Dante hit the ground hard, mud splattering all over him. He tried to get up, but a heavy boot slammed into his back, pinning him down.
"You think you can run these streets, loser?" the guy sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Dante clenched his fists, his knuckles white. He knew he was a nobody—always had been. No family, no friends, not even a decent meal to his name. He scraped by on petty theft and odd jobs, always getting pushed around by the bigger crews. He was used to it, used to being the bottom of the barrel.
But tonight, something inside him snapped.
"Why… why do I always get treated like this?" he muttered, his voice shaky but low.
"Because you're trash!" the guy laughed, and the others joined in, their voices echoing in the empty alley.
Then, out of nowhere, a sharp pain shot through Dante's head, like a thousand needles stabbing into his brain. He grabbed his skull, curling into a ball as his vision blurred. And then, it hit him—floods of memories that weren't his.
Memories of a man named Victor, the kingpin of the "Shadow Empire." Victor wasn't just some street thug; he was a legend. He ran the underground with an iron fist, using tech, brains, and sheer guts to build an empire. He had it all—money, power, respect. But in the end, betrayal took him down.
The memories played like a movie in Dante's mind: Victor rising from nothing, outsmarting rivals, hacking systems, moving product with drones, laundering cash through crypto. He was untouchable—until he wasn't.
"Is this… my past life?" Dante whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief.
The pain faded, replaced by a clarity and strength he'd never felt before. In one swift move, he twisted out from under the boot and slammed his fist into the guy's face, sending him sprawling.
"You wanna mess with me now?" Dante growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The others charged, but Dante was faster. He dodged a punch, drove his elbow into a throat, and disarmed a knife-wielder with a brutal twist of the wrist. The blade clattered to the ground, and Dante kicked the guy's knee, dropping him like a sack of bricks.
In under a minute, the crew was on the ground, groaning. Dante stood over them, breathing steady, his eyes cold. He wasn't the same Dante anymore. He had Victor's memories, his skills, his hunger.
"The Iron Fist Crew?" he said, looking down at the leader, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Your time's up."
He turned and walked away, rain soaking his face but doing nothing to cool the fire burning inside him. The neon lights of the street flickered, casting shadows that danced around him.
"Step one," he muttered, "get the tools."
He knew the game was about to change. The streets were his now, and Dante was ready to take it all.