Marcus shouldered through the sagging door of his third-floor walk-up, the hinges groaning like a grudge nursed too long, key scraping the lock with that familiar half-turn he'd muscle-memorized at twelve. The air hit him stale and thick—mildew laced with the ghost of his pop's aftershave from that last unpaid bill crumpled in a drawer somewhere, the place a time capsule of absence: peeling wallpaper yellowed like old bruises, floorboards warped from leaks that dripped Morse code regret through the ceiling. Power flickered on with a reluctant hum when he flipped the switch, the single bulb buzzing to life over the kitchenette's Formica counter scarred from knife fights with canned beans. Water sputtered hot in the faucet—bills auto-paid from a deployment slush fund he'd scraped together, a quiet fuck-you to the void, because yeah, he'd always known he'd wash back up here. Abstract day or not, this shitbox was the last tether to Ma and Pop, their chalk-outline echo in the Crown Vic's twisted frame. He'd clawed past the grief years back, turned it to fuel for fireteam nods and door-kick overrides, but letting the lights die? Nah. Felt like spitting on graves.
He stripped down in the bathroom's coffin-cramp, the cracked mirror fogging quick under the spray, steam curling like desert mirage to blur the Reaper ink collaring his neck—tally marks itching faint, ledgers of tangos who'd tested the math and lost. The water scalded at first, desert-hot to scour the Greyhound grime and faint sand grains clinging to his cargos, then cooled to a lukewarm dribble that rinsed the discharge's bitter aftertaste from his skin. Soap was a half-used bar of Lava, gritty as boot camp mornings, lathering over scars that mapped his tour like a kill ledger: shrapnel pocks from Mosul overwatch, the jagged cheek-pull from that dumbass brawl with Johnny Gat over a pool cue and a bad bet. Johnny. The name ghosted unbidden, a half-grin tugging his lip under the stream—his ride-or-die from corner heists to juvie whispers, the one who'd probably laugh his ass off at the dishonourable stamp, slap a beer in his fist and say, "Brass can suck it, Kane—fuck em." Five years blurred, but some bonds didn't rust.
Nap claimed him clean after, sinking into the moth-eaten mattress in the corner alcove—springs sagging like a junked beater, rat pellets crunching under the threadbare sheet like spent casings in a rack. Sleep rolled deep and untroubled, the kind that recharged operators after a long hump: no ghosts, just the steady rack of breath syncing to the distant thump of lowrider bass bleeding through the thin walls, a lullaby of the Row calling him home. He stirred awake to dawn's smog-filtered gray seeping through the blinds, body loose and coiled fresh, ribs rising easy like a mag seated right—the discharge's weight sloughed off in the reset, leaving only the edge he'd honed overseas, sharper now without the leash. One day at a time, he thought, swinging legs off the bed, boots hitting floor with a thud that echoed purpose.
He dressed quick in the dim, yanking on the faded camo cargos and steel-toed boots—still fitting like a second skin, sand-flecked and unyielding—then tugged a fresh black tee from the duffel's sparse fold. It clung tighter than memory served, cotton stretched taut over traps and chest bulked from ruck humps and PT evolutions, sleeves riding short to expose the faded
Eagle, Globe, and Anchor like a challenge inked permanent.
The holster came next, leather cracked but supple from teenage polish, scavenged from a pawn dive back when he and Johnny ran wild, dodging Rollerz ricochets and Kings' shadows, waistband tucks feeling like amateur hour with a .22 snub. Stupid as shoving lead down your pants—get bit every time. Corps gear was off-limits post-DD-214, brass snatching his drop-leg rig like it was contraband, but this relic? It'd do, belted low on his hip with a satisfying snap, Vice-9 sliding home smooth, polymer grip cool against palm like a vow renewed.
