In the heart of New York's darkest borough, Harlem stood like a scar on the city's skin—raw, bleeding, and ignored.
The streets were cracked like broken teeth, buildings leaning inward as if whispering secrets of crimes unpunished. The scent of gunpowder, gasoline, and desperation hung heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of urine and stale beer. Harlem wasn't just a district—it was a battlefield carved into the concrete of America's dream.
And every single day, the war raged on.
Petty theft, extortion, and bloodshed were common currency. But beyond the crime, there was something fouler that clung to this place like mold—hatred. Racism wasn't just a whisper in Harlem; it was a shout, an open wound. Because most of the district's residents were immigrants—Latino, African-American, undocumented dreamers fleeing nowhere into nothing.
They were branded. Judged. Hated.
And so, in turn, they learned to hate everyone else.
It was a vicious cycle, an ouroboros of misery.
Outsiders—especially white or Asian—who dared walk alone in the wrong block? They were robbed. Beaten. Humiliated.
Even if they had no money, they'd be stripped—shoes, clothes, dignity. Taken. Burned.
But today was different.
Today, from the alleyways where the sun rarely reached, they emerged.
Over three hundred of them.
Sharp suits, crisp ties, polished shoes. White, Black, Asian—all skin tones. But they moved like one body, a silent wave of order cutting through Harlem's chaos.
And they were armed.
Tommy guns. Dozens of them.
Old-fashioned weapons, yes, but gleaming, loaded, and real. The kind that told the watching thugs and gangs: This isn't cosplay. This is war.
The usual street rats and gangbangers scattered like roaches into storefronts, peering from behind broken blinds and steel shutters.
"What the hell—where'd these guys come from?"
"They ain't Vipers or Gunfire Negotiators…"
"They look like—like the old-school Manhattan mafiosos. Like those Black Hand guys you hear about in movies."
"Well, someone's about to get smoked. Let's enjoy the fireworks."
Because in Harlem, outsiders don't survive.
Even the U.S. Army had tried to tame the district once. And failed.
And just like clockwork, the Wildfang Gang arrived.
Equal numbers. Equally armed.
Bare-chested, tattooed, glistening with sweat and fury. M16s, AKs, shotguns slung low. Some of the bigger guys even hauled miniguns and rocket launchers across their shoulders like toys.
From a rooftop, the Wildfang leader—massive, shirtless, with tribal ink and bullet belts crisscrossing his chest—spotted the suited figures blocking the street.
His eyes narrowed. No hesitation.
"Open fire!! Kill 'em all!!"
His voice cracked across the street like thunder.
Immediately, the Wildfangs split into cover positions—ducking into alleys, storming into shops, aiming from windows.
And then, all hell broke loose.
The roar of gunfire tore through the air. Bullets shredded brick and plaster, glass exploded, storefronts burst into flame. RPGs screamed through the smoke.
It was chaos. Harlem's anthem.
In five straight minutes of uninterrupted violence, the suited figures collapsed by the dozen. Blood pooled. Suits shredded. The newcomers seemed overwhelmed.
Wildfang howled in triumph, his heavy machine gun belching fire.
"This is Harlem, bitches! This is OUR home!! You want to die for a dream, then dream in hell!!"
Laughter rose from the gang's side, cocky and cruel.
Then—
A voice. Calm. Male. Emotionless.
"Is that it?"
The laughter stopped.
The Wildfang leader stiffened. His finger froze on the trigger.
He turned, slowly.
"What the—?"
"Is that really how you've held Harlem all these years?" the voice asked again, tone as bland as reading a grocery list. "Because if that was your best… I'm disappointed."
It came from behind him.
Panicking, the gang leader whirled and opened fire.
Too late.
"AAAAH!!"
Screams filled the alley. Familiar voices.
He'd shot his own men.
"No! Shit—NO!"
They twisted in agony, blood splashing across the pavement. And when the haze cleared, there was no enemy behind him. Only more Wildfangs… writhing on the ground.
"What the hell… what the hell is this!?"
The leader backed up, heart thudding.
"An illusion," said the same voice, now right next to his ear.
He turned and fired again.
This time, there was someone there.
A man dropped from above like a falling blade. His long steel trident pierced straight through the Wildfang leader's shoulder and pinned him to the ground.
THUD!
"AAAAHHH!!"
Black boots crunched onto his chest.
More suits emerged from the smoke, each appearing silently behind a gang member, cold barrels of Tommy guns pressing into backs and necks.
The gang members froze—paralyzed.
"What the hell—what the hell just happened!?"
One gangbanger tried to raise his weapon, only to get pistol-whipped across the jaw. Teeth flew. Blood spattered.
The rest got the message. They dropped their guns. Knelt. Hands on heads.
The Wildfang leader, still pinned by the trident, snarled upward at his attacker.
The man was… inhumanly striking.
Tall, lean. Dressed in a black leather coat, tight combat trousers, and an untucked white dress shirt. His long, midnight-blue hair was pulled back into a flowing ponytail that hung to his waist. His tie dangled loose.
But it was his eyes that froze the soul.
Blood-red, with the kanji for "Six" gleaming inside. A demonic smile stretched his lips—beautiful, dangerous, cruel.
"You—what are you?!"
The man chuckled.
"Cannon fodder should know their place," he whispered. "You should die quietly, like the background character you are."
"You son of a—"
"Enough."
The voice came from behind them.
Steady. Clear. Unmistakably commanding.
Even the trident wielder—Mukuro Rokudo—looked back.
Standing just a few steps away was a young man. Tan skin, soft golden-orange eyes, short blonde hair. He was dressed casually, unassuming… and yet, the moment he appeared, the entire street bent to him.
He didn't shout. He didn't posture.
He owned the space.
"Mukuro," he said, calm.
Mukuro shrugged and stepped aside, trident sliding out of the Wildfang leader with a sickening squelch.
The young man stepped forward.
"I am Tsunayoshi Sawada. The Tenth Head of the Vongola Family," he said gently.
"And starting today—Harlem belongs to us."
The gang leader coughed, groaned. Blood trickled from his shoulder.
"You… think we'll kneel that easy?"
"I don't care if you kneel," Tsuna replied, not unkindly. "You have a choice. Join us and live in a better Harlem… or fight us, and let this place burn with your corpses."
His eyes, soft but steady, scanned the gang members kneeling in the dirt.
"We will respect your choice… but understand this: whether it brings your salvation, or your destruction, is up to us."
And then he smiled.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.