as the party became a battlefield.
[Kyle's POV]
The first swing came for my head. I ducked, chair legs splintering as the machete cleaved through wood instead of bone. My fist shot upward, breaking a nose, sending the man sprawling back into his own allies.
No time to think. No time to breathe.
I grabbed a broken bottle from the table and drove it into the side of another man's face. He screamed, clutching the wound, his blood mixing with glass shards. My boot crashed into his stomach, sending him tumbling into the crowd.
Everywhere I turned, the air stank of iron. Shouts turned to gurgles, laughter turned to death cries. My brothers were falling—slashed open, beaten down, their blood soaking into the floor.
I fought like a cornered beast, my body moving on instinct born of a lifetime of training. My fist cracked jaws. My elbow shattered ribs. My kicks dropped men before they could swing.
But there were too many.
One caught my arm with a blade. Fire seared across my skin. I spun, driving my knee into his throat, hearing the sick snap as he crumpled. Blood ran hot down my arm, dripping from my fingertips.
I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Every blow I landed was answered by another enemy stepping forward.
[Third Person POV]
The Black Vultures fought bravely, but their numbers dwindled. The warehouse that had once echoed with laughter was now filled with groans of the dying. Broken bottles clattered to the floor, tables overturned, walls splattered crimson.
The Razorbacks and Iron Fangs pressed harder, their alliance bound by vengeance. For once, their hatred of each other was forgotten, replaced by the singular desire to break Kyle and his men.
[Kyle's POV]
I saw Arjun fighting near the center, his fists fast, his spirit unbroken. He moved like a blur, dropping one man with a hook, another with a kick. But then—I saw it.
A blade arced toward him.
"Arjun!" I roared, but my voice drowned in the chaos.
The knife buried deep into his side.
He staggered, eyes wide, blood spilling fast. He still swung, still fought, but his movements faltered. Another slash opened his back, and he collapsed, crumpling into the growing pool of blood on the floor.
Something inside me broke.
The rage was a fire that burned away the pain, the fatigue, the fear. My fists became iron, my strikes unstoppable. I plowed through the crowd, bones shattering under my blows. A man swung a chain—I caught it mid-air, yanked him forward, my knee exploding into his skull. Another lunged with a knife—I twisted, arm snapping his wrist before burying the blade back into his chest.
I carved a path through them, but it wasn't enough. For every man I dropped, two more came.
And all around me, my brothers fell.
Half of them—gone. Their faces twisted in pain, their voices silenced. Their bodies littered the floor of the warehouse that had once felt like home.
The smell of blood, sweat, and death choked me.
But I couldn't stop. Not yet. Not while Arjun lay dying.
[Third Person POV]
Minutes stretched like hours. The Razorbacks and Iron Fangs finally began to falter, their losses heavy, their morale waning under Kyle's fury. The survivors dragged their wounded back, retreating into the rain-soaked night.
Silence returned, broken only by groans and the drip of blood.
The warehouse looked less like a party and more like a grave.
[Kyle's POV]
I dropped to my knees beside Arjun. His breathing was ragged, shallow. His shirt was soaked scarlet, his eyes half-closed.
"Stay with me," I whispered, pressing my hands to the wound, but the blood kept spilling between my fingers. My heart hammered, every instinct screaming at me to keep him alive.
He coughed, red bubbling at his lips. "Boss…" His voice was barely there. "Don't… blame yourself."
I clenched my jaw, fury and grief twisting inside me. "Shut up, Arjun. You're not dying tonight. You hear me? You're not."
His hand weakly grasped mine. His grip was faint, but his smile—damn him—it was still there. "We… we made them fear us, didn't we?"
Tears burned my eyes, but I nodded. "Yeah. We did."
He closed his eyes. His chest rose, fell—then stilled for a moment that nearly stopped my heart.
"No!" I shouted, shaking him. Then—he gasped, shallow but present. Still alive.
I lifted him into my arms, staggering toward the exit. My surviving brothers stumbled behind me, carrying what was left of our gang.
The night outside was cold, rain falling steady, washing the blood from my face but never from my soul.
We made it to the hospital. I don't even remember how—we were half-dead, half-conscious. But somehow, we did.
Arjun was rushed away, machines screaming as doctors swarmed him. I sat outside, my hands still red, my body numb.
Half my family was gone.
The other half was broken.
And I realized something that night, something that would carve itself into me forever.
There was no glory here. No victories. Only blood, betrayal, and graves.
This was the price of the path I had chosen.