Chicago's Silent King
Classic knew expansion needed more than just brains and broken promises.
It needed supply.
Money moves power.
But product?
Product makes power move for you.
And right now, Classic had a growing army, territory stretching like veins through the Southside — but he was bleeding resources fast.
No stash. No source. No supply.
Just hustle.
So, he did what real kings do.
He found a plug.
---
The man's name was Darnell Veygas.
Nobody called him that though.
On the streets, he was known simply as: The Church.
Because once you went to him, you either got saved or buried.
Weapons. Drugs. Hardware. Clean passports.
Even mercenaries if the price was right.
He didn't deal with locals. He sold to cartels, militias, and ghost organizations across borders. But he also loved one thing more than money — order.
Classic got to him through a quiet channel — Maya had hacked into encrypted communications between known buyers and suppliers. One IP popped up three times in a week: a cold-storage facility near the Chicago River.
"That's his drop point," Maya said. "Military-grade encryption. He's either CIA… or God's forgotten cousin."
Classic grinned. "Either way, he's gonna meet me."
---
The Church didn't like surprises.
So Classic didn't bring one.
He pulled up alone — no goons, no guns. Just a tailored trench coat, a suitcase full of crypto, and intentions sharper than bullets.
The meeting spot was a refrigerated warehouse. Cold breath, colder stares.
Then he saw him.
A tall, smooth-skinned man in a charcoal vest, sipping black coffee like it was wine. His eyes were two things: unreadable… and unblinking.
"You're the one they whisper about," The Church said.
"You're the kid who made Tray Savage vanish without a body."
Classic smiled. "I don't deal in whispers. I build empires."
A pause.
Then The Church raised a brow. "What do you want?"
---
Classic didn't flinch.
"Drugs. Clean. Measured. Branded — nothing cut with bleach or baby powder. I want addicts lining up like it's Apple launch day."
The Church nodded. "And?"
"Weapons. Pistols. Dracos. Suppressed snipers. And RPGs, if you're feeling generous."
"And?"
"Documents. IDs. Passports. Ghost names. I want my people to exist and not exist at the same time."
The Church sipped his coffee slowly.
"That's a lot for a rookie."
"I'm not a rookie," Classic said, eyes locked. "I'm the future. You can either fund it… or watch it overthrow your buyers."
Silence.
Then…
A smile.
"I like you, Classic."
The Church snapped his fingers. A metal briefcase was brought forward. He opened it to reveal:
Blue heroin sealed in medical wraps
A custom .50 Desert Eagle with Classic Hoodz engraved
Four burner passports
And a silver USB key
"Congratulations," he said. "You're in the circle now. Don't die in it."
Classic took the case. "I don't plan to die," he said. "I plan to build a city where even death pays rent."
---
That night, back at the hood…
The Classic Hoodz were no longer just street soldiers.
They were an armed syndicate with global connections, branded narcotics, and a silent sponsor known only to the top five members.
Classic set rules:
No cutting product.
No selling to kids.
No showing off.
Loyalty gets you land. Disloyalty gets you lost.
Juno got the first crate of weapons.
Maya started distributing digital IDs.
Alex began laundering drug cash through a new funeral home they just bought — "Silent Rest Corp."
Nobody questioned the name.
---
But success always makes noise.
And someone was listening.
---