In the silence of the wilderness, Grayson mastered the rhythm of the hunt, his senses sharpened beyond human measure.
Guided by Takhar, he learned that darkness was not a cloak but a current, a force that bent to his intent.
Bloodied yet victorious against a beast as fierce as himself, he walked away knowing he had become both predator and shadow.
The forest had tempered him, but the city still called.
Now…
Chicago waits with open jaws.The streets pulse with danger, and Grayson dons a mask of deception.
The city was calling him back, pulling him toward the heart of the storm.
He drove with the windows cracked, the cool forest air giving way to the thick chemical musk of asphalt and exhaust.
The stars blinked out one by one as the orange haze of Chicago swallowed the horizon.
Billboards rose from the darkness, their flickering neon advertisements promising food, liquor, or salvation…
Each one as hollow as the next.
The wilderness always felt like home, a place where he could breathe, where the weight of his past didn’t press so hard against his ribs.
But here, as he crossed into the Near South Side, the ghosts sharpened their claws.
Rusted warehouses lined the streets, long shadows cutting across cracked pavement.
Elevated train tracks groaned overhead, spilling sparks as a late-night Red Line car rattled by.
He cut through blocks where gentrification and decay wrestled for dominance…
New lofts staring down crumbling row houses, coffee shops glowing across from boarded storefronts.
The streets narrowed as he wound closer to his destination, past alleys slick with rainwater and dumpsters overflowing with the city’s secrets.
He needed to return to the hidden alleyway across from his fallen family’s mansion to retrieve the bike he stole from the Devil’s Sons.
It was a dangerous errand, and every passing shadow reminded him how many eyes the city still had.
When he arrived, he covered his car, though it was already inconspicuous. Still, there was no need to be sloppy.
Grayson swung his leg over the stolen Devil’s Sons bike, feeling the deep, guttural rumble of the engine vibrate through his frame.
The worn leather of Iron Jack’s vest settled across his shoulders…
The stitched insignia on his back marked him as something he was not, a brother of the Sons, a loyal member of their violent brotherhood.
Although there weren’t any Sons left to his knowledge, he still didn’t like insinuating himself with the racist bastards.
But tonight, the patch served a deceptive purpose.
His mind churned over the same relentless questions, each one circling like wolves in the dark.
It was hard to believe the Street Deacons had anything to do with the massacre of his family…
But he couldn’t let go of the fact that no one tipped off his father.
The Gatswana Gun Club and the SDs had walked the same streets, operated in the same underworld, but theirs had never been a war built on outright bloodshed.
Rivalry did not always equate to conflict, and Kade was not the type of man to make reckless moves.
He was raised in the same unforgiving streets as Grayson, learned the same brutal lessons about power, control, and survival.
A man like Kade wouldn’t destroy a player as formidable as the GGC without a calculated reason, without weighing the consequences.
And yet, the attack on his family was total.
It was an eradication.
The kind of move that left no room for survivors, no opportunity for retaliation.
Whoever led the betrayal, pulled the trigger that night with absolute certainty.
No fear of consequences.
No hesitation.
That alone made them dangerous.
Grayson knew the streets' first rule: loyalty was bought, not earned.
Money and fear kept alliances intact, and when either ran dry, bonds shattered like glass.
If Kade and the SDs had turned against the Gatswana name, they needed a reminder of their power.
But vengeance wasn't his mission tonight.
First, he needed to speak with Kade, to understand why.
A leader like him wouldn't act without reason, and Grayson was ready to create enough chaos to draw him out into the open.
The city rose before him, a stark contrast to the wilderness he left behind.
Gone was the pure forest air, replaced by the heavy weight of urban heat.
Chicago's streets spread like dark arteries beneath him, alive with the constant pulse of sirens echoing through the night, the city's own violent heartbeat.
Pulling his ski mask lower and adjusting his hood, Grayson guided the stolen Harley deeper into hostile territory.
His eyes swept the streets constantly, watching for the Ghosts.
Their last encounter was still fresh in his mind, those silent hunters who almost took him out with silent precision.
If they came for him again, they would strike as they did before: like shadows, ruthless and inevitable.
His gaze flicked toward the rooftops, scanning for the telltale glint of a drone’s camera eye.
His senses remained sharp tapping into his Hunter’s sense, honed to pick up even the smallest anomaly in his immediate environment.
The longer he rode, the more certain he became that he was not alone.
A black van idled too long at the mouth of an alleyway, its windows dark, its engine silent.
Another sat parked just beyond an intersection, no headlights, no plates.
He kept his hands steady on the handlebars, his pulse measured, his posture loose but ready.
If they were watching, he needed them to see what they expected, a lone Devil’s Son rolling into enemy territory, another reckless biker walking into a fight he didn’t understand.
The high-rises of Parkway Gardens loomed ahead, their battered facades standing as silent witnesses to decades of violence.
The concrete was riddled with bullet scars, the walls layered in graffiti like a chaotic scripture of war stories, warnings, and fallen names.
This was a place where the past never stayed buried, where every corner carried the weight of lost lives and broken promises.
The ghosts of past conflicts were woven into the very foundation of O-Block.
Grayson eased off the throttle as he approached, letting the stolen Devil’s Sons bike roll forward on a steady, deliberate growl.
The engine’s vibrations thrummed through his frame, the deep purr of the machine carrying an unspoken message.
He intentionally was making himself known.
The street had a pulse, and he could feel it thrumming beneath his tires, alive, restless, waiting.
The Street Deacons moved like sentries, positioned in clusters across the neighborhood, their presence a silent declaration of control.
Some leaned casually against parked cars, exchanging murmured conversations while keeping their gazes sharp and alert.
Others stood on porches or sidewalks, their stances loose but purposeful.
Their hands hovered near their waists, their postures never truly at ease.
Even in stillness, they were prepared for war, trained by necessity to read every unfamiliar movement as a potential threat.
Grayson felt their eyes on him before he even reached the heart of the block.
Their attention wasn’t on him as a man, it was on the insignia emblazoned across his back. The Devil’s Sons patch gleamed beneath the streetlights.
He had no interest in indiscriminate violence, but chaos was sometimes the most effective tool at a man’s disposal.
He reached beneath his vest, his gloved fingers brushing against the cold steel of his of his newly modified Hanzo .45, but he had no intention of shedding blood.
Instead, he slid out the live magazine and replaced it with one loaded with rubber rounds.
He scanned the street ahead, looking for the right target.
There was no shortage of options, clusters of men, some older and grizzled with experience, others young and eager to prove themselves.
His gaze settled on a small group gathered near a black Dodge Charger, their body language carrying the telltale signs of enforcers.
They looked like trigger-pullers, the muscle, the ones who followed orders without question.
If anyone would draw out a response from Kade, it would be them.
Grayson adjusted his grip on the handlebars, steadying himself.
Timing was everything.
He waited, patient, for the perfect moment.
When the streetlight overhead flickered, a momentary distraction, he struck.
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