They moved slow once the houses turned rough and the streetlights got fewer. The air felt thicker here — not a storm, just the kind of quiet that sits before trouble. Buildings hunched close, windows barred, and graffiti crawled up the walls like old scars. They kept walking until the main block of the West High Crew's area sat ahead of them, lights dull, shadows deeper.

When they were about two hundred meters out, Maya held up one hand without a word. The others stopped like they'd been hit with an invisible brake.

"Guys, wait," she said, voice low and steady. She looked at each of them in turn. "From here on, we split. We go to our own spots. Be careful and stick to the plan."

Her words landed with a soft weight. There was no yelling. No last-minute speeches. Only the kind of silence that says everyone understands what must be done.

Ryan looked at them — Arthur, Leon, Maya — quick, searching. "Arthur, Leon… be fine, yeah? If something goes wrong, run. Don't try to stay and fight if it's too much."

Leon flashed that easy grin. "Don't worry, Cap. I got this. If it gets real bad, I'll bail." He sounded confident, maybe too confident, but his eyes were steady.

Arthur said nothing. He only looked at Ryan with the same unreadable face he always had — calm like stone. But Ryan felt the look like a promise rather than silence.

Ryan held out his hand, slow and simple, the way teams do before they split up. Maya smiled and placed her hand over his. Leon slammed his hand on top with a grin and bravado. Arthur hesitated, sighed once, and then put his hand on last — his palm cool and steady. Their hands were warm together, packed with a little nervous energy and a lot of determination.

"Let's hunt them," Ryan said.

"And win," Maya finished.

"Hell yeah," Leon added.

Arthur pressed his hand down, once, and the motion was final. They broke the stack and moved. No big shout. No show. Just an agreement, and the street took them apart like pieces sliding into place.

Ryan and Maya moved toward the side wall, small and quiet, careful to use shadows. Arthur walked straight up the main road like a man who already owned it. Leon walked with him for a short stretch, then slid a left into the back alley, as planned. They all melted into the night, each carrying the same short list of orders in their head.

Arthur reached the front gate alone soon enough. He walked slow, hands buried in his pockets, breath steady. He did not hurry. He did not look around to see how many watched him. He simply walked like a man who understood the space he was crossing — like a man who had practiced being alone and calm in the center of chaos.

At the gate, around ten guys stood, scattered in groups. They were the kind who thought muscle and loud voices meant power. Cigarettes dangled from their lips, laughter sounding forced. Their faces were rough with cheap confidence.

When they saw Arthur, one of them spat a question like it was a challenge: "Who's that?"

Another one moved forward, hand coming down to touch Arthur's shoulder like a boss testing a kid. The gesture was careless, the kind someone does when they want to make sure they are still the boss.

Arthur did not say a word. He didn't flare or make a face. His arm moved in the same instant the man's hand landed — a single, clean punch that wasn't loud but cracked like someone snapping wood.

The man's jaw broke in a way that did not look like a joke. He folded, collapsed. Silence hit the group like a physical thing. Cigarettes dropped from fingers. Eyes widened. For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then one of the guys saw Arthur's face properly and screamed, half-terrified, half-angry, "FUCK! It's Arthur Caine!"

Hearing the name was like someone lighting a fuse. The ten men hesitated—their bravado cracking. Fear made their hands slip and their voices wobble. For a moment they thought maybe this wasn't a small fight anymore. Then the fear turned into anger and they charged, a messy rush meant to hide the tremor in their bellies.

Arthur did not move his shoulders or take his hands from his pockets. He simply shifted his weight the way someone shifts to balance on a rock. He let them come.

They lunged, and he flowed through them the way a river flows around stones. A swing missed by a fraction of an inch — his foot caught a knee and the attacker fell, gasping. A grab from behind ended with the other man's face hitting a wall. A running tackle met a planted foot and a knee to the stomach.

Arthur's movement wasn't loud or showy. It was efficient, calm work. He used little motion, so his power looked like it belonged to the ground itself — something heavy and unavoidable. Each time someone tried to stand, they found themselves hit again. No theatrics. No roars. Just the unavoidable end of their attack.

He didn't need both hands. One hand moved when it needed to, and the rest of his limbs followed with a kind of cold logic. Bodies fell. Groans filled the space. Within a few breaths, all ten men were down, mostly out, some trying to crawl away.

Arthur straightened, dusted his sleeve like he'd brushed crumbs, and walked past the gate. He didn't look back to check if anyone was watching. He didn't smile. He did not yell victory. He just kept walking, the aura around him quiet but heavy — the kind that makes people remember him when they think about getting into fights.

---

Leon came at his angle into the back alley entrance, and the scene there had a different rhythm. Under the flickering light, five or six guys were clustered around, smoking and laughing at nothing. They looked bigger in the dim, their shadows stretched long. They talked loud, like to prove they were not scared of anything.

When Leon saw them, he smirked like he had seen a target he liked. His grin was half challenge, half pity.

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