The Bridgewick Gang's hierarchy was as intricate as a glass sculpture, fragile yet maintained by a delicate balance of power. At the top was the "Brahmin," the gang's enigmatic leader, a master of sorcery who saw everything and everyone around him as pieces in a grand game of commerce. Beneath him were his trusted Kshatriya enforcers, four deputies who carried out his will with ruthless efficiency. Below them stood the Vaishya, twenty ordinary gang members who served as the backbone of his operations. And at the very bottom, a vulnerable class of outcasts; the Shudras, forty-one non-gang wizards deemed nothing more than prey, tools, and expendable assets.
This hierarchy held a unique, if uneasy, stability. The "Brahmin" believed he could maintain order among the ambitious and volatile ranks, enforcing his vision of control over chaos. But he was blind to a harsh truth: the balance he cherished was only an illusion. The wizarding world didn't abide by human rules, and one spark; one unexpected shift, could bring his entire pyramid of power crumbling down.
And tonight, that spark had been struck.
The "Brahmin" waited in the shadows outside a dimly lit café, his fingers tracing the cool metal magazine of his MP18 submachine gun. With each pass, his magic activated, infusing the bullets with a faint glow, amplifying their value and potency. This was his unique gift; an ability to extract or endow worth to anything he touched, a talent that made him both feared and respected. Tonight, he was prepared to use it.
He wasn't alone; a small group of gang members stood behind him, weapons drawn, eyes trained on the door. They were waiting for someone, a resolution to the mess that had been brewing ever since they docked, receiving a cryptic note from the mysterious Owens to faction. The note had revealed Bruno's plans to betray him. A choice now lingered in the air like the taste of blood: if Bruno emerged from the café, it would mean he had indeed turned traitor, and the "Brahmin" would be forced to execute him. If Owens appeared, it would mean Bruno had been eliminated, proving Owens's loyalty but marking him for close surveillance.
And then there was the last, most chilling possibility; the wildcard. If Ivan emerged, it meant he'd killed not just Bruno, but Owens and Henshaw as well, a display of power that would shift the gang's balance in a way the "Brahmin" couldn't afford.
The café door creaked open, pulling the "Brahmin" from his thoughts. Instinctively, he raised his weapon, his gang following suit, though they hesitated. This was the leader's moment; no one would dare act unless he gave the signal.
The doorway was a void of darkness. And then, breaking the stillness, something rolled across the floor and landed with a heavy thud at the "Brahmin's" feet. It was a severed head; Bruno's. His face was frozen in a grimace of terror, his eyes wide, his neck a gruesome mess with a portion of his spine still attached. Whoever had killed him hadn't been interested in a clean cut.
The "Brahmin" felt an ice-cold dread settle into his bones. Bruno was no weakling; he'd been a D-level wizard, a formidable force. He'd faced off against two C-levels and a fellow D and yet, somehow, he had not only lost but had been obliterated.
"How could this be?" The "Brahmin's" mind raced. The only explanation was that Ivan had concealed his true strength all along, hiding his real level from everyone, including the [onlookers] who gauged power within the gang. Could Ivan be a C-level? Or worse, a B-level? The "Brahmin" swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his weapon. He'd armed himself, but now he wasn't sure it would be enough.
Behind him, the gang members shifted uneasily. They had seen the head, understood its implications. Fear spread silently through the ranks, a palpable tension, as if the very air had thickened around them.
Footsteps echoed from inside the café, slow and deliberate. Ivan emerged, each step measured and calm, as though he'd walked through a park rather than a massacre. He wore a coat stained with blood, which billowed lightly in the wind, and his hand rested casually in his pocket while his other hand gripped a pistol. His collar was raised, hiding bruises that hinted at the recent fight. But his face showed no pain, no weakness, no injury. He was whole, unscathed, a silent statement of his terrifying power.
The "Brahmin" felt the weight of Ivan's gaze settle on him. It was like locking eyes with a predator, two beasts meeting on the same dark path, each assessing the other. He searched Ivan's expression for any trace of fatigue, any sign that might give him the upper hand, but Ivan's face was as calm as a lake at dawn, betraying nothing.
"Not a scratch on him," the "Brahmin" thought, his heart sinking further. Ivan had not only defeated three skilled fighters; he'd done so without sustaining a single visible wound. It was an impossible feat, something the "Brahmin" knew he couldn't replicate himself.
In that moment, a realization struck him; a sharp, undeniable truth that left him feeling hollow. Ivan was beyond his control. This was no longer a man he could subdue with threats or allurements of power. Ivan had shattered the hierarchy, and with it, the "Brahmin's" fragile pyramid of order.
Around him, the gang members stood paralyzed, their guns still aimed but their resolve shaken. They too understood the shift that had just taken place. Their leader's grip on power was slipping, and in Ivan, they saw a force that might take them in a direction they hadn't dared imagine.
