CHAPTER 316: SHADOWS IN BRINEHURST

Brinehurst had always been known for its rough edges. Cracked pavements, dimly lit streets, and neighborhoods where even the bravest students thought twice before walking alone. Yet lately, things had started to shift.

Some corners of the district looked a little cleaner than before. The groups of delinquents who used to linger outside convenience stores, shaking down the odd student who wandered by, had all but vanished. The constant fighting between rival crews in the area seemed to be dying down. And, strangely enough, polished, premium-looking gyms were springing up in places where old rundown shops used to be.

But Brinehurst was still Brinehurst. No amount of fresh paint or new gyms could cover the truth: the district was underfunded by the council, neglected by the mayor, and forgotten by the main city of Notting Hill. Its darkness ran deep, and there were still plenty of places where shadows ruled.

One of those shadows moved now.

Down a narrow alley, a figure limped with uneven steps, his face twisted in pain and frustration. His movements were slow, his posture hunched as though even the act of breathing weighed heavily on him. With each step, he winced, his right leg dragging slightly behind.

Reaching the end of the alley, he shoved hard against a rusted metal door, forcing it open with a loud scrape. The hinges groaned in protest as he slipped inside. A narrow staircase stretched upward. There was an elevator nearby, but like everything else in this building, it had been broken for months, plastered with a faded "Out of Order" sign no one had bothered to replace.

Step by painful step, he climbed until he reached the fourth floor. Pulling a key from his pocket, he jammed it into the lock, twisting it with a click before stumbling into his cramped apartment.

The door slammed shut behind him, and almost immediately, he clutched at his shoulder with a sharp cry.

"ARGHH! Damn it, it hurts!" Dud snarled. His voice bounced off the peeling walls of the apartment as he staggered toward a chest of drawers. He yanked each one open with frantic hands, scattering items across the floor until he found what he was looking for, bandages, disinfectants, and a handful of medical supplies, most already half-used.

Shrugging off his jacket and tearing off his shirt, he revealed the damage beneath. Blood had seeped through several deep wounds, staining the fabric and his skin. Ugly scratches and half-healed cuts traced across his chest and arms, and the flesh around one stab wound was swollen, red, and angry with infection.

"Look at me!" Dud shouted, his voice cracking, almost as if mocking himself. "Look at the state I’m in! I went to that quack, thinking I’d get patched up, thinking I’d get better, and now I’m worse than before!"

He slammed a fist onto the counter, his breathing ragged.

"How the hell did this happen?! How did it all fall apart so fast? All my funds, they’ve been frozen!"

His words dripped with panic and disbelief.

Dud had barely escaped with his life from the Black Hounds. His body still carried the brutal reminder of that encounter, every movement a jolt of agony. Worse still, he had been humiliated, beaten nearly to death by Max during their fight. Survival had cost him everything, and only his sheer will to live had carried him out.

But survival wasn’t enough.

To stay alive, Dud had turned to a back-alley doctor, a quack well-known in the underground circuit. The man’s patients were often gangsters, loan sharks, and fighters who couldn’t afford to be seen in a hospital. Dud had no choice but to trust him.

Due to the severity of his wounds, Dud had to come back, to continue to get them treated, he had suffered a nasty infection from one of the areas that had been stabbed.

During the long, painful hours of recovery, Dud had done little else but think about Max.

Every throb in his infected wounds, every sleepless night staring at the cracked ceiling of his rundown apartment, it all came back to him. Max was the reason he wasn’t living comfortably anymore. Max was the reason he had fallen so low.

And so Dud had acted.

He had sent the message, the text to Chrono and the other Rejected Corps members, fully aware of what it would trigger. He had imagined their outrage, their suspicion, their frustration boiling over. It was enough to force Chrono’s hand, to push him into action against Max.

What Dud hadn’t predicted... was Abby.

Her death had been an unintended consequence, something he hadn’t even considered in his reckless gamble. And after that, things had spiraled further out of his control.

Still, he kept tabs on the streets, using what few connections and contacts he still had left scattered throughout the city.

And then the news came.

The Rejected Corps had fallen. Not just them, but the Chalkline Boys too.

At first, Dud had laughed in disbelief. Two gangs, both crushed at the same time? Impossible. The only explanation was that they must have fought each other and burned themselves out, leaving a stronger group to swoop in and finish the job.

His first thought was the Black Hounds. They were big enough, ruthless enough, and greedy enough to seize territory all the way out in Brinehurst. The Syndicates, on the other hand, would never bother with scraps this small.

But then he heard the name.

The Bloodline Group.

The words sent a chill crawling from the soles of his feet straight up to the back of his skull. The name alone was bad enough, but when paired with the image of the logo burned into his memory, the one emblazoned on the back of Max’s jacket the day they fought, it twisted his stomach into knots.

Could it really be them? he thought, sweat beading on his forehead. Could Max, the same brat who stood against the Black Hounds, have wiped out both Chrono’s Corps and Montez’s boys?

He wanted to dismiss it, but the nagging fear wouldn’t leave.

Dud had gone to see the quack again, needing another treatment for his festering wounds. But when the time came to pay the bill, something went wrong. His card was declined. Again and again.

"All your accounts," the quack had said flatly, "they’re frozen."

It wasn’t just him. Almost everyone tied to the Rejected Corps had been cut off, their funds locked. Someone powerful had moved against them, stripping away what little safety net they had left.

The quack, realizing he wouldn’t see a single pound from Dud, had grown hostile. Others in the room had too, circling him with greedy eyes and clenched fists.

So Dud had fought his way out, battered and bleeding, barely able to stand by the time he crawled back to his apartment. That was how he ended up in this state, alone, hurting, clinging to whatever scraps of life he still had.

"I still have cash stashed around, thankfully," he muttered through clenched teeth as he bandaged another wound. "But damn that Max... damn him! He’s ruined my life. I swear, I’ll get to him one day. I’ll make him pay."

His voice echoed through the empty apartment. Or what he thought was empty.

"And with no one to help you," a voice suddenly replied from behind him, smooth and sharp, "how exactly are you planning to do that?"

Dud’s heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat. His entire body went cold.

He was supposed to be the only one here.