The sun dipped low, bleeding gold and crimson across the horizon as dusk settled in. At the east gate of Chicago Business School, Kimbell loomed on the sidewalk, his face a slab of ice, decked out in a shirt that screamed money. His usual posse flanked him, joined by a greasy dude with a face half-swollen—like Kimbell's own bruised mug, they were a matching set of bad decisions.
"Jarod, where's Anbery at? He bailing on us?" Kimbell flicked his eyes to Jarod's puffed-up cheek, fighting a smirk. One look at his own reflection in the guy's shades, though, and the grin died fast.
"Young Master Kimbell, Anbery's caught up today—couldn't roll out himself. Sent me and the boys instead. Tell me who's getting wrecked—hands, feet, whatever—it's your call!" Jarod, all slime and swagger, let out a raspy chuckle.
Anbery's go-to lapdog, Jarod hadn't signed up for this. Some punk had smashed his face last night, and the bruises still screamed fresh. Strutting out now was just begging the crew to bust his chops. But Anbery's word was law—no dodging that. He knew the score between Anbery and this spoiled Kimbell brat.
The Anbery clan ruled the streets, clawing out a slice of South Chicago with the old man's fists. Political juice, though? Zilch. The other two big crews kept them pinned down. Then fate tossed Anbery and Kimbell together at some ritzy shindig. Anbery sniffed out Kimbell's pedigree and saw dollar signs. Cozy up, reel him in slow, and snag a line to the mayor's office. With City Hall in their pocket, the Rust Knights could run South Chicago like kings. Even a blind eye from the suits would let their muscle flex and swell. It was a jackpot for the gang—and a lifeline for Anbery. His two older brothers outgunned him in the street wars, so he played the long game, stacking chips to muscle up his say in the Rust Knights.
So, Kimbell's every wish was Anbery's command. If last night's beatdown hadn't laid him out, he'd be here himself, kissing the kid's ring.
"Alright, just snap one of that punk's legs later—no body bags. Too much heat if he croaks…" Kimbell nodded, smug as hell. Anbery was gold—girls, cash, and now a hit squad on speed dial.
"No sweat, Young Master Kimbell—clean job, no fuss!" Jarod grinned, licking his chops like a dog eyeing a bone. Nail this for Kimbell, and Anbery might finally chill.
Kimbell's phone buzzed, cutting the vibe. He picked up, and his face split into a grin.
"Jarod, he's coming out—solo, east gate. You better tune him up real nice!" Kimbell crowed.
"Consider it done, Sir!" Jarod smirked. Anbery had tossed him a dozen grunts for this gig. Some green college kid? This was a sledgehammer for a fly.
Right then, Anirudh slunk out the gate, looking like someone stole his lunch money. Eleanor was supposed to scoop him up, but work screwed her over—told him to cab it home. He'd pinged Amy, but she was stuck in class, yapping about waiting. Anirudh wasn't about sitting on his thumbs—he'd bounce and grab a ride. Barely past the gate, though, a voice he half-knew barked, "Jarod, that's him—take him out…"
Anirudh glanced up. There was Kimbell, face still puffed like a bad botox job, glaring holes through him. Same old goons at his side, plus a ragtag crew in thrift-store getups. And that sleazy dude next to Kimbell—why'd he look like a rerun?
Weird vibe. Anirudh barely knew a soul in Chicago—so what was this guy's deal?
Jarod, though, went stiff as a board when he clocked Anirudh. This was the bastard who'd turned him into a punching bag last night! A Chicago Business School kid? They'd scoured the city all day for him, and bam—here he was, gift-wrapped.
"Jones, we've been hunting your ass down…" Jarod snarled, stomping over with a predator's grin.
"Jones?" Anirudh blinked, then it clicked—this was the creep he'd sent flying with one punch last night! And now he'd tracked him here, rolling with Kimbell's crew?
"Hunting me? For what?" Anirudh shrugged, legit lost. I clocked you once—didn't bang your sister or your mom. What's your damage?
"For what? Guess, genius!" Jarod's smirk turned nasty as the crew circled up, locking Anirudh in tight.
"Jarod, you know this guy?" Kimbell cut in, eyebrow cocked.
"Know him? I'd spot his corpse in a lineup…" Jarod's grin twisted, Anbery's orders echoing in his skull.
"No kidding? He get under your skin too?" Kimbell leaned in, hooked. This kid was a walking shitstorm—pissing off gangbangers now?
"Under my skin? Worse—he… whatever, drop it. Point is, Young Master Kimbell, I'm running this show today. One leg ain't enough…" Jarod swerved off last night's humiliation, doubling down.
"Hell yeah! Keep him breathing, and he's all yours—I was stressing blowback, but if he's already on your shitlist, I'm clean!" Kimbell cackled, tension melting. Whatever went down, it wasn't his mess now.
"With your green light, I'm set. Boys, snag this punk and drag him off…" Jarod waved a meaty hand, smirking. School gate was too hot—better haul him somewhere quiet to break him.
"Pump the brakes…" As the crew lunged, Anirudh threw up a hand and snorted, cool as ice.
They froze, thrown.
"Last night, you rolled what—ten deep, right?"
"Yeah, so?" Jarod sneered.
"So, I smoked you all. Ready for round two?" Anirudh flashed a toothy grin at Jarod, whose face went twitchy.
Jarod scoped his squad and felt his gut sink. Fewer bodies today than last night. Kimbell's call had pitched some wet-behind-the-ears freshman—nobody said it was this freak. If he'd known, he'd have brought a damn army. Anbery had three hundred goons tearing up Chicago Genius University for this guy today!
Now what? Scrap? This dude's fists were a wrecking crew—this ragtag bunch wouldn't last a minute. Bail? Anbery's cred would tank. Kimbell was right there—he'd dialed Anbery himself. If Jarod's boys didn't swing, what'd that say about the boss?
While Jarod's brain spun, a cherry-red Audi R8 peeled out from campus, screeching to a halt beside them. A knockout in a sleek black suit and blood-red shades stepped out. Kimbell's jaw hit the pavement…