The Gang Summit was the city's closed council—an assembly where the heads of major organized groups met to discuss various matters and settle what couldn't be left to rumor. Held once every three months, it admitted only those syndicates recognized as major organizations, whose leaders bore the brand of a gang ring. To simply stand among them was an honor; to speak was to move the city's undercurrent by a degree.

Each Summit shifted venues like a shell game. This time it gathered on the outskirts, in an abandoned high-rise husk that never made it past the bones. The place was a dark cavern of broken floors and exposed beams, filled with rubble and shattered glass. Moonlight speared through the roof's gaps, white as bone; the walls sweated with moss and rain-stained mineral blooms. Several hundred gangsters rallied inside, masks veiling their faces to smudge identity into myth. In the center, fifteen figures took their places like chess pieces—centerpieces for the fourteen major gangs of the Undercity, a ring of power under a roof that had forgotten its name.

Maki Lin stood among them, flanked by her augmented men, an eyepatch drawn over her right eye like a deliberate secret. Several rows to her right stood Derek Archer and Ray, with Zeke at their shoulder—Zeke entirely motionless, breathing shallowly, waiting as the last of the leaders drifted into the light. The ruined building held its breath with them, and the moon peered through the holes as though it, too, wanted to hear the verdict.

The murmur of a hundred masked voices thinned as a man in leopard fur shouldered forward—tall, black, his afro crowned in cross-lit neon and his body clinking under the weight of layered gold. Chains pooled at his collarbones; a white fur wrap framed his neck; gray pinstriped pants broke clean over crocodile loafers; a patterned shirt flashed beneath the coat like contraband silk.

"Who is this?" he paused. "A newcomer? Are you lost?" he mockingly asked, revealing his diamond incrusted teeth as he laughed.

"No, are you?" Zeke asked in an aggressive, robotic tone.

The man's amusement curdled. He lifted a gold cane topped with a miniature globe, its continents engraved so finely they caught the moon like ice.

"Do you have any idea who you're talking to?" the man frowned, extending his golden cane towards Zeke.

"Do you?" Zeke looked deep into his eyes with a ravaging hatred, making him look away.

A ripple of reaction ran through the masked ranks.

"Derek!" the man shouted. "Is this actually how you have one of your subordinates treat the leader of the chain gang?"

"About that," Derek murmured. "He's actually my boss."

"Whaaaat?" the man called out in surprise, lowering his sunglasses. "That is some buuuulshit. The Derek I know would never allow someone like that to take the reigns. Isn't that right, Roy?" he asked looking for affirmation,

"No," Roy sighed. "Because I am also his subordinate."

"Ya'll must be crazy or something!" the man called out.

Silence fell as Maki Lin stepped into the light—a blade-thin silhouette beside her augmented guards, eyepatch dark as a closed door.

"Alright," Maki Lin suddenly spoke, forcing the rowdy crowd of gangsters to go quiet. "It seems like there have been certain changes in hierarchy since the last time we gathered here, so lets all go for a round of introductions. My name is Maki Lin, I am the director of the Golden baron casino."

Voices followed, one after another, rising from the ring of leaders like markers laid on a map:

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

"I am Franchezka De Fanyl the leader of Red lotus guild," another woman spoke.

"Dimteus Lous, a representative from The Mercenary Guild," a man spoke.

"I am known as nose, leader of the Trackers guild," a man grumpily spoke.

"I'm Tanker, I represent the Birds of prey," a burly man stated.

"Leto from the Broken fangs," a veteran soldier stated.

"Miriam leader of the Rotten Globe guild," a woman smugly stated.

"Caliban," the leader of the Sabre guild.

"I am the leader of the Last stand guild, my name is James Cold," a man wearing a suit sighed.

"I am the representative of the Trade guild, Eleonor Welston," a woman smirked.

"My name's Oliver, yo," the man from before said. "I am the leader of the Chain Gang."

Zeke did not move. Breath shallow, gaze flat, he let the moon etch a ghostly edge along his mask.

