Brooklyn housed countless bars and nightclubs, but only one truly stood out from the rest.
Blueberry Nightclub.
College students seeking entertainment. White-collar workers indulging after work. Wealthy men hunting for romantic encounters. People of every shade and background selling happiness in various forms.
As long as you dared to want something, anything at all, you could find it at Blueberry Nightclub. And have it satisfied.
Of course, nothing was free. In fact, everything cost significantly more than elsewhere.
Midnight approached.
Drunk, Sergei stumbled out the nightclub's back door and staggered into a dimly lit alley. This was an escape route reserved only for regular customers, typically used to avoid vengeful enemies or unwanted police attention.
Sergei had just become a junior member of the nightclub. He barely qualified to use this privilege, and only because the nightclub manager owed his cousin a favor.
But Sergei didn't mind. In fact, he was thrilled.
Today, through his own efforts, he'd helped his cousin fulfill a wish. And earned a generous reward in the process!
I, Sergei, am a rising gang star in New York City!
A foolish grin spread across Sergei's face as confidence swelled in his chest.
His thoughts drifted to the smooth skin he'd touched just minutes ago. The women working at Blueberry Nightclub were all top-tier, gorgeous in face and figure.
Unfortunately, they were forbidden from exchanging contact information with guests. They weren't even allowed to leave the nightclub premises. Only higher-tier members could accept private invitations for overnight stays.
So Sergei pulled out his phone, planning to contact a familiar escort service. Maybe he could continue his celebration into the early morning hours.
But in his drunken state, Sergei failed to notice something crucial.
In the shadows behind him, a terrifying figure emerged silently.
A red bandana. A face completely obscured by black and green camouflage paint.
Nolan, who had been waiting patiently for hours.
Nolan gave Sergei no chance to resist. He pushed off hard against the ground, closing the distance in an instant. His muscular arm wrapped around Sergei's neck in a vice grip.
Veins bulged along Nolan's forearm as he applied pressure.
Sergei, caught completely off guard, had no time to make a sound. He could only flail his arms frantically, trying desperately to break free from Nolan's control.
It was useless.
Within seconds, Sergei's eyes rolled back. His body went limp as oxygen deprivation shut down his brain. Another few seconds and he'd be dead.
Nolan's cold eyes registered the change. He relaxed his grip slightly, allowing just enough air through.
Not here. Not yet.
The location was wrong. The timing wasn't right.
There were things Sergei needed to explain first.
Nolan bent down and hoisted Sergei's heavy body over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Then he turned and disappeared deeper into the deserted alley, moving quickly and silently.
This place was too close to the nightclub. Not suitable for interrogation.
Fortunately, Nolan had already found the perfect location for their "conversation."
Sergei's body hit the ground like a broken sack, raising clouds of dust.
This was an abandoned property with no clear owner. Far from the main street. The nearest residents lived two hundred meters away.
Nolan could do anything here without concern.
Perhaps the rough impact jolted him back to consciousness. Sergei groaned in pain and tried to roll over.
But Nolan, standing beside him, suddenly raised his boot and stomped down on Sergei's messy blond head.
"Sergei Petrov Jr.."
Nolan asked, though he already knew the answer.
Sergei, still dizzy and disoriented, clearly didn't understand his situation. While struggling to rise, he shouted angrily.
"Do you know who I am?! Do you know who my cousin is?!"
Nolan sneered.
His other boot rose high and came down with devastating force.
CRACK.
The sound of breaking bone echoed through the abandoned building.
Sergei's arm snapped like dry kindling.
His scream had barely begun when Nolan's boot sole pressed down over his mouth, suffocating the sound before it could escape.
Sergei's neck bulged with strain, veins standing out like cables. He thrashed like a dying fish, his entire body convulsing. Sweat soaked through his thin clothes within seconds.
Time crawled forward. Eventually, the struggling beneath Nolan's foot weakened.
Nolan spoke again, his voice cold and emotionless.
"I'll only ask once. Who proposed robbing the Evening Hearth Restaurant?"
He lifted his boot from Sergei's mouth.
Sergei's earlier arrogance had completely evaporated. Blood leaked from his lips, trickling down his chin to pool on the dusty floor. He raised his head slightly, and for a brief moment, resentment flickered in his eyes.
But survival instinct won out. He answered, his words slurred and broken.
"I... I was the one who brought it up first."
"Why?" Nolan stared down at him without expression. "There probably wasn't much cash in the restaurant. The corner store next door would have had more money. Was it because you thought the restaurant had no protection? Less risk?"
When Sergei heard the question, hesitation crossed his face.
But then Nolan stepped on his broken arm.
"I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything!"
The words poured out in a desperate rush.
"We weren't just trying to steal money! We were looking for excitement! Enjoying the thrill of crime during our last bit of freedom!"
He gasped for breath, blood bubbling at his lips.
"My cousin is a lieutenant in the Tracksuit Mafia. He told me the rules of the underground world have completely changed! About a month ago, a new underground king unified all the gangs on the entire East Coast!"
Sergei's voice grew more frantic.
"Every criminal organization has to obey his commands now. No more freelance crimes. Each gang can only profit from the criminal industries the underground king assigns them!"
"Good at robbing banks? You only rob banks. Good at selling drugs? You only sell drugs. Want to change your gang's business? You have to pay a massive fee to the underground king for permission."
His voice filled with bitter anger.
"Damn it! If you can't commit crimes however you want, why even join a gang? It's a joke!"
He swallowed hard, his breath shaking.
"But nobody dares disobey the underground king's orders anymore. Nobody thinks it's a joke. Hundreds of corpses created these new rules. A new order built on blood."
Sergei's voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"So I was just... just trying to help my cousin relieve some pressure. Complete my initiation test for the Tracksuit Mafia. After all, my cousin's always taken care of me. Joining his gang isn't a bad thing, right?"
"Where is your cousin now?"
Nolan asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing.
"Today's Saturday. It should be time for the gang's weekly financial accounting."
Sergei lay on the ground, completely defeated. All fight had drained from his body.
"I accidentally overheard one of my cousin's phone calls once. Near the Brooklyn Bridge, close to the East River, there's a place called Warehouse 10. It's the Tracksuit Mafia's secret stronghold."
His voice was hollow, resigned.
"If you're looking for him, he's probably there."
Nolan, wearing his red bandana like a Catachan warrior, nodded with satisfaction.
He suddenly took a step backward.
Sergei, feeling a flicker of hope, instinctively raised his head.
The massive dark knife plunged through Sergei's eye socket.
The razor-sharp blade, now slick with vitreous fluid, erupted through the back of his skull in a spray of blond hair and brain matter.
Sergei's body jerked once, then went still.
"Thank you for your patronage," Nolan said quietly.