They moved slow once the houses turned rough and the streetlights got fewer. The air changed in a way that didn't need words — heavier, thicker, like the city was holding its breath. Not storm weather, just the kind of stillness that comes before trouble walks out of a doorway and asks your name.

The sidewalks were cracked; weeds pushed through the concrete like stubborn little fingers. Buildings leaned closer, windows barred, paint peeling in long strips like old skin. Graffiti covered the walls in layers — angry tags, names of crews, curses, half-faded symbols no one cared enough to clean.

The shadows here felt older than the streetlamps. They clung to corners like they'd been left behind by every person who'd ever come through scared.

They kept walking until the main block of the West High Crew's area pulled itself out of the dark ahead of them. A stripped-down lot with low structures, busted fences, and a few abandoned cars sitting like dead animals. The lights were dull, barely pushing back the night, and the darker spots felt like they breathed.

When they were about two hundred meters out, Maya lifted one hand — fingers straight, palm still. She didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. The group froze instantly, like an invisible brake slammed down on all of them.

"Guys, wait," she murmured, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, not shaking even a little. She turned her head, checking each of them with a long look. "From here on… we split. We go to our own spots. Stick to the plan. And be careful. Seriously."

Her words didn't have drama in them. They weren't meant to pump anyone up. They had the soft weight of responsibility — the kind that sits on your ribs.

Ryan's gaze flicked to each of them — Arthur, Leon, Maya — searching their faces like he wanted to memorize all three expressions before they disappeared into the dark.

"Arthur, Leon… be fine, yeah?" he said quietly. "If something goes wrong, just run. Don't push if it's too much. Don't try to be heroes."

Leon gave a quick grin — the kind that made him look like he was about to do something stupid on purpose, but with style. "Don't worry, Cap. I got this. If shit gets bad, I'm gone. Promise." His tone was light, but his eyes were focused in a way he didn't show often.

Arthur didn't say anything. He just looked at Ryan, calm and unblinking. Arthur's silences were heavier than most people's paragraphs. But this one felt like a quiet vow — something steady that didn't crack. Ryan felt it more than understood it.

Ryan stretched his hand out, palm open. No speech, no rituals. Just a simple gesture that somehow carried everything.

Maya placed her hand on top of his — warm, firm, fingers curling with purpose. Leon slapped his hand down next with a grin that tried to hide his nerves and almost managed to. Arthur hesitated a second, then breathed out through his nose like he was annoyed at himself for having feelings, and finally put his hand on top. His palm was cool, his grip solid, grounding.

Four hands stacked together — nerves, trust, fear, courage — all squeezed into one quiet moment.

"Let's hunt them," Ryan whispered.

"And win," Maya added, nodding once.

"Hell yeah," Leon said, grin widening.

Arthur pressed the stack down — not hard, but enough to seal it.

They broke apart, the motion clean. Then they moved, the street swallowing them piece by piece. No dramatics. No shouting a slogan. Just four silhouettes slipping into different paths like they were stepping into roles they'd been practicing their whole lives.

Ryan and Maya drifted toward the side wall, shoulders low, footsteps soft, slipping between shadows so naturally it almost looked like they belonged there.

Arthur walked straight up the main road, the night bending around him as if it knew better than to brush too close. Leon trailed him for a while, then cut left into a narrow back alley, rolling his shoulders once like he was loosening a spring.

Within moments, they were all gone from each other's sight, but each carried the same picture in their head of where the others should be. And that was enough.

Arthur

Arthur reached the front gate alone. He didn't slow down. He didn't speed up. He walked like he'd walked this road a thousand times — steady, unbothered, belonging. His hands stayed buried deep in his pockets, elbows relaxed, the collar of his jacket brushing against the wind.

Around ten guys were posted near the gate, spread out in lazy clusters. They had the look of men who'd convinced themselves their muscle made them untouchable. Cigarettes hung from lips.

A couple stomped the ground every few seconds, pretending they were warming up for something. Their laughter was the loud, forced kind — like they were trying to shout over their own boredom.

When they noticed Arthur, one of them squinted. "Who's that?" he muttered, frowning as if Arthur's calm confused him.

Another guy walked up, shoulders puffed out with fake confidence, and reached to tap Arthur's shoulder like he was checking if the stranger had any weight.

Arthur didn't say a word. His expression didn't shift. The moment the man's hand landed, Arthur's arm snapped forward — a straight punch, controlled and efficient, like he was flicking away a fly with more force than necessary.

The sound was sharp. The crack wasn't dramatic — it was real. The man's jaw broke, clean and ugly. He collapsed instantly, body folding downward like someone had unplugged him.

The rest of them froze. Cigarettes dropped. Mouths hung open. Fear ran through them like a cold wind.

Then someone shouted, voice half-scream: "FUCK! It's Arthur Kane!"

The name detonated in the group. Anger bubbled under the surface, but fear punched through first — the kind that twists people's stomachs and makes them second-guess their courage. Some stepped back. Others clenched fists, trying to mask the tremble in their hands.

Then fear turned into rage, because rage is easier to wear than panic.

They charged.

Arthur didn't pull his hands from his pockets. He just shifted his weight — a tiny, perfect adjustment — like he was preparing to avoid a puddle, not ten screaming men.

They lunged.

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