Power isn't taken. It's traded, stolen, or inherited — but never given freely.
Nova Haven was built to deceive. By day, its glass towers glittered in the sun, each one a monument to the powerful and untouchable. By night, its streets told the truth — cracked concrete, whispers in the dark, and deals struck in rooms without windows.
Damian Smithen knew both sides well. He had walked through the shadows for years, carrying the weight of a family's mistakes on his back. Every dollar he made, every risk he took, every sleepless night… it was all to dig his way out of the hole someone else had buried him in.
Now, the hole was nearly filled. The debt was almost gone. Freedom was close enough to taste. But the city had a way of changing a man's hunger — once you've clawed your way to the edge, you start wondering what's beyond it.
And Nova Haven was watching him.
The streets whispered his name, half in respect, half in fear. The boardrooms began to recognize it too — that strange blend of street instinct and corporate precision. People with real power were beginning to take notice. Some saw him as an asset. Others saw him as a threat.
In this city, both could get you killed.
For Damian, the game was no longer about survival.
It was about control.
And control, in Nova Haven, was worth more than any crown.
***
The rain hadn't stopped in hours.
It came down in sheets, turning the alleyways into slick rivers of oil and shadow. From his corner table in the dim-lit café, Damian stirred his black coffee without looking down, his eyes fixed on the window's reflection instead of the street outside.
Three tables away, two men in cheap suits sat hunched over, their voices low but not low enough. He'd caught it the moment he stepped in.
"…guy named Damian," one of them muttered. "Boss says he's… different. Not like the usual players."
Different.
That word again. It had been coming up more often lately. In street corners. In whispered meetings. In places he didn't even operate.
Damian didn't move, didn't react. But the coffee in his hand stopped swirling.
The man across from him, a courier Damian often used for under-the-table shipments, leaned forward.
"You're getting noticed. Too much, too fast," he said under his breath. "Ryan's already asking questions. And if he's asking questions…"
His gaze drifted toward the rain-smeared glass. "You know how that ends."
Damian finally took a sip, his tone flat.
"I'm not slowing down."
The courier shook his head. "Then you'd better start watching your back. Because this city? It eats the bold first."
Outside, a sleek black sedan pulled up across the street. The tinted window rolled down halfway, just enough for Damian to see the glint of an expensive watch and the briefest silhouette of a man in a tailored suit.
Lucas Nyx.
The window rolled back up. The sedan pulled away without a word.
Damian watched it vanish into the rain, his pulse steady, his mind already calculating.
Mutual curiosity.
Mutual caution.
The game had just added a new player.