A back alley in Chicago's South Side. Rain mixed with grime pooled in cracked concrete potholes.
Detective Phil Chen, 47, -American, lit a cigarette and took a long drag, watching the smoke curl into the damp air.
His partner, 21-year-old Albert Zhang, fidgeted with the straps of his bulletproof vest.
"You sure we're doing this, Phil?"
Albert's voice had a slight shake. "Some of these guys… we grew up with them."
Phil exhaled a ring of smoke, eyes fixed on a rundown two-story building down the alley.
"That's why we have to. Old Wang's kid OD'd last week. Sixteen years old. Dumbass move, yeah, but the drugs came straight from Dragon Hall scum. Bunch of lowlifes calling themselves a 'hall.'"
"But Victor Lee…"
Albert hesitated. "He's not exactly a boy scout."
"Victor's no saint. He wants us in power. I'm old, I'm fine. You're young, you've got a future. And he gave us a choice."
Phil crushed the cigarette under his boot. "Either we keep watching our community get eaten alive by these parasites, or we take his backing and clean house. When's the last time those white brass at South Side PD gave a damn about Chinatown? Unless it's payoff time."
Headlights cut through the alley. A convoy of black SUVs rolled in silent.
The middle door opened. Frankie Li stepped out, submachine gun in hand, Kevlar vest slick with rain. He looked like a walking intimidation campaign.
A dozen men in matching black tactical gear fanned out. More stayed in the vehicles.
"Ready, Uncle Phil? Big bro Albert?"
Frankie's voice was flat, casual—like he was asking about the weather, not prepping a purge威尼斯.
Phil nodded. "Eight inside. Main gig: drug dealing, small-time extortion. Ringleader's 'Ah Ghost.' Burned his own uncle's restaurant last year for skipping protection."
Albert muttered, more to himself: "Total psycho."
Frankie gave a blank nod. "Victor wants it done. Not arrested. Cleaned. You get what that means."
The two cops traded a look.
They got it.
This wasn't a sanctioned bust. This was vigilante justice wearing a badge. They'd swoop in after Frankie's crew did the dirty work, file the paperwork, and take the credit.
Phil felt a rush. He pictured the Wangs at their son's funeral—empty eyes, broken.
"We're in."
Frankie signaled. His team split into two groups, ghosting around the building.
Phil and Albert followed, hands on holsters, hearts pounding.
---
Inside the dingy building: cigarette haze, clacking mahjong tiles, crude shouts.
Ah Ghost just won big on a pure suit, raking in cash with a smug grin.
Then—thud at the back door. Front door crashed open.
"COPS!"
A lookout scrambled in, panicked.
"Quit freaking out!" Ah Ghost barked. "Flush the product. Deny everything!"
But the second the door gave, he knew this wasn't routine.
These weren't regular uniforms. Black tactical gear. Military precision. Every exit locked down in seconds.
Then two familiar faces walked in last.
"Phil? Albert?"
Ah Ghost blinked, then flashed a sly grin. "Well, well. To what do we owe the honor? Sit, play a hand?"
Phil ignored the banter, stepped forward. "Li Ghost, you're under arrest for drug trafficking, extortion, arson, and multiple counts of assault."
Ah Ghost threw up his hands theatrically. "Officer Chen, you're breaking my heart! We're just buddies playing tiles. That a crime?"
His crew chuckled—until they saw the black-clad operatives already bagging drugs and cash. No Miranda rights. No procedure.
Ah Ghost's grin faded. "Phil, what's the play here? Name your price. No need for the circus."
Phil closed in, voice low. "Wang's kid. Sixteen. Dead. Your poison."
Ah Ghost shrugged, but his mask slipped. "Kid made his choice. People die in Chicago every day. My fault?"
Then Frankie filled the doorway like a tank.
He scanned the room, eyes landing on Ah Ghost. "Bag 'em all. Victor wants a full sweep."
The name Victor hit like a brick