Chapter 211: The Traitor’s Proposal
The meeting room wasn’t much to look at.
A flickering neon sign outside the window buzzed like a dying fly, casting a pale green light across the cracked concrete floor. The walls were exposed brick, stained with years of cigarette smoke and layers of graffiti tags, some so old they were nearly illegible, others fresh and bold, stacked one over the other like ghosts of gangs that had come and gone.
In the center of the room sat a long rectangular table, rough and mismatched. The slabs of wood were held together by metal brackets, some rusted, others freshly bolted. It looked like it had been built out of necessity, not style. The faint smell of gasoline clung to the air, mixing with cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of sweat.
This was the back room of Line Zero, an old pool hall turned makeshift headquarters. It sat buried deep within Chalkline territory, the kind of place only the dumb or the dead wandered into without permission.
Around the table sat the core of the Chalkline Boys.
Closest to the window, drumming his fingers in a rhythm only he seemed to understand, was Montez, the acting captain in charge. His skin was dark, his eyes sharp like broken glass, and he wore a thick varsity-style jacket with the sleeves ripped off, revealing the snake tattoo that twisted down his arm. He hadn’t spoken a word, but the silence around him was heavier than gunmetal.
To his left sat Ringo. Lean and jittery, he looked like someone who drank too much coffee and never slept. He handled the numbers, money, shipments, schedules, and always seemed on edge. His nose had clearly been broken at some point and never quite healed right. He gnawed on his bottom lip, a raw patch forming from the habit.
Next to Ringo sat Keisha, the only girl in the core leadership, not that anyone treated her differently. Her braids were tied into a tight bun, and her fingers moved fast across a tablet as she scrolled through files and reports. She was the one who always saw patterns before anyone else. The strategist.
Across from her lounged Snipe, legs kicked up on a broken chair, arms folded behind his head. He had a big build, a slow, lazy grin, and a temper like a landmine, calm one second, explosive the next. A fresh scar ran under his eye, a reminder of the last time the Rejected Corps had come knocking. A toothpick dangled from his lips, shifting slightly with every breath.