As Jordan strode away from Clinton's office, a gruff voice called out to him. "Kid, get ready. We have a mission at the Underground."
Jordan turned to see Ron Cater, a seasoned gangster who had been with the Mad Dogs for over six years. Despite his surly demeanour, Ron commanded respect, having risen through the ranks from a former Pro Class Hunter before the thrill of the hunt lost its lustre.
"The Underground, sir?" Jordan's eyes gleamed with anticipation. As a relative newcomer, he had yet to venture into the seedy depths of the city's black market.
Ron nodded, reaching into his jacket to retrieve a battered briefcase. "We're trading a valuable score from our last hit on the Serpents. Boss wants us to make the exchange and bring back the payment." He shoved the briefcase into Jordan's hands. "Take care of this. Don't let anything happen to it until we make the trade."
Jordan clutched the case tightly, his knuckles whitening from the force of his grip. This was his chance to prove his worth, to show the Mad Dogs that he was more than just a pretty face with a penchant for violence.
As they made their way through the winding back alleys, Jordan studied Ron intently. The grizzled gangster moved with a casual confidence born from years of experience, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings for potential threats.
Finally, they reached a nondescript door, its surface marred by years of neglect and abuse. Ron rapped out a complicated pattern, and the door swung open, revealing a descending staircase that seemed to lead into the very bowels of the earth.
"Stay close and keep that mouth of yours shut," Ron growled, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. "The Underground is no place for idle chatter."
Jordan simply nodded; his throat suddenly dry with anticipation. He could feel the weight of the briefcase in his hands, a tangible reminder of the risk they were taking. But he was ready, ready to embrace the darkness and all the dangers it held.
As they descended into the shadows, Jordan couldn't help but wonder what other secrets lurked within the Underground's twisted depths. Little did he know that this was merely the first step on a journey that would test the very limits of his strength, his resolve, and his loyalties.
For in the world of the Mad Dogs, nothing was ever as it seemed, and the only constant was the ever-present threat of betrayal.
"Kid, one more thing," Ron growled as they navigated the winding alleys. "Don't make eye contact down here. Staring at someone is an invitation for trouble, and I know damn well you can't keep that smart mouth of yours shut."
Jordan gave a curt nod, his grip tightening on the briefcase. He was determined to prove himself, to show Ron that he could handle the brutality of the Underground.
Finally, they arrived at a derelict warehouse, the designated meeting point for their buyer. But as they entered the cavernous space, Jordan's instincts prickled with unease. The air was thick with tension, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
"Something's off," Ron muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Why the fuck is this place emp-"
His words were cut short as a blade whizzed through the air, barely missing his head. In a fluid motion, Ron drew his weapon, his body coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
Jordan mirrored his stance, his free hand hovering near his holster as he scanned their surroundings for the attacker.
"Kid, make sure you don't lose our score," Ron barked, his voice a low rumble of barely contained fury.
A mocking laugh echoed through the warehouse, and a figure emerged from the shadows. Jordan's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the man – Donald Pete, a notorious enforcer for the Serpents gang, his face a tapestry of scars and his right hand adorned with their distinctive tattoo.
"Your score, Ronny boy?" Donald sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. "I think you mean our score."
Ron's lips curled into a feral grin, his fingers flexing around the grip of his gun. "Fancy seeing you here, Donny. I should have known the Serpents would try to double-cross us."
The tension crackled between the two men, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. Jordan could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, his senses heightened to a razor's edge.
This was no longer just a simple trade. This was a declaration of war, a clash of wills and allegiances that could only end in bloodshed. And as the first shots rang out, Jordan knew that he was about to be baptized in the fires of the Underground, his mettle forged in the crucible of violence that ruled this savage realm.
"Look, Ronny and pretty face kid," Donald sneered, his lips curling into a mocking grin. "Hand over our score, and we'll let you off the hook. It's the easy way out."
Ron barked out a harsh laugh, his eyes glinting with disdain. "Fuck off, Donny. It's your own damn fault the Serpents lost their precious cargo to us. Maybe you should have guarded it better."
Donald's face contorted into a mask of rage at Ron's biting retort. With a snap of his fingers, a chorus of footsteps echoed through the warehouse as more Serpents emerged from the shadows, surrounding them in a tightening noose of steel and malice.
"Son of a bitch," Ron growled, his grip tightening on his weapon as he sized up their opponents. "Fine, if you don't want to do this the easy way, we'll just have to force it."
"Boys, get ready to send them to Hell!" Donald barked, his men tightening the noose around Ron and Jordan.
Suddenly, a blur of motion caught Jordan's eye as several objects sliced through the air with lethal precision. Donald's men dropped like flies, their chests erupting in crimson geysers as gaping holes were punched through their bodies. One by one, they collapsed to the ground, their agonized moans fading into a deathly silence.
In the span of a few heartbeats, the tide had turned, leaving only Donald, Ron, and Jordan standing amidst the carnage. Donald fell to his knees, his face a mask of shock and terror as he struggled to comprehend the brutality that had just unfolded before his eyes.
From the shadows, a figure emerged, moving with a predatory grace that sent chills down Jordan's spine. It was the man from The God Affiliation, the embodiment of death itself, his hooded visage concealing all but the glint of cold, merciless eyes.
As the man withdrew a cigar and lit it with a practised motion, Jordan felt the weight of his gaze like a physical force, pinning him in place. Ron's face was etched with fear, his bravado from moments ago evaporating in the face of this otherworldly presence.
"I'm here for Jordan," the man stated, his voice a rasp that seemed to echo through the cavernous warehouse.
Jordan's heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of dread and exhilaration coursing through his veins. He had heard whispers of The God Affiliation but never imagined he would come face-to-face with one of their operatives – a living legend cloaked in shadow and steeped in blood.
In that moment, Jordan knew that his life had been forever altered, irrevocably entwined with forces beyond his comprehension. The path ahead was shrouded in darkness, but he could see the faintest glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel – a destiny that beckoned him, no matter the cost.
As the man from The God Affiliation took a long drag from his cigar, Jordan steeled his resolve. He would meet this challenge head-on, embracing the unknown with open arms. For in the world of gods and monsters, only the brave and the foolish dared to tread.
And Jordan North was no fool.