The safehouse smelled of coffee and old leather. A single lamp carved a pool of light over the table; around it lay maps, photos, and names scrawled in black ink. Ken poured two cups, set one in front of Aaron, then pushed a battered folder toward him like an offering to war.
"We can't rush this," Ken said, calm as a metronome. "Fernando survives chaos. He profits from it. He's a hydra — cut one head, two more grow. We choke supply lines, isolate him, then take the throne when he's bleeding."
Aaron stared at the photos: warehouses, account numbers, faces of men who smiled too easily. He tapped one—the courier who brought poisoned contracts. "He thinks he's untouchable because he pays people to be untouchable. He pays in cash." His voice was a low thing—hungry, precise. "I don't want fear. I want inevitability."
Ken nodded. "Step one: credibility. Francis' hospital collapse? That was a lesson. Now we escalate — but cleaner. No splashes that drag innocents into the gutter. We fragment his revenue." He traced lines on the map with a nail. "We pull his suppliers one by one. We offer better terms to their buyers and make their contracts look like a risk. We see doubt."
"Buy loyalty," Aaron finished. "Not with cash alone. With protection, with access. We make them see the future belongs to us. Then their mouths will close."
Ken's eyes sharpened. "Step two: the rumour mill. Fernando's men respect him because they believe in his reach. We leak a few well-placed truths to his own circle—betrayals he committed, debts unpaid, deals he cut behind his lieutenants' backs. Paranoia fractures his command."
Aaron smiled, slow and venomous. "He trusts only a handful. If those handful start looking over their shoulders, Fernando becomes less a leader and more a cornered animal."
Ken tapped the ledger. "Step three: financial. We create a ghost company, bid on his biggest contracts, and win. He'll start to feel the cut where it hurts. Also—payroll sabotage. A few of his key men will find paydays delayed. They'll question loyalty when their families feel the pinch."
Aaron's fingers curled around the cup. "We don't just ruin him, Ken. We make him watch everything he built erode until his name means nothing." His voice grew colder. "And when he scrambles for allies, we show up as the future—clean, inevitable. People always vote for the side that promises survival."
Ken exhaled, folding the plan into neat segments.
Aaron's eyes were bright with a dangerous calm. "And when he reaches for violence—when he thinks bullets are the answer—we let him. We let him fail. He'll overextend. That's when we take the last swing."
A slow smile creased Ken's face. "We keep the optics clean. No civilian casualties. No headlines about mob wars. We dismantle him like an old engine: part by part, quiet and efficient."
Aaron stood, the chair scraping back, a hard sound in the shadowed room. He folded the folder, slid it into his jacket, and stepped toward the door like a man stepping into a promise.
"Set it in motion," he said. "Tonight. Quietly. And Ken?" He didn't wait for an answer before adding, softer, possessive, deadly: "When it's done, his name will rot in people's mouths. And you will tell me the moment he looks at me and knows — not fear, not survival — but true defeat."
Ken's nod was a salute. "I'll make him taste it, Aaron. I'll make him remember why he ever feared your name."
They moved out like shadows, the plan already breathing under their skin. Outside, the city pulsed, unaware that a slow, inevitable winter had begun, and that by the time Fernando noticed, the world he'd built would be only ash and memory