The cool morning air clung to Muzi's skin as he stepped out of the safehouse behind Banele. A faint mist still curled above the dirt roads of Nhlangano, and the rising sun painted the old buildings in amber light. The night's silence had faded into the quiet murmurs of a town waking up, but in the gang world, the day had already begun.
Muzi adjusted the straps of a battered backpack Banele had handed him. It was heavier than it looked, filled with gloves, a black hoodie, and a balaclava that smelled like sweat and stale smoke. No weapons, no money—just the tools of someone who didn't yet deserve either.
"So where are we going?" Muzi asked, his voice low.
"To meet the others," Banele replied, leading the way down a narrow alley. "You'll be riding with the boys today."
As they turned onto a broader road, Muzi spotted it—a large, dented Isuzu truck parked awkwardly by the curb, its faded white paint streaked with rust. The engine was on, grumbling like a hungry dog. Its cargo bed was surrounded by men. Some stood by the truck smoking or laughing. Others were already inside, sitting on planks nailed into benches along the edges.
Muzi's steps slowed instinctively. Eyes were already on him.
"Don't act scared," Banele said under his breath. "You walk like meat, you get eaten."
They reached the truck. A few heads turned. One man spat to the side, another tapped the side of the truck rhythmically, as if keeping a count of newcomers. No one greeted them. That wasn't the vibe.
Banele climbed in first, moving with casual confidence. Muzi followed, gripping the metal side as he hoisted himself up. The truck groaned under the shifting weight.
The moment he sat down, he felt it—the pressure. The other men didn't speak, but their eyes did. Judging. Measuring. Challenging.
Muzi sat beside Banele, who leaned forward, elbows on knees, surveying the group like a man who already knew who could be trusted, who couldn't, and who might not come back.
A few more men clambered into the truck, the last of them tapping the side twice. The driver—a muscular man with a scar across his cheek—shifted the truck into gear, and they pulled off with a lurch.
For a while, the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the occasional cough.
Then Banele leaned over and spoke low. "You see that guy?" He nodded subtly toward a thick-necked man sitting across from them. The man had a fresh razor-line cut across one eyebrow and knuckles that looked like they'd never fully healed.
"Yeah."
"That's Duma. Bronze Rank. Earned it by taking down a debt collector who went rogue on a mission. Didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate."
Muzi kept his eyes forward. "So how does the ranking work?"
Banele's lips twitched into a faint grin. "The gang isn't just chaos, fam. It's got structure. We start from Grey Rank—that's you now. No power, no weapons unless assigned. Basically a body."
He ticked off his fingers as he spoke.
"Then Bronze Rank—trusted runners and enforcers. They earn, they report, they shed blood."
"After that, Silver Rank. That's me. Silvers lead small crews, get a slice of deals, and sit in on war meetings when needed."
"Gold Rank is rare. Those are gang lieutenants—control sectors, control soldiers, make calls."
"And at the top… Black Rank. Only three in the whole structure. They don't move unless it's war or money."
Muzi nodded slowly. "And what's the point of rising?"
Banele's smile turned sharp. "Power. Money. Safety. Respect. The usual. But for some of us... rising means rewriting our story."
Muzi didn't speak after that. His hands were clenched, hidden in the sleeves of his hoodie. He wasn't interested in serving someone else's dream. He had his own reasons—his own name to restore.
The truck rolled on, heading toward unknown streets and an unknown target. But one thing was clear.
This was the beginning of his climb.