KA-BAR strapped next, the seven-inch blade sheathed snug on his left hip, fuller etched with that creed—No better friend, no worse foe—honed edge whispering promise against scarred leather. Last, the K6 Krukov: he slung the scavenged AK loose over one shoulder, polymer stock scarred from the night's rough handling, strap biting diagonal across his chest like a bandolier of intent, the curved mag's weight a talisman against whatever welcome the Saints cooked up. Half-load or not, it'd chew doors or dummies if the payback pitch soured.
Marcus twisted the key in the lock with a final click that echoed too sharp in the dawn hush, the apartment door's warped frame sealing shut like a bulkhead on a sub.. He slung the Krukov tighter across his chest, strap digging a familiar groove into the fresh black tee's taut fabric, and descended the creaking stoop into the morning smog rolling off the Row like a hangover's breath. Third Street lay just a few blocks east, the church a squat beacon in his mental grid, plotted from Julius's gravel directions the night before. The air hung cool and clotted, diesel exhaust mingling with the faint rot of overnight dumpsters, lamps flickering out one by one as the sun clawed its way over the tenement skyline, painting the haze in bruise-purple smears.
In the morning gaze of Stilwater, the Row moved like a beast nursing wounds—slow, deliberate, the nightlife's fever broken but not forgotten. No thumping bass from hydrant dice games, no hookers swaying under bruised lamps; just early-shift hustlers shuffling to corner stores for black coffee and blunts, lowriders idling curbside with drivers nursing hangovers and plotting the day's beefs. Bullets owned midday's frenzy, the staccato symphony of turf tags and drive-bys turning blocks into kill funnels, but this hour? Quiet as a rack after last light, the kind of deceptive calm Marcus knew from FOB perches—threats coiled, not absent, waiting for the heat to rise. His steel-toed boots chewed the fractured sidewalk in unhurried rhythm, hazel eyes scanning low angles out of habit: alley mouths for lurkers, rooftops for spotters, the faint glint of a Vice King's bandana vanishing 'round a corner like smoke from a dud frag.
The church hove into view quicker than expected, a hulking Gothic relic gutted by decades of neglect, its spire leaning like a drunk against the smog-choked sky—stained glass shattered into abstract mosaics of saints and sinners, brick facade pocked with graffiti tags layered thick as
scar tissue: purple crowns scrawled over faded crosses, "3rd Street Saints" bombed bold in dripping spray, a middle finger to the dioceses that'd abandoned the Row long ago. Disrepair clung to it like a second skin—ivy choking the eaves, windows boarded with plywood scarred from crowbar pries, the bell tower silent as a spent mag. But life pulsed here, defiant: a scatter of rides clustered the potholed lot like a pack of wolves—Eiswagens jacked on hydraulics, low-slung Zimos with rims spinning lazy under idling engines, all dipped in that signature royal purple, chrome accents gleaming like fresh blood under the climbing sun. Exhaust plumed lazy from tailpipes, bass thumping low from open trunks, a reggaeton remix laced with gospel samples that twisted hymns into anthems of payback.
At the base of the broad stone steps—each riser a canvas of layered beefs, from crude dicks to elaborate murals of crowned fists smashing gang sigils—a loose knot of two dozen figures milled, all draped in purple like a bruise come to life: hoodies zipped over stained tees, bandanas knotted tight around tattooed throats, gold chains swapped for medallions etched a fleur-de-lis. They were a motley cut of the Row's underbelly—ex-Kings with gold-grilled smirks half-hidden under purple do-rags, Carnales defectors in faded Dickies now sporting violet armbands, Rollerz kids trading flatbills for crowned tees, their eyes hungry, postures coiled like they'd tasted the grind and spat it back.
Marcus slotted in loose at the fringe, Krukov's stock resting easy against his trap—the weight a talisman, twenty rounds chambered and ready if the rally soured to a setup. His gaze lifted to the steps' crest, where Julius loomed center-stage like a prophet forged in holy fire, massive frame casting long shadow over the risers, Troy flanked his six, wiry and watchful, blonde spikes tousled from the night's wind-down, goatee framing a jaw set loose but eyes pale and scanning the crowd's flanks like he owned the angles.
