The Almighty Dominance

Ten minutes slid past.

The street stayed empty except for the twenty men huddled by the curb, eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the road as if a friend might step out of the shadows.

Alex walked up to them with the calm of someone already decided.

"Ten minutes," he said. "No friends showed. Like I promised - every pinky gets broken. So bear the pain."

"Don't you dare!" Max bellowed, panic cutting through his bravado.

"We've called the Chicago Outfit — a thousand of our men are on their way. You'd better run while you can, or we'll turn you into mince."

"Really?" Alex stepped closer until Max could feel his breath. "I don't see your thousand."

Color drained from Max's face. He tried to force menace into his voice. "You'll regret this. You'll regret everything."

Alex didn't warn. He grabbed Max's other pinky and snapped it like a twig.

Max howled. The sound ripped into the night and seemed to pull the darkness apart.

Engines answered the cry: trucks, pickups, motorcycles roaring down the avenue, lights cutting through the fog.

Men poured out of beds and from behind doors, clutching iron pipes, nailed bats, chains — anything that could smash bone and split skin.

The number swelled fast - easily hundreds.

"Who the hell touched one of ours?" someone yelled. "Who wants to die tonight?"

Normal people fled. Couples, joggers, late commuters - they scattered like leaves.

The thugs surged into the road, swinging weapons in lazy, dangerous arcs.

Most were kids with too much venom and too little sense; manipulated, impatient, hungry for violence.

They'd grown up trusting numbers more than skill.

They'd never tasted defeat.

Park staff and security guards watched, faces gone ashen. These men were used

to chasing drunks and scooping up pickpockets, not facing a street army.

"Everyone inside the park — now! Close the gates. Keep the children safe. Say nothing to anyone," Alex ordered.

"Are you sure?" one of the guards stammered. "They're too many."

"Trust me," Alex called over the growing din. "I'm more than enough. Move!"

The guards exchanged looks, then ran. The gate slammed shut, bolts clanking as they locked them from the inside.

Alex stood alone in the center of a hundred raised faces and crude weapons. They spat at him, lungs full of threat.

"You're dead, asshole!" one screamed.

"You hear us? You're begging for death!"

"Hurting the Chicago Outfit? You'll pay!"

The mob tightened like a fist ready to close. Men lifted bats, chains glinted, and for a heartbeat the world held its breath.

Then twenty figures stepped from the darkness behind Alex, the sound of boots and quiet authority.

led them, his expression

here,"

back. "New

you ordered, sire. Just brought them

He turned his head just enough to let

of you will face twenty.

turned to the group. "You heard the

like they'd just left a late party

calm of people who'd been waiting for this

No hesitation.

roared, trying to reclaim the night. "Show no mercy. Kill them—show what

The Kingswell didn't answer.

flat,

ran like moths to a flame -

surged forward like they owned the

cocky grins, swinging bats and chains like trophies, shouting

another with curses and promises

the kind born from always being the predators — from always having

a thug's swing was wild, clumsy, and loud, a Kingswell's strike

shattered a ribcage, a knife

went down screaming,

at them

was luck, a mistake, that their buddies

when the next wave charged, they too dropped, gasping for breath

to crack. The

the pavement made the next

always believed in numbers. Numbers had always been their shield. Ten against one,

against these twenty, numbers meant

trying to bury their rising panic beneath violence, but each desperate attack

by a wrist lock and

chain lashed out — caught, yanked, and turned into a noose against

burned out into the cold

ones who had sworn to kill now stumbled, backing away, tripping over the fallen as their

the Outfit pulled handguns, their hands shaking,

cracks of gunfire split the night

the Kingswell flowed between the muzzle flashes,

terrifying calm.

fallen blade and hurled it

into a shooter's skull with a dull, sickening thunk.

wide, mouth frozen

the breaking point.

math that had always worked for them—we outnumber them,

- shattered.

they saw their numbers shrinking, their friends dying,

strutted in with threats now

to run, but

him back, and smashed his skull into the pavement

and

collapsed his

bubbling

prey. The hunters

space of minutes, the Chicago Outfit learned what it felt like to

the sidewalks, citizens stood frozen at first, afraid the storm would

them too.

had belonged

passerby, every mother with a