The morning was too quiet.
That kind of quiet that feels staged—like the world is holding its breath before something irreversible happens.
Hidden Hills lay draped in gold, sunlight spilling over manicured hills and million-dollar silence. Birds chirped like they were paid to be there. Somewhere far away, a lawn sprinkler ticked rhythmically, as if counting down. The rays slipped through cathedral-tall windows and rested on my skin, warm and deliberate, like they were confirming something.
Yes. You made it this far.
I opened my eyes slowly.
And reflected.
Life wasn't always sunshine and mangoes.
That was a lie people tell themselves when they think money is the same thing as peace.
Flatbush, Brooklyn—that's where the sun stopped trying. Late 90s. Early 2000s. Concrete soaked in spilled liquor and worse intentions. Roaches owned the kitchens. Rats had right of way. Crooks, thieves, stick-up kids, addicts, and lost souls moved through the streets like NPCs trapped in a broken game.
If you didn't know someone, you stayed inside.
If you knew someone, you still moved careful.
I stared at my reflection now—older, heavier behind the eyes—and the boy I used to be stared back. Same instincts. Same tension in the jaw. You don't unlearn survival. You just give it better clothes.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of Crippin'.
83 Gangsta Crip.
People hear that and think it's just a label. A phase. A decision. They don't understand—it's not something you join. It's something that happens to you when the world decides you don't matter unless you make it care.
Every day back then was a test.
Defend yourself.
Claim space.
Never look weak.
Never hesitate.
That pressure—constant, merciless—it molded me. Warped me. Made me sharp in places I wish stayed soft. And yeah, I made choices. Bad ones. Evil ones, depending on who's keeping score. But every step, every mistake, every betrayal led me here.
A forty-five-million-dollar mansion.
A throne built from survival.
The place looked like something out of a villain's arc—open space, brutalist luxury, glass and stone like it was daring the world to try something. The walls were my autobiography. Pharrell. Nigo. BAPE. Icons of reinvention. Kill Bill. Bruce Lee. Reminders that discipline beats chaos—but only if you survive long enough to learn it.
Then there was the real sanctuary.
Anime.
Manga.
Light novels.
My escape hatches.
Naruto taught me loneliness could become strength.
Bleach taught me death wasn't the end—it was a job.
One Piece taught me loyalty mattered more than the world itself.
I believed in those lessons more than I believed in God.
Because in those stories, pain meant something.
And yet—here I was. Calm. Comfortable. Sitting in luxury like I hadn't made a career out of destruction. Like my hands weren't stained with decisions that shattered families and erased futures. I told myself my soul was still pointed in the right direction. That my end goal was prosperity. Balance.
Peace.
But peace doesn't come without blood first.
The system doesn't collapse politely.
I always thought of myself like Madara—not because I thought I was right, but because I knew I was necessary. History doesn't remember the gentle. It remembers the ones willing to carry sin so others don't have to.
That thought barely finished forming—
Click.
Subtle. Mechanical. Out of place.
Instinct took over before fear had time to exist. I was already moving when I hit the control panel. Cameras lit up the room like eyes opening.
The guard booth.
My brother—slumped. Lifeless. Blood pooling beneath him like a quiet accusation.
No warning. No mercy.
I switched feeds.
Front gate.
Task force.
Black armor. No insignias worth trusting. Reinforced doors shaking under pressure. Bolted windows screaming as steel met steel. They were looking for weakness because that's how predators work. To them, this wasn't law enforcement.
This was extermination.
As long as I was dead, the mess cleaned itself.
And the punchline?
They were cops.
Crooked ones. But still cops. Daylight thieves with badges. Bullies who grew up and found uniforms that let them indulge their sickness legally. Not all of them—maybe—but enough to make the difference meaningless.
The doors finally gave.
Footsteps flooded the mansion, heavy and aggressive, echoing like a war drum. I stayed still, watching the monitors like it was an anime cutscene before the opening theme drops.
Then—
"Found you, you bastard."
Edward.
Funny how life circles back like that.
Childhood friend. Same streets. Same beginnings. Different endings. He chose a badge. I chose a crown. One of us sold out. Depends who's telling the story.
I didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just looked at him.
That broke him.
He wanted fear. Wanted to feel superior. Instead, I gave him indifference. His face twisted, frustration boiling over. He coiled for a kick—sloppy, emotional.
I moved first.
Knee. Backwards. Clean.
Bone buckled. His confidence shattered before his body hit the floor. I rolled as gunfire ripped through the space I'd occupied seconds earlier. Marble exploded. Glass screamed.
And that's when reality hit.
I wasn't invincible.
No training montage. No chakra. No devil fruit. Just instincts forged in real streets and a body that could still fail. All self-taught. All learned the hard way.
I almost laughed.
Would've been nice to have a cheat code.
The comms crackled.
Then chaos.
An all-out shootout.
Not inside the mansion—outside.
My brothers.
NBE.
Neighborhood Brotherhood Elite.
Thirty of us left. All childhood friends. Chosen family. There used to be more. Way more. Some didn't make it life-wise. Others didn't make it character-wise. Death took some. Greed took others. Time exposed the rest.
But the ones who stood now?
Solid.
Day ones.
We grew up bleeding together. Learned loyalty when the world offered none. NBE wasn't just a gang—it was a promise. That no matter how ugly things got, you never stood alone.
Gang is forever gang.
What's understood is understood.
Love is love.
And that's when my chest tightened.
They were buying me time.
Dying for it, if necessary.
I couldn't let that stand.
Not like this.
Not when the story wasn't finished.
Not when the world still needed breaking before it could be rebuilt.
I took one last look at the screens—brothers moving like ghosts, gunfire painting the morning red, sirens wailing like a bad omen.
The quiet morning was gone.
The sun still shined.
But it didn't matter anymore.
This wasn't the end.
This was the moment the opening narration ends—
and the real fight begins