Julius stepped forward then, boots thumping the top step with that deliberate weight that commanded silence without a shout, heavy brows furrowing like gathering thunder, gold chains catching the haze-filtered light as he swept the crowd with a stare that peeled souls. His voice boomed out, gravel-deep and laced with that unfiltered Row scripture. "Every muthafucka here knows what we need to do. Those bitches be ridin' around, thinkin' they own these streets. I don't care what flag they're flyin'... Rollerz, Carnales, Vice Kings... no one's makin' this nigga scared to walk the Row. We 'bout to lock this shit down... right now."
The words landed like a breaching charge, ripping a roar from the crowd—yeahs barking sharp as pistol cracks, fuck yeahs rolling thunderous from tattooed chests, fists pumping purple under the morning sun, medallions flashing like spent brass in a hot eject. The air thickened with it, that electric snarl of shared grudge turning the church steps into a powder keg primed for the Row's veins, Julius's gravel echo still hanging his men's' pulses thrummed harder, lowriders'
bass syncing the frenzy like a war drum under the haze.
From the front of the pack, a figure twisted sharp through the throng—tricked out head-to-toe in purple like a walking bruise of defiance, a purple shirt hugging his lean, wired frame over a crisp white undershirt, black pants tucked into scarred stompers, gold chains looping double-thick over his chest like nooses for rivals, a gold-plated belt buckle winking fat under the climbing sun. Gold earrings dangled subtle from his lobes, a matching bracelet clamped his right wrist like a cuff for the apocalypse. His hair slicked back tight—jet black base dyed bold blonde up top, spiking just enough to catch the light like a warning flare—and perched on his nose were bronze-rimmed square glasses with opaque black lenses that hid eyes brown and pitiless, framing sharp Asian features etched from too many back-alley tallies.
The shift cracked him open: hype draining from his coiled stance like steam from a popped radiator, morphing to a squint behind those shaded squares—head cocking wary, chains jangling faint as he zeroed the olive skin, scar-jagged cheek, hazel ice that'd iced fools since juvie. Then bam—recognition hit like a center-mass hollowpoint, black lenses flashing sun-glint as his mouth twisted from snarl to that feral half-grin, gold caps peeking brief, the kind promising brawls, brews, and bodies stacked mutual. He muscled through the cheering knot like they were vapor, shoulders parting gangers with that effortless predator sway—gold links swinging low, the print of a .45 bulging clear under his shirt—as he closed the gap in four stomping strides, boots grinding graffiti risers to dust.
"Fuck off. Kane? That you?" The bark punched raw, ghetto-twang and laced with that switchblade snap—half-shock, half-callout, voice gravel over razor wire, low menace underscoring you dipped for the green machine and rolled back strapped? Gat loomed close now, close enough for the faint whiff of gun oil, bay rum, and that signature edge of cordite clinging permanent, his gaze raking Marcus head-to-toe—KA-BAR hilt winking like an inside joke, Vice-9 holstered pro like it never left—grinning wider as the pieces locked, chains settling with his halt.
Marcus's jagged-lipped curl uncoiled deliberate, lips peeling wolfish as the name slotted home—no one Stateside spat "Kane" like a live round chambered, 'cept the one maniac who'd hauled him through corner boosts and pool-hall beatdowns, turning street math into blood oaths. Johnny Gat. Five years Stateside hadn't dulled the blade—that pitiless stare behind the shades, the way he owned air like a threat begging your flank. Row's own devil dog, looking meaner, primed, the blonde dye a fresh fuck-you to the normies. "Johnny," Marcus scraped back, voice low and edged, hazel locking square—no backslaps, no sap, just the nod of bad seeds reuniting. "The fuck did you do to your hair? Bleach bomb go rogue?"
Gat's laugh ripped short and vicious—throaty bark rattling his chains like loose brass—palm slamming Marcus's trap with a meaty thwap, fingers gripping muscle a tick to test the Corps carve underneath. "Shit, Kane—tried stylin' it, came out lookin' like a highlighter exploded. Bitches either love it or bolt. Works for me."
