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.

his expression flat

here,"

didn't look back. "New Kingswell

sire. Just brought them

just enough to let the

of you will face twenty. Win, and

to the group. "You

women - jeans, shirts crumpled like they'd just left a late party

of people who'd been waiting for

No hesitation.

wanna face hundreds?" Max roared, trying to reclaim the night. "Show no

The Kingswell didn't answer.

eyes flat, then exploded forward as

like moths to a flame - not

thugs also surged forward like they owned

came with cocky grins, swinging bats and chains

with curses

kind born from always being the predators — from always having the numbers, from never once being challenged.

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

crushed a windpipe, a knee shattered a ribcage, a knife

went down screaming, clutching broken

friends laughed at them

thought it was luck, a mistake, that their buddies

they too dropped, gasping for

to crack. The laughter

the pavement made the next

been their shield. Ten against one, twenty against one it was how

against these twenty, numbers meant

crept into their eyes. They swung harder, faster, trying to bury their rising panic beneath violence, but each desperate attack was punished

wide — countered by a wrist lock and a

caught, yanked, and turned into a noose against its

a roaring fire burned out into the cold stink of

sprayed across the asphalt. Ragged breaths turned into screams. The ones who

pulled handguns, their hands

of gunfire split the

flowed between the muzzle

terrifying calm.

a fallen blade and hurled it across

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

eyes wide, mouth frozen

point. Panic

worked for them—we outnumber

- shattered.

their friends dying, their confidence bleeding out

guys who had strutted in with threats now

run, but

into the pavement until bone gave way with

a nail-studded bat, missed, and took

collapsed

gasped once, blood bubbling

predators had become prey. The

the Chicago Outfit learned what it

frozen at first,

them too.

years these streets had belonged

passerby, every mother with a child had learned to