The tension in Dustvale was palpable. The Viper gang's grip on the city tightened with each passing day, their presence a constant shadow over the railyards and alleys. For Rod and Carl, life became a careful game of avoidance, but deep down, Rod knew it was only a matter of time before another confrontation.
What he didn't expect was just how much that confrontation would change everything.
It began with a rumor.
"Old Smoke's looking for you," Li said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Rod froze, his hand hovering over a piece of bread he'd been splitting with Carl. "Old Smoke?"
Li nodded, leaning against the doorway of the abandoned warehouse. "Word is, your little stunt with his boys didn't sit well. And now the big man himself wants to deal with you."
Carl's face went pale. "You've got to leave the city, Rod. If Old Smoke gets his hands on you—"
"I'm not running," Rod interrupted, his voice firm.
Li raised an eyebrow. "Bold choice. Stupid, but bold."
Rod ignored her sarcasm, his mind racing. He'd heard plenty about Old Smoke—the ruthless leader of the Viper gang. Stories of his brutality were whispered in every corner of Dustvale, tales of how he'd built his empire on fear and blood. Facing him was a death sentence, but Rod wasn't about to back down.
That night, Rod wandered the streets alone, his thoughts heavy. He didn't want Carl caught in the crossfire, and Li's involvement was already more than he was comfortable with.
The wind picked up as he walked, tugging at his worn coat. It wasn't the strange, controlled gusts he'd experienced before, but it still felt… alive, as if the city itself was warning him of the storm ahead.
He didn't have to wait long.
It happened near the railyard, in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. Rod had been heading back to the warehouse when he heard the crunch of boots behind him.
He turned slowly, his fists clenching at his sides.
Five men stood there, their faces shadowed but unmistakably Viper. At their center was a figure Rod recognized instantly: Old Smoke.
The gang leader was tall and wiry, his face lined with scars and his eyes cold as steel. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily around him like a living thing.
"Well, if it isn't the street rat," Old Smoke drawled, his voice low and gravelly. "You've been causing me a lot of trouble, kid."
Rod's throat tightened, but he forced himself to meet the man's gaze. "You're the one sending your dogs after me. Maybe you're the problem."
Old Smoke chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. "You've got guts. I'll give you that. But guts don't mean much when you're dead."
He nodded to his men, and they advanced.
Rod braced himself, his mind racing. He couldn't win this fight—not with his fists alone. But as the first man lunged at him, instinct took over.
The now-familiar tingling sensation returned, and Rod focused on it, letting it guide him. The air around him stirred, and with a shout, he swung his arm.
A sudden burst of wind slammed into the attacker, sending him crashing into a stack of crates. The others hesitated, their expressions shifting from confidence to confusion.
"What the hell?" one of them muttered, but Old Smoke's voice cut through the chaos.
"Get him!"
They came at him all at once, but Rod was ready. The wind obeyed his commands, swirling around him in powerful gusts. He dodged a knife swipe, the blade narrowly missing his side, and countered with a blast of air that knocked his assailant off his feet.
But it wasn't enough.
For every man he sent sprawling, another took his place. Rod's strength was fading, the effort of controlling the wind draining him. He stumbled, and one of the men landed a punch to his ribs, sending him to the ground.
Old Smoke stepped forward, his cigar glowing in the dim light. "Impressive. But you're out of your depth, kid."
Rod struggled to his feet, his vision swimming. He could feel the wind still swirling around him, but it was weaker now, slipping through his grasp.
Old Smoke raised a gun, the barrel glinting ominously.
"This is where your story ends," he said, his voice cold.
Rod closed his eyes, bracing for the shot. But instead of the deafening crack of a gun, there was a sharp, sizzling sound.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Old Smoke staring at his gun, the metal glowing red-hot. He dropped it with a curse, clutching his burned hand.
"What the—"
The ground beneath them rumbled, and a sudden burst of fire erupted from the dirt, forcing the gang to scatter. Rod stared in shock as a figure stepped out of the shadows, their hand outstretched.
The man was older, with a wild beard and piercing blue eyes. He wore a long coat that billowed in the wind, and as he approached, the flames subsided.
"You've got a gift, kid," the man said, his voice calm but commanding. "But you're not using it right."
Rod could only stare, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. "Who… who are you?"
"Name's Albus," the man said with a faint smile. "And if you want to live, you'd better come with me."
Old Smoke's men were regrouping, their confusion giving way to anger. Rod glanced at Albus, then back at the gang leader, who was already reaching for another weapon.
"Let's go," Albus urged, grabbing Rod by the arm.
Rod hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. Together, they disappeared into the night, leaving the Viper gang in disarray.
As they ran, Rod couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. For the first time, he wasn't alone.
But he also knew this was only the beginning.