He pulled back just enough to rake his shaded gaze over the slung Krukov diagonal across Marcus's chest, bronze rims glinting as his head cocked appraising, black lenses hiding the pitiless brown underneath but not the spark of that's my boy flickering hot. "Julius said he found some muthafucka got caught in a threesome with Kings, Rollerz, and Carnales last night. Droppin' fools like it was open season. That you, huh?"
Marcus's smirk deepened, scar pulling tight at the cheek as he held the stare a beat—hazel locking on those opaque shades like sighting irons on a ghost from the old days, the weight of five years' sand and silence hanging electric between 'em, not heavy but charged, like a mag slap before the breach. Then he extended his hand, palm scarred and callused from the same dumbass scraps that'd forged 'em brothers-in-chaos, pulling Gat in for the clasp—fingers interlocking steel-firm, the yank-and-bump that thudded chest-to-chest with a muffled thump of taut black tee against purple shirt, gold chains clinking faint like a toast in lead. It was their ritual, unchanged: grip like you'd choke a rival, bump like you'd back a play.
"You know him, Gat?" Julius's voice sliced through clean as a suppressed pop, gravel authority rolling down the steps like a sector clear, his boots thumping deliberate on the graffiti-scarred risers, as he descended, black jacket hugging his lean frame, purple turtle neck with his gold chains that swayed with his stride, heavy brows arched in that paternal query laced with street cunning. The crowd parted instinctive, bangers murmuring low as their kingpin closed the triangle, Troy ghosting a step behind with his wiry watchfulness, goatee quirking faintly.
Gat broke the clasp smooth but reluctant, turning fluid on his heel—chains settling with a jangle that undercut the morning hush—facing Julius square, his posture uncoiling loose but loaded, like a .45 thumbed off safe. "Yeah, grew up with this muthafucka, Julius. Row rats together—boostin' corners, dodgin' Kings' shadows, scrapin' for scraps before the world even knew Saints from sinners." His grin flashed gold-capped and vicious, glasses dipping light as he jerked a thumb back at Marcus, the blonde streak catching a stray sunbeam like a fresh scar. "When he bounced for the army at eighteen, I tried tailin' his ass. Fuckers reckoned I was too psycho to enlist—said my psych eval read like a manifesto for a skitzo. Pfft. Like this built-up fucker was any less of a loose cannon back then."
Marcus's chuckle rumbled low, scraped from the chest like gravel under treads—a rare thaw in the ice-vein stare, the sound pulling faint echoes from the church's cracked facade, where
purple tags bled into faded frescoes of forgotten saints. He leaned into it easily, shoulders rolling loose under the tight tee, the Krukov's strap shifting with the motion like an old habit itching for use. "You can't outright say you can't wait to mow down the enemy, Gat. Gotta keep that on the down low—play the good soldier, nod at the DI's bullshit. Brass smells psychos a mile off if you don't wrap it in stars-and-stripes tape."
"Pssht. Fuck that. Fuck them." Gat spat it like spent chew, the words whipping sharp with that Chicago snap, turning back to Marcus with a shoulder-bump—eyes hidden but voice dripping that unbowed fire, the kind that'd lit fuses in pool halls and turned heists into legends. The crowd hummed approval behind 'em.
"Well, old friend or not, he still gotta be canonized. Everyone had to do it." Troy's voice sliced through the reunion's heat like a cold chambered round, that New York drawl smooth but edged with the kind of street protocol that brooked no shortcuts—pale blues flicking from Gat to Marcus with a half-lidded appraisal, goatee framing a jaw that'd chewed through worse debates. He leaned casual against a graffiti-scarred pillar at the steps' base, arms crossed loose over his wiry frame.
