The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light through the grimy windows of Jason’s apartment. He and Franklin were already up, sprawled across the worn-out couch, shoveling down a breakfast of greasy bacon, runny fried eggs, and lukewarm milk. The TV blared in front of them, its flickering screen the only source of life in the otherwise dead-quiet room. They were glued to the morning news, hungry for details about last night’s chaos.
On the screen, the news anchor was practically foaming at the mouth with excitement, his voice dripping with self-righteous fervor. "Last night, the New York DEA unleashed a fucking blitzkrieg—hundreds of elite SWAT operatives, backed by the goddamn Marine Corps, stormed a massive drug lab in Clinton. The body count? A hundred forty-seven dead, two hundred fifty-nine gangbangers and dope cooks cuffed and dragged away."
"This shithole of a drug factory has been poisoning New York’s streets for years, pumping out the city’s biggest supply of high-grade narcotics. The raid netted a staggering 3,728 kilos of product—every kind of illegal shit you can imagine. That’s a new fucking record, folks."
The anchor leaned in, his eyes gleaming with drama. "The mastermind behind it all? A Chinese woman named Gao, gunned down while trying to flee. The fatal shot came from none other than DEA Director Norman Stanfield himself."
The broadcast cut to a field report, and the screen filled with shaky, edited footage of the raid—less than thirty seconds of pure chaos. Sirens wailed, muzzle flashes lit up the night, and the voiceover painted a vivid picture. "The DEA’s SWAT team moved like a well-oiled killing machine, every unit in perfect sync, advancing through the factory with ruthless precision. The gang? A disorganized clusterfuck, no strategy, no spine. They crumbled under the onslaught, tossing their guns and begging for mercy."
The footage switched again, this time to a live interview with Stanfield, standing in Madame Gao’s opulent office. Her corpse lay just out of frame, a pool of blood seeping into the hardwood floor. "This drug lab was buried deep, a fucking ghost in the system," Stanfield said, his face stern and authoritative. "The DEA tracked it for three years to pin it down. Last night, we finally ripped it apart."
He turned to the camera, his expression hardening. "To anyone out there using this poison: I don’t give a shit what your excuse is—stay the fuck away from it. It’ll destroy your body, your family, your whole goddamn life."
Franklin snorted, nearly choking on his bacon. "Fucking hypocrite! That son of a bitch Stanfield’s probably high as a kite right now, and he’s got the balls to preach like some holier-than-thou asshole? What a shameless prick!"
The broadcast cut back to the studio, where the anchor was still riding his high horse. He thanked the DEA profusely before turning his venom on the NYPD. "Goddamn, how does a drug factory this big operate in New York for years without the police noticing? Either the NYPD’s a bunch of incompetent morons who should all turn in their badges and fuck off, or..." He paused for effect, leaning back dramatically. "And this is a scary thought, folks, but what if the NYPD knew about the factory? What if they’ve been taking dirty money to look the other way?"
Jason sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening. "Holy shit, this guy’s got some fucking guts to call out the NYPD like that on live TV!"
---
Meanwhile, across town in the heart of Manhattan, Wilson Fisk—better known as Kingpin—sat in his sprawling penthouse, his massive frame sinking into a leather armchair as he watched the same broadcast. His face darkened with every word the anchor spoke, his jaw tightening until it looked like it might crack. The accusation against the NYPD wasn’t just a jab—it was a fucking Molotov cocktail, setting the stage for a citywide shitstorm.
The NYPD was now backed into a corner, their reputation dragged through the mud. To save face, they’d have to go on the offensive—launch a massive crackdown on every criminal outfit in the city. Busts, raids, arrests, the works. Anything less, and they’d look like corrupt cowards in front of the whole damn world.
Fisk let out a heavy sigh, his mind already racing. ’It’s gonna be a rough fucking ride for New York’s underworld.’ He grabbed his phone and dialed Wesley, his right-hand man and sharpest advisor.
