Building The Strongest Family
Chapter 149: The First Blood

The neon glow of the Red Sector pulsed like an open wound against the night sky, casting an eerie light over the chaos below. Malik Voss stood atop a crumbling apartment complex, his coat flapping in the wind like a flag of defiance.

The streets of Silver Strings territory buzzed with oblivious foot soldiers, completely unaware that their empire was on the verge of collapse.**

His earpiece crackled to life.

"All teams in position," Drago, his lieutenant, murmured.

Malik exhaled slowly, watching his breath curl into the frigid air.

Just three weeks ago, he had felt like a cornered animal, his empire crumbling around him.

But now? Now he had teeth,and he was ready to bite back.

He tapped his comm. "Move."

The first explosion shattered the Silver Strings main arms depot, a fireball erupted into the sky, turning night into day for one brilliant second.

Chaos erupted!

Silver Strings enforcers poured into the streets, shouting in confusion as they were cut down by precise bursts of XM-42 pulse fire from above.

The rounds tore through their body armor like it was made of paper, leaving them crumpled and lifeless in the gutters.

Malik watched with a cold detachment as his newly equipped forces moved with terrifying efficiency.

Drones buzzed overhead, tagging fleeing targets with thermal markers while neural-disrupt grenades detonated in alleys, dropping entire squads without a single drop of blood spilled; just twitching bodies left behind as their nervous systems overloaded.

And then there were the exo-suits.

Three of Malik's best men strode down the main thoroughfare like gods of war, their carbon-fiber frames absorbing bullets as if they were nothing more than raindrops.

One ripped a door off a Silver Strings safehouse with bare hands,pure power on display.

A smile curled Malik's lips. This was what dominance felt like.

An hour later, they dragged Anatoly, the Silver Strings leader,from his hideout.

The man who once sneered at Malik's faltering grip now knelt in the street before him, bloodied and bewildered.

Malik crouched low to meet Anatoly's gaze. "You took my docks," he said casually. "My girls. My power... My fucking pride."

Anatoly spat defiantly at his feet. "You think this changes anything? You're still a dog, just with a new leash."

Malik stood tall and brushed imaginary dirt from his coat. "Wrong."

He nodded to Drago.

In an instant, a neural-disrupt round struck Anatoly between the shoulder blades; his body convulsed violently as his scream choked into a gurgle,his nervous system short-circuiting right before Malik's eyes.

Malik turned to the gathered crowd of Silver Strings survivors,those who had the sense to surrender.

"Spread the word," he declared, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

"The old rules are dead." With that, he strode away, leaving Anatoly twitching in the street behind him.

But somewhere in the city, a silent observer watched through binoculars.

Jax Krayne lowered his comm device and murmured, "It's done."

The voice on the other end was smooth and amused as it responded with a single word: "Good."

--------------

In the gutters of their own territory, bodies of the Red Serpents lay piled high, their signature crimson bandanas now drenched in blood.

The leaders of the Black Hand were found hanging from neon signs outside their own nightclubs, tongues severed,a grim reminder of Malik's message.

The Jade Tigers' headquarters? Reduced to smoldering rubble; their once-feared enforcers now mere charred skeletons among the wreckage.

Five gangs. Five nights.

Now, the underworld held its breath.

In dimly lit backrooms of speakeasies and plush private booths of upscale brothels, remaining gang bosses convened, not to plot revenge but merely to survive.

"This isn't Malik," growled Dante Moretti, aging don of the Lupo Syndicate.

His gnarled fingers tightened around his whiskey glass as if it were a lifeline. "That bastard couldn't have pulled this off alone."

A holo-screen flickered to life at the center of their table, replaying footage from the Silver Strings massacre, Malik's exo-suited soldiers moving through gunfire like it was nothing more than rain; neural-disrupt grenades sending enemies into violent seizures on the ground.

"Who the hell is backing him?" whispered Lina, queen of the Golden Lotus Triad, her usually unshakeable composure beginning to crack under pressure.

No one had an answer.

On street corners where deals were struck and loyalties traded like currency, low-level enforcers exchanged nervous whispers.

"I heard Malik's got military tech now," muttered a Lupo foot soldier to his contact among what remained of the Tigers.

"Bullshit," came the shaky reply as he lit a cigarette with trembling hands. "No way some mid-tier boss gets access to that kind of hardware."

Then why were bodies piling up?

Even within Fourth Precinct HQ,where bribes flowed like water, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

"We ignoring this?" Detective Rourke muttered to his partner while tossing a file full of crime scene photos onto their desk,charred ruins, twitching bodies… streets painted red.

His partner Detective Vasquez didn't even look up from his paperwork. "We don't get paid enough to die."

The message was clear: Stay out of Malik's way.

In the shadows of a fractured city, where alliances shift like sand, there exists a breed of operators who thrive in the murky gray, fixers, smugglers, and those who know the game better than anyone else.

"This ain't a power grab," whispered "The Tailor," an information broker with his fingers dipped into every underworld pie. "This is a fucking message."

But to whom? He kept that detail close to his chest. His next client,a man clad in a charcoal suit, slipped him untraceable Unicreds as payment.

Meanwhile, Malik lounged in what used to be Anatoly's office, his boots resting on the dead man's desk.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of cigars and dried blood.

Drago, his lieutenant clad in an exo-suit that hummed softly with each movement, stepped inside.

"The others are talking," he said cautiously. "Some are ready to bend the knee. Others…"

Malik chuckled darkly. "Let them try."

With a flick of his wrist, he retrieved a sleek encrypted phone, the very one Jax had entrusted to him,and typed out a single word:

"Done."

Within moments came the reply:

"Good."

No praise or warnings, just cold acknowledgment.

Malik tossed aside the phone and poured himself a drink, savoring the moment as chaos unfolded outside; flames licked at buildings while sirens wailed in protest.

And high above it all, in a dimly lit study room filled with shadows and intrigue, a man sipped Valeerian Noir and watched as the dominoes began to fall.

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