Marcus quirked an eyebrow, scar pulling taut at the hinge like a trigger guard under thumb—hazel eyes narrowing a fraction, not hostile but clocking the play, the Row's old math ticking behind the calm: hazing rite, loyalty litmus, or just Saints' way of weeding the soft from the stack? Five years in the Corps had drilled him on initiations—boot camp's blanket parties, Recon's wet-and-sandy hells where you'd puke sand for days just to earn the tab—but this? Felt rawer, closer to the gut, the kind of test where fists flew without ROE, just the code of take it or break.
"Canonized?" Marcus echoed, voice low and scraped neutral, the word hanging brief like a spent casing—half-question, half-challenge, his stance uncoiling easy but rooted, steel-toed boots planted firm on the bottom riser, the tight black tee pulling taut over traps that'd humped rucks through wadis hotter than this haze.
Julius smirked then, the expression cracking his dark features like fault lines in concrete. His heavy brows arched paternal-sharp, that gravel timbre rumbling out with the weight of a man who'd baptized the Saints in his own blood, eyes locking Marcus's with the unblinking math of earn it or earn out. "You wanna ride with us Saints, then you gotta prove you ain't gonna split when things get hot. Circle of the faithful layin' hands—full Saints beatdown, no holds, no mercy. Feel free to swing back, though; only one fool who gave better than he got was Gat here." He jerked his chin toward Johnny, the smirk deepening to something almost fond, like reminiscing a scar that still itched right—his presence commanding the steps' edge, the crowd leaning in
instinctively, purple flags fluttering faintly from a lowrider antenna like war banners half-unfurled.
Gat dusted off a shoulder with theatrical flair, gold chains jangling loose over his purple shirt's crisp drape—the white undershirt beneath peeking at the collar like a clean slate for fresh ink."Damn right I did," he drawled, Chicago snap lacing the brag like barbed wire on a fence—leaning into Marcus with a shoulder nudge. "Took three rounds before they peeled me off the pavement—busted ribs, split lip, but fuck if I didn't drop every other muthafucka before the dust settled. Made 'em respect the crazy." His laugh ghosted low, vicious undertone curling the edges.
Marcus let the smirk hold, wolfish curl deepening as the pieces slotted—the rite wasn't just fists; it was the Row's sacrament, washing out the tourists in a baptism of bruises. His pulse didn't spike; it settled, cold and sure, the old itch coiling low in his gut like a mag seating home—Corps had taught him to eat pain for breakfast, turn it to fuel for the counterpunch, and if these Saints wanted proof? He'd carve it in welts and grins. "Sounds like a party," he rumbled back, voice steady as overwatch, hazel flicking the circle forming loose around 'em—purple-clad shadows shifting, eyes glinting that mix of welcome and wolfpack glee.
Marcus unclasped the battered leather holster with a fluid twist, peeling the rig free from his hip where it hung like an extension of bone, the Vice-9's polymer weight and KA-BAR's sheathed menace bundled in scarred hide. He slung it over Gat's shoulder in one seamless arc, the drop heavy but casual, like handing off a spare mag mid-patrol. No words traded; just the lock of shaded lenses on hazel, that pitiless brown behind the bronze rims flickering approval, Gat's gold-capped grin twisting sharper, like he could already taste the blood about to paint the steps.
The Krukov came next—Marcus's off-hand hooking the sling's strap, yanking the AK diagonal off his chest with a polymer scuff that whispered finality, barrel swinging loose as he shoved it butt-first into Gat's waiting grip, the curved mag's banana-weight thumping home against purple shirt and white undershirt. Marcus rolled his shoulders once, the tight black tee pulling taut over traps bulked from sand-humps and shadow-box drills, sleeves riding to expose the faded Eagle, Globe, and Anchor inked like a dare—then he turned, boots scraping the graffiti-riddled risers as he strode into the circle's maw, the Saints' knot tightening around him like a noose of purple flesh and feral eyes.
