Midday sun battled Harbor's smog, losing as usual. The gym pulsed with new rhythm: kid Viper—now "Spike"—shadowboxed under Rico's grin, Scarface arm-wrestled Jax for tacos, Mrs. Patel bossed cleanup like a general. Alex upgraded the ring with scavenged ropes, muscles aching from endless fixes. Crew's up to twelve. Not a syndicate—a shelter.A vintage scooter puttered up—Grandma Elena, silver hair pinned fierce, sari vibrant against grime. She hugged Alex crushing-tight. "Mijo! Heard you danced with snakes. Proud, but careful." The crew bowed instinctively; legends said Elena "fixed" worse than Vinny."Baba, it's nothing. Just—" Alex led her to the office, journal tucked away.Inside, her eyes pierced. "Lies itch, Alex. Show me." He hesitated, then slid it over. She traced pages, face darkening. "Vincenzo's curse. Our blood—shadow weavers. Wakes in stress. Yours stirred last night, no?"Alex laughed nervously. "Powers? Come on.""Feel it." She gripped his hand; warmth surged, shadows in corners twisting like smoke. A pipe overhead groaned—then straightened, self-repairing? Elena nodded. "Subtle now. Strength, mends, glimpses. Elders hunt it. Draven's one—half-breed tyrant."Crew knocked. Lena Voss, back for "follow-up." "Elena Kane? Vinny's sister? Spill the dynasty dirt."Elena smirked. "Journalist's fire. Good for my boy." Over chai, she wove half-tales: Vinny's "retirement" from shadows, Harbor as safe haven. Lena probed: "Kane blood mafia?""Protectors," Elena corrected. Shadows flickered unnoticed.Outside, Spike yelped. Razor's crew—eight strong—circled the gym, chains rattling. "Kane! Old lady's tales end here!" A thrown brick arced—Alex moved. Hand shot out; brick halted mid-air, crumbling to dust. Gasps. His palm burned. Woke.Elena whispered, "Nest stirs." Razor sneered: "Witchcraft? Draven'll love this." They charged.Lena grabbed a pipe. "Not today." Crew rallied. Alex stepped forward, eyes darkening: "Leave. Or learn."
