Chapter 6: Don Capo
On the third floor of an infamous apartment block. A commotion broke out. Neighbors pressed their eyes to the peepholes, unwilling to step outside.
The apartment block’s toughest teen thug in a tracksuit skidded across the hallway and landed hard on his butt. Blood dripped from his nose. Other punks his age admired him; his size made him their natural bruiser. Beside Ace, the thug looked like a bear to his twig.
Yet Ace punched the bear straight out of his doorway, proving he spoke the language of fists better than anyone.
How the fuck?
Behind Ace, the thug who had started this mess clutched Ace’s shirt, his face pale. Even Alex, the guy they all worshipped, had crumpled in one punch. When Ace told him to call others, the punk had grinned, sure Alex would end things. Now the grin was gone, replaced by fear. Every thug who had tasted Ace’s knuckles felt it too.
Ace strolled forward, tension hung in the air.
Gasping, Alex raised his hands. "Okay, you win! We won’t bother you!"
"You’re missing the magic word." Ace kept walking.
An image of the orphanage’s cranky matron flashed through Alex’s mind. He swallowed hard. "Sorry."
"Not bad for starters." Ace swept his eyes over the crowd. "You’ve all got potential. From now on, you’re under me."
Every group has a leader. Alex was this one’s unsaid boss, so beating him one‑on‑one gave Ace the high ground. It felt like overkill—Ace mainly wanted to hone his skills before the Chessboard Apocalypse—but desperate punks did crazy things when their allowance dried up. More punching bags never hurt.
"Why would we listen to you?!" Alex barked.