Well, it's a pretty tragic time we're living in, but we're not about to let it get the best of us. The big disaster's already happened—there's no denying that—but here we are, picking through the wreckage like folks trying to find something good in a pile of old junk. We've got our work cut out for us, that's for sure. No more clear, easy roads to walk on. The path ahead is full of rocks, holes, and general mischief. But we don't just stand there whining about it—we find a way to go around, or over, or through whatever gets in our way. We've got to keep moving. We don't have much choice, and I reckon we're all stubborn enough to do it. The sky's fallen, the world's a mess—but as long as we're breathing, we've got to keep living.
In the tumultuous streets of New York, where the skyline pierced the heavens and the streets teemed with a mosaic of races and clashing cultures, violence was as common as the air itself. The city had always been a battleground for the underworld, a place where the strong survived and the weak were forgotten in the shadows. It was here, amidst the grind of steel and concrete, that the Twelve Eagles emerged, their creed simple and ruthless: violence for violence, blood for blood, and dominance through sheer brutality.
The Twelve Eagles had risen like a storm in just two years, their cold, merciless methods sweeping away rivals as swiftly as autumn leaves. They were no longer just another gang—they were the gang, the one whose name struck fear from the grimy back alleys of Brooklyn to the shining towers of Manhattan. No longer a secret, the Twelve Eagles' reputation had spread like wildfire, and soon, even the powerhouses of Europe and America found themselves eager to court favor with their fearsome leader.
At the heart of this storm was Hudson, the shadow behind the storm. His name was whispered in hushed tones in the dark corners of the world, a name that meant power, fear, and indomitable control. His eyes—cold, grayish-purple—held the kind of arrogance that made men tremble. No one knew his true origins, though many speculated that he was a child of mixed blood, a product of the so-called "Republic of Nations," born to lead and conquer.
Hudson was the heir to a legacy that stretched far beyond the world of crime. His father, Kingsun, a man of both Latin and Anglo-Saxon descent, was the head of one of Europe's most notorious crime syndicates. Kingsun had built his empire on a façade of legitimate business—real estate, finance, and technology—but beneath that exterior lay a far darker empire. Through cunning and brutal strength, he had become the king of the underworld, a ruler whose influence reached across continents, and whose name was feared even by the highest of the high in government and business.
And then there was Hudson, the son, born into a life of unparalleled power and ruthless expectation. From the moment he was born, he was destined to inherit his father's kingdom, a kingdom that spanned not just the criminal world, but the very fabric of global power itself. While other children were learning their ABCs, Hudson was in the Shaolin Temple in China, perfecting his martial arts. At the age of four, he could shoot a bow with deadly precision. By seven, his skill with a firearm had put seasoned mobsters to shame.
At twenty-four, Hudson had built the Twelve Eagles into an empire of its own, one that stood in stark contrast to his father's global network. While Kingsun had played the game from behind the scenes, Hudson was an open force—his name alone enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone who dared to challenge him.
Hudson was a figure of terrifying beauty, a modern-day dragon whose very presence commanded respect and fear. Those who served him knew better than to question his will. Disloyalty was a crime punishable by death, and no one had ever dared defy him for long.
It was in the dimly lit, opulent headquarters of the Twelve Eagles that Hudson sat now, sipping a glass of fine white wine. His fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass as a man, trembling with fear, was brought before him. The man had crossed a line, trafficking heroin to the black market. The sentence was inevitable.
"Throw him to the lions," Hudson's voice was cold, dismissive, as though speaking of a mere inconvenience. The order was law, and it would be carried out without hesitation.
One of his subordinates, a man named Jessen, hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. "Hudson, may I… give him a bullet instead?"
Hudson's eyes flickered with an emotion that was neither pity nor mercy, but something far colder. "Trash like him doesn't deserve the luxury of a bullet," Hudson said, his voice sharp as a blade. "Let him be dinner for the lions. That is mercy."
Jessen recoiled, a chill running down his spine. The imagery was clear and horrific—the man would be devoured alive, torn apart by beasts, his suffering drawn out in agonizing detail. But it was what he deserved, and Jessen knew better than to protest further.
"Yes, Hudson. As you command," Jessen stammered, bowing quickly and retreating into the shadows.
The silence that followed was broken only by the clink of glass as Hudson finished his drink. He did not flinch at the cruelty of the order. To him, this was just another day in the life of the Twelve Eagles.
Then, a voice broke the heavy silence. It was Baiyi, the second-in-command of the Twelve Eagles, a man whose appearance was as fearsome as his reputation. Half of his face was a terrifying mask of scars, the result of countless battles fought and survived. Baiyi's smile, twisted and predatory, was a stark contrast to his disfigurement, yet it was somehow disarming in its familiarity.
"Hey, big boss, what's with the frown?" Baiyi's tone was teasing, almost childlike, despite the deadly world they inhabited. "Smile, you're only twenty-four, after all!"
Hudson's expression remained unchanged, a flicker of amusement crossing his eyes as he looked at his subordinate. "Your laugh still hasn't improved, Baiyi. It sounds like the cackle of a madman."
Baiyi chuckled, unbothered, and pulled a tiny camera from his coat, pointing it in Hudson's direction as if trying to capture a moment of their otherwise grim existence. "Come on, smile for the camera. You're not supposed to be so cold at your age!"
Hudson's eyes narrowed, and Baiyi could feel the weight of that gaze, a pressure that could crush a lesser man. Still, he pressed on, changing the subject.
"By the way, how's the arms deal going?" Baiyi asked, his voice dropping to something more serious, the playful tone gone in an instant.
Hudson's response was curt, a sneer curling on his lips. "You're the arms king now, Baiyi. No need to ask me."
Baiyi shrugged nonchalantly, his face briefly breaking into a mischievous grin before he fell back into his role. "Everything's fine. Even Ye Yue's been a big help in this operation. Things are moving forward."
Hudson's eyes flickered with mild interest but no more. He turned his attention back to the glass in his hand, swirling the wine with deliberate slowness. "Be careful, Baiyi. Don't get too comfortable. Even a lion has to know when it's time to hunt."
The room was quiet again, the tension palpable. The Twelve Eagles were not just a gang; they were an empire, one that operated with cold precision, with no room for weakness or hesitation. Hudson was the heart of it, a figure both revered and feared—a ruler who would stop at nothing to see his vision realized.
And as the moon rose over the city, casting long shadows across the streets of New York, the fate of the Twelve Eagles seemed as inevitable as the rise of the tide. The world, it seemed, was Hudson's to command.