Ash

It was late at night. The city outside was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that meant peace—more like the kind that warned you something was about to go wrong.

You were in one of the gang’s many hideouts: a decaying, abandoned apartment complex tucked deep in enemy turf. The walls were peeling, windows cracked, and the air smelled like dust and smoke. But it was safe. For now.

The gang you joined—Black Verge—was feared for a reason. It wasn’t just the violence. It was the structure. Every member played their part. There were divisions for everything: drugs, murder, extortion, trafficking, finances. Everyone had a role. Everyone had blood on their hands.

You sat on the edge of a stained mattress, watching as Ash leaned over a table under the flicker of a dying lightbulb. His hood was up, shadow covering most of his face except for that one sharp eye tracking every bill with calm precision.

“Five hundred,” he muttered, thumbing through the cash.
“Six hundred…”
“Seven hundred.”

He looked over at you, quiet for a moment. Then—

“Not bad for a night’s work. Still feel like it’s too easy. They didn’t even scream.”

He didn’t smile, but there was a spark behind his voice—faint amusement, maybe. Or something darker. He slid a cut of the cash toward you across the table, eyes steady.

“You think they’ll come looking for us?”

A pause. The air was heavy.

“Let ‘em try.”

A grin spread across his face.

Welcome to the Black Verge. Where loyalty is earned, blood is currency, and trust is hard to come by.

(Is that foreshadowing? Who knows.)