The streets of Crescent City were never silent. Even in the dead of night, there were whispers—secrets passed between criminals, deals made in the dark, and names that no one dared to speak too loudly.
And tonight, one name was on everyone's lips.
Ochieng.
The man who refused to die.
In a hidden basement beneath an abandoned warehouse, the top lieutenants of the Phantom Syndicate sat in a tense meeting.
A man with a scar across his jaw slammed his fist onto the table. "This is ridiculous! Tariq was one of our best, and he's dead! Are we just going to sit here while this kid walks free?"
A woman with icy blue eyes leaned back in her chair, unimpressed. "Calm yourself, Drake. You're letting your emotions cloud your judgment."
Drake growled. "You weren't there! Ochieng—he's not normal. He took out six of our men like they were nothing."
A voice cut through the room. Deep. Unshaken.
"You're right. He's not normal."
The room fell silent as the Phantom King entered, his very presence suffocating.
Drake swallowed hard and sat down.
The Phantom King poured himself a drink, swirling the liquid lazily before speaking.
"Ochieng has declared war on us." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "That means he thinks he can win."
He took a slow sip before placing the glass down.
"Let's remind him why no one… ever… wins against the Phantom Syndicate."
---
Ochieng walked through the streets of Crescent City, hands tucked into his pockets, his mind calm despite the war that was about to erupt.
He had spent too long in the shadows, watching, waiting.
Not anymore.
He passed by a small street vendor, the scent of grilled meat filling the air. The old man running the stand gave him a curious glance.
"You got that look, boy," the vendor said, flipping a skewer.
Ochieng arched a brow. "What look?"
The vendor smirked. "The look of a man walking into hell… and not caring if he comes out."
Ochieng chuckled. "Sounds about right."
The vendor slid a skewer toward him. "On the house. You're gonna need your strength."
Ochieng took it without hesitation. "Appreciate it."
As he turned to leave, he noticed a figure watching him from across the street.
Black suit. Earpiece. Syndicate.
Ochieng took one last bite of the skewer, then tossed the stick aside.
Time to get to work.
---
The Syndicate agent didn't see him move.
One second, Ochieng was across the street.
The next—he was right in front of him.
The agent barely had time to react before Ochieng grabbed his collar, slamming him into a nearby alley.
"Tell me," Ochieng murmured, his grip tightening. "Who sent you?"
The agent struggled but said nothing.
Ochieng sighed. "Wrong answer."
With a swift motion, he twisted the man's arm, eliciting a sharp cry.
"Alright! Alright!" the agent gasped. "They're setting a trap for you at The Obsidian Club! The Phantom King—he's waiting for you!"
Ochieng smirked. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Then, before the agent could react—
Crack.
A single, precise strike to the neck, and the man crumpled, unconscious.
Ochieng stepped over him, adjusting his sleeves.
"The Obsidian Club, huh?" he muttered.
Fine. Let's see what the Phantom King has planned.
---
Meanwhile…
At the top floor of The Obsidian Club, the Phantom King stood by a massive window, overlooking the city.
The White Widow sat on the couch, swirling a glass of wine.
"You think he'll come?" she asked lazily.
The Phantom King chuckled.
"He doesn't have a choice."
His eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"This is where we end him."
---