The air in the circle hung thick, choked with the Row's underbelly reek—sweat-sour hoodies, cheap cologne masking last night's smoke, the metallic bite of adrenaline spiking veins—and Marcus drew a deep breath, chest expanding slow under the tee's cling, lungs filling with that familiar cocktail: cordite ghosts from the night's drop, the faint copper promise of fresh welts, the haze's acrid kiss reminding him this was home, unfiltered. He locked in then, hazel eyes
narrowing to slits of ice-vein focus, the world compressing to vectors and threats—the Corps' gift, etched neural-deep from Fallujah door-kicks where hesitation was just another word for body bag. His unit had been war dogs forged the same: Ramirez with his breacher grin, Hale patching holes mid-firefight, all of 'em chafing at the leash in downtime foxholes, turning MRE wrappers into spar mats, trading hooks and elbows under starless skies until knuckles split and breaths ragged, laughing through the sting, the fix that kept the dull at bay. Blood-hungry mutts, yeah—Marcus the alpha who'd turn a three-on-one flank into a counterpour, leaving tangos cooling in heaps while his ghosts nodded across the zone. Same math here. No ROE, just results.
He'd learned the gospel early, banged into his skull by a CO who'd quoted Sun Tzu over lukewarm chow like it was holy writ: Avoid prolonged conflicts—protracted war favors the weak. Drag it out in the circle, let the Saints' numbers grind you down with haymakers and hooks, and you're meat—welts turning to breaks, loyalty test flipping to liability. Nah. Opportunities multiply as they are seized. Strike first, seize the chaos, turn their stance into stagger. Rapidity is the essence of war. That dead Chinese general's ink had stained more ops than Marcus could tally, from Mosul overwatch where a sprint breached a killbox to this Row rite, where fists flew free but the principle held iron: speed the equalizer, shock the multiplier, back-foot the pack before they could bay.
The circle sealed shut around him—two dozen Saints closing the ring on the cracked church lot, purple hoodies and tees forming a wall of bruise-colored menace, boots shuffling gravel to dust as they fell into stances ragged but ready. Julius watched from the steps' edge, black leather jacket creaking as he crossed arms over his purple turtleneck's high collar, gold chain a subtle glint under heavy brows arched expectant—show me what you got. Gat flanked him loose, AK and holster cradled easy, his gold-capped smirk holding vicious as he thumbed the sling absent, bronze squares dipping light. Troy leaned pillar-casual nearby, goatee framing a jaw set neutral, pale blues scanning the ring's flow like he was already plotting the after-action.
The first rush hit like a wave breaking jagged—the lead Saint, a stocky kid with a flatbill cocked purple and a snarl twisted fresh, lunging in hot from Marcus's blind six with a wild haymaker arcing for the jaw, fist whistling air thick with last night's blunt reek. But Marcus was motion before the circle even breathed—rapidity uncoiling like a spring-loaded pigsticker, his frame exploding forward in a blur of camo cargos and steel toes, left boot snapping up in a low shin-kick that cracked the kid's knee sideways with a wet pop, momentum carrying him into the pivot. The haymaker whiffed empty, grazing scalp as Marcus drove his right elbow horizontal—sharp as a KA-BAR fuller—into the lunging gut, folding the Saint double with a whoofed huff that sprayed spittle and surprise, ribs compressing like cheap plywood under the strike.
Opportunities multiplied in a instant: the back-foot stagger rippled the ring, two flankers—a wiry dropout with gold-grilled flash and a mexican holdout in faded Dickies—hesitating a hair too long, their stances cracking open like poorly welded doors. Marcus seized it, breath steady as overwatch, lunging low through the gap with a Corps-honed clinch—arms snaking the grill's waist, hoisting him off-balance in a fireman's carry slam that cratered the gravel mid-circle, the Saint's spine arching on impact with a gravel-crunch thud, gold teeth clacking shut on a bitten curse as air whooshed out in pink foam. The Dickies flank caught the follow-through—a spinning backfist whipping from Marcus's pivot, knuckles grazing temple with a meaty smack that snapped the head sideways, stars blooming behind eyes as the mexican crumpled knees-first, clutching skull with a dazed fuck....