"I am the Prowler, the leader of both the Don and the Moth gangs," Zeke mumbled in a robotic tone.

"Now that that's out of the way, I would like to announce something," Maki Lin smirked.

She approached Zeke and stopped directly in front of him. He did not move an inch—watching the angle of her shoulders, the set of her jaw, the flex of gloved fingers—as if cataloging each micro-gesture against a ledger only he could see. The ruin around them breathed in drafts: mossy walls sweating under moonbeams, shattered panes ticking as the night wind worried their edges.

"You saved my life and now I owe you," Maki bowed her head, extending her hand with a ring encrusted by a small diamond placed in her palm. "Let this serve as repayment as I come to serve under you," she said, giving the ring to Zeke.

"From here on I announce!" Maki shouted. "The golden baron officially belongs to the Prowler."

Derek watched her from Zeke's flank with a tight, unreadable stare—a muscle flicking in his cheek as if willing Zeke not to accept. Zeke slid the ring onto his finger without a word. The diamond caught a sliver of moonlight and lit like an omen.

"That's some bullshit!" Oliver barked, chains clattering as he shouldered forward. "Isn't this some uneven distribution of power?"

"Got a problem with it?" Zeke asked in an aggressive manner.

"Not yet I don't," Oliver grunted.

"So whats on the agenda today?" Franchezka asked.

Zeke stepped into the broken center of the floor, boots grinding glass. "I have several changes I wish to propose to the other gang leaders," he stated while waking forward. "First I wish to abolish all Illegal sex and slave trafficking operations."

"Wait a fucking minute!" Oliver roared. "Do you have any Ideas of the losses I will face because of your bullshit?!"

"I simply don't care," Zeke growled,

"You're about to care when I whip your ass," the man walked forward.

"Shut the fuck up!" Derek shouted.

Zeke lifted one hand, palm open—stay. "This is my matter and my alone," he stated.

Oliver lunged. "Sou—" he tried calling out. Before he could finish, Zeke's knuckles cracked down onto his forehead with piston precision. Oliver's vision spun; ceiling became floor; the whole warehouse flipped like a coin.

"Now listen here!" Zeke shouted in an aggressive manner, his voice distorted by his mask and echoing through the warehouse. "I have a request. From this day on, anything to do with Illegal prostitution, extortion, and drugs will have to be withdrawn from the streets. Instead, I offer you an alternative. I will create a company that manages medications so you could still sell all of your products, but instead of selling it on the streets, everything will be done legally. Another company will be created for sex entertainment as well. Here we will establish legal brothels and will only accept prostitutes who come there of their own volition and are free of any venereal diseases." Zeke sighed. "And lastly, those of you who gather money from extortions, we will create a bank that will give out loans to all who wish and instead of bothering normal people will will simply collet what we are owed." Zeke explained. "All who disagree, doo say," he cleared his throat. "And you will be killed on the spot."

Silence fell—a heavy, thinking hush that made the rafters creak like old oaths. Moonlight slid across masks and gunmetal. One by one, hands rose from the ring of leaders—hesitant at first, then steadier—as calculations finished clicking into place. And in that small, methodical chorus of assent, the first deliberate cut into Lower Babel's rot was made.

Before long, the gathering was over. Masks slipped back into shadow and the ruin exhaled; moonlight cooled across the broken floor as Zeke, Derek, Ray, and Maki angled toward the exit—boots crunching glass, coats tugged by a draft that smelled of rust and old rain. They moved with purpose, a tight wedge of silence already heavy with the conversations to come.

"Excuse me, mr. Prowler," a low-pitched voice called out. "I'm a huge fan," A large buzz-cut man stepped into their path, broad as a doorway, nerves showing in the tremor of his hands.

"Step away," Zeke growled.

"Yes of course," the man stuttered, shoulders folding as he shuffled back.

"How pathetic of you to idolize someone you know nothing about," Zeke grunted, walking away.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.