As the night deepened and silence fell over the alley, the "Brahmin" found himself wondering if this was the beginning of the end or if Ivan had just declared himself the new ruler of the Bridgewick Gang.
The tension hung thick in the air, almost visible in the dim glow of the dock's lights. For a moment, no one spoke or moved, every pair of eyes fixed on Ivan, waiting for what he would do next. It was Ivan who finally broke the silence, his voice low yet steady, cutting through the stillness like a blade.
"I think we can come to a better solution than just bloodshed," he suggested, his words flowing like a ripple in the stagnant pool of unease that surrounded them.
The gang members shifted, glancing at each other with barely concealed relief, while a few narrowed their eyes, suspicion clouding their faces. The "Brahmin," however, remained unreadable, his gaze fixed intently on Ivan as he weighed the offer. After a moment, he gave a faint nod.
"You're right," he replied, his tone calculated. "But understand this, Ivan; I know you could kill me right here and now. But even with your speed and skill, you wouldn't walk out unscathed. Twenty MP18 submachine guns pointed at you can do a lot of damage. Know this weapon? Light as a carbine, packs a punch like a Maxim."
He raised his hand, gesturing at the shadows where gang members stood with their guns trained on Ivan. Though the darkness obscured the exact number of weapons, the threat was clear: Ivan was vastly outnumbered, and the slightest misstep could mean a quick and brutal end.
Ivan gave a small nod, acknowledging the threat but seemingly unbothered. His calm demeanor didn't falter. "Then, let's keep this simple. I want your people to clear the docks."
The "Brahmin" tilted his head, smirking slightly. "Already done. Every one of my people is right here." His voice was sharp, almost a challenge.
Ivan paused, assessing. He didn't rush to fill the silence; he knew this was a negotiation, and both sides had to leave the table with something.
Brahmin replied at last. "But you'll pay me 900 dollars in compensation."
The "Brahmin" arched a brow, catching the shift in Ivan's tone. "Ah," he murmured, "our price for the lives of the three you killed. Standard rule."
Ivan's eyes narrowed, considering. "Is this... a toll?"
The "Brahmin" shook his head, his voice lowering. "No. It's reparation for spilling blood under my rule. It's the price for disturbing the balance."
Silence stretched between them, each man testing the other's resolve. Finally, Ivan broke the tension with a faint smirk. "How about 300?"
The "Brahmin" suppressed a smile of his own. Ivan's willingness to negotiate meant their power was evenly matched; neither could afford a reckless confrontation here. Compromise, in this case, was a quiet victory for both.
"Deal," the "Brahmin" replied. "I'll give you an anonymous account number. Settle it quickly."
Ivan held up a hand. "No need for accounts. I'll pay in cash." From his coat pocket, he drew a wallet, thumbing through the bills before pulling out six 50-dollars notes and, as a final touch, an additional 20. "And for an extra twenty, lend me a car."
The "Brahmin" gave a nod to one of his men, who stepped forward to accept the cash. After a quick count, he signaled to the others, who parted, leaving a car by the edge of the dock, keys in the ignition.
Ivan kept his grip on his gun, cautious as he walked toward the car. One gang member's hand twitched, his eyes darting toward the "Brahmin" for approval, clearly hoping for a command to attack. Now would be the moment to strike, to take Ivan down while he was exposed.
But the "Brahmin" didn't move, his gaze fixed on Ivan's retreating form. He watched as Ivan opened the car door, slid into the driver's seat, and turned the ignition. Only once the engine hummed to life and the car began to pull away did the "Brahmin" allow himself to exhale, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.
"Boss," one of the gang members murmured, stepping closer, "should we keep an eye on him? Maybe send a few men to follow."
The "Brahmin" shot him a sharp look. "You think he wouldn't notice?" he replied, his voice cutting. "Ivan would spot them in seconds, and they'd end up as bodies before sundown. Besides, even if we knew what he was planning, what good would it do us? Send the whole gang after him? You don't know what you're suggesting."
The gang member glanced down, chastened, but the "Brahmin" wasn't finished. "Ivan is dangerous," he continued, almost to himself now. "Killing him would be no easy feat. And if he takes even one of us down in the attempt, every ambitious wizard in the gang would see it as their cue to seize power. The lower ranks would tear each other apart to claw their way up."
He shook his head, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. How had he been so careless? To let a wizard as strong as Ivan operate in his territory, undetected, unchecked. It was a lapse he could not afford again.
"Let's tighten our grip on the city's wizards," he said finally, his voice low and resolute. "No more surprises."
He turned, gesturing to the café. "Let's go inside. I want to see exactly what Ivan left behind."
The gang members fell in line behind him as they entered the dim café, a strange quiet settling over the group. It was only as they crossed the threshold into the shadowed room that the full reality hit the "Brahmin." He wasn't in control anymore; not entirely. Not with Ivan on the loose.
He'd just made a deal with a force that could one day dismantle everything he'd built. And the most unsettling part? He wasn't sure he'd ever see it coming.