"You see the news?" Fisk’s voice was low, a growl that carried the weight of his authority.
Wesley, ever the cool-headed strategist, didn’t miss a beat. "Yeah, I saw it. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the crew in line. No one’s stepping out of bounds."
Fisk shook his head, his tone grim. "This isn’t some small-time bust, Wesley. This storm’s gonna hit harder than anything we’ve seen. Locking down the crew isn’t enough. Get every ounce of product out of the city. Now."
"Understood," Wesley replied. "I’ll handle it. We’ll have the goods moved by tonight."
He hung up, already pulling on his coat and grabbing his keys. A crackdown like this didn’t fuck around—it came fast and burned hot, leaving no room for mistakes. Time was of the essence.
Wesley floored it to the gang’s main hub, his sleek black car weaving through Manhattan’s chaotic traffic. When he screeched to a stop at the factory, a truck was already idling, ready to roll out with a shipment. He leaped out and flagged it down. "Hold the fuck up!"
A burly, bearded man hopped out of the passenger seat, his face creased with confusion. "Mr. Wesley, what’s the deal? I’ve got a delivery to make."
"Plans changed," Wesley snapped, his voice sharp as a blade. "No shipments. Round up every crew leader—emergency meeting in the conference room, now."
The bearded man blinked, clearly out of the loop, but he was a crew boss himself and knew better than to argue. He hustled after Wesley, their boots pounding the pavement as they rushed toward the meeting room.
Inside, Wesley took his place at the head of the table—Jason’s old seat, still carrying the ghost of his presence. The room was packed with over a dozen crew bosses, their faces hard and weathered from years in the game. Wesley didn’t waste time. "Kingpin’s orders," He said, his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "New York’s about to get hit with a citywide crackdown. Effective immediately, we’re shutting down everything. All hubs go dark, all business stops. Pack up every gram of product and ship it to our Baltimore warehouse. No exceptions."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Second order: everyone’s on lockdown. Go home, stock up on food, and keep your asses inside. No fights, no deals, no bullshit. You step out of line, you’re done."
The room erupted in grumbles. The bosses weren’t happy. Shut down operations? Sit on their hands? For what, a fucking police tantrum? These were Kingpin’s veterans, men who’d weathered crackdowns before. Back when Jason ran the show, a police sweep was a golden opportunity—small-time gangs hid, leaving the market wide open for the taking. A few bribes to the right cops, and business boomed. Jason used to say, "Crackdowns are when we make our move. Let the little fish cower—we’re the sharks."
Now, this? Hiding like cowards? It felt like a slap in the face.
One boss, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, leaned forward. "Wesley, if we shut down, how the fuck are we supposed to eat? The crew’s got bills—mortgages, car loans, kids in fancy schools, vacations to fucking Europe. We stop moving products, we’re screwed."
Wesley’s eyes narrowed. "The crackdown won’t last forever—a week, maybe a month. Kingpin’s still paying your cuts. Are you telling me you can’t survive a month?"
The bosses exchanged glances, shaking their heads. In America’s consumerist hellscape, most people were one paycheck away from ruin. Bank accounts with less than a grand, savings rates at a pathetic five percent—these guys were no different. Gold chains, Rolexes, and Ferraris didn’t mean shit when the bills piled up.
Wesley’s patience snapped. "No money? Figure it the fuck out!"
The room exploded into chaos, the bosses shouting over each other, airing their grievances like a pack of hyenas. Wesley was still new to running the show, and unlike Jason, he hadn’t earned their respect. These old-timers weren’t about to bow to some suit who hadn’t gotten his hands dirty. If Jason were here, one look from him would’ve shut them up. But Wesley? They smelled weakness.
The meeting spiraled out of control, voices rising, tempers flaring. Wesley slammed his fist on the table, his face red with fury. "You think you can defy Kingpin’s orders? You wanna fuck with him? Go ahead, see how that works out for you!"
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