The circle snarled back, Saints surging in like a meat grinder cranked—fists raining from three angles now, a boot hooking for his ribs from the rear—but Marcus flowed through it, rapidity turning defense to devour: duck under a looping right from a purple-banded bruiser, counter with a knee to the thigh that buckled the leg like a felled lowrider, then twist into the boot's path, trapping the ankle in a heel-hook yank that spilled the kicker face-first into gravel, teeth grinding stone with a hissed shit. Pain bloomed hot in his side—a glancing elbow glancing his ribs, cracking bone-shallow with fire—but he ate it, turning the sting to surge, opportunities chaining like frags in a hot zone: palm-heel to the elbower's chin, snapping head back with a crack that dazed him reeling, then a low sweep clipping another charger's stance, dumping him ass-down amid the brass-strewn lot.
The ring devolved to frenzy—Saints howling yeah, fuck him up! from the edges, fists and boots blurring in a storm of purple fury, welts rising hot on Marcus's arms and jaw where hooks grazed true, a split lip blooming copper on his tongue—but he was the eye, locked and lethal, His old CO's ghost barking overrides in his skull: seize, multiply, end it quick. A headlock clamped his neck from behind, meaty arm vise-tight from a hulking defector whose breath reeked of last night's gin, but Marcus dropped weight sudden—hips hinging low, shoulders rolling in a textbook hip-throw that flipped the hulk over his back, the Saint crashing spine-first onto the steps' base with a bone-jarring wham, air evacuating in a guttural wheeze as gravel bit deep into kevlar. Blood trickled warm from Marcus's brow, a shallow gash from a ringed knuckle's kiss, but the taste only sharpened the coil, Reaper itch flaring monstrous under the skin—more, come on, feed it.
Gat's bark cut the chaos from the sidelines—"That's my boy! Drop 'em, Kane!"—gold chains jangling as he whooped, AK propped casual on his shoulder like a spectator's brew, his grin flashing vicious under the blonde streak. Julius held stoic, purple turtleneck collar high under the black jacket's zip, arms crossed as his gaze drilled the fray—appraisal unyielding, but a subtle nod ghosting when Marcus countered a knee-strike with a palm to the groin, folding the attacker double before an uppercut sent him sprawling slack. Troy's cool cracked faint, goatee quirking
as he muttered damn low, pale blues tracking the Reaper's flow like a play unfolding too clean.
The circle thinned ragged after that—eight down in heaps of groaning purple, the rest circling wary now, breaths heaving, fists blood-flecked and hesitant, the lot a canvas of sprawl: welts blooming on Marcus's ribs like fresh ink, a shiner swelling shut one eye half-mast, but his stance held coiled, breath ragged but even, hazel glinting feral through the sweat-sting, lips curled in that wolfish rictus that promised keep coming. The Saints' roar shifted—what the fuck? murmurs threading the cheers, respect bleeding into the grudge like ink in water. Julius raised a scarred palm, voice booming the halt—"Enough!"—the circle freezing mid-lunge, boots scraping halt as the kingpin stepped forward, gold chain swaying, his smirk cracking full now, paternal pride edging the gravel. "Canonized. Brother's earned his purple."
Marcus exhaled slow, chest heaving under the tee's blood-sweat cling, the ache in his side a dull throb he cataloged neutral—fuel for the next, not the end. Gat tossed the holster and Krukov back with a catch, grin gold and wide—"Told ya, Julius—he's the real deal"—the rig slapping home on Marcus's hip like a homecoming, AK's weight settling familiar across his chest. The crowd erupted then, yeahs thundering genuine, fists pumping as Saints slapped his back—welts flaring fresh, but the burn felt right, like the first scar after a long dull. Purple bandanas knotted 'round his wrist unbiddent. The Row watched from the haze, sirens distant but closing, but here on the steps, the Saints' fire burned hotter—Marcus Kane, Reaper canonized, the blade unsheathed for the grind.
Opportunities multiply. And the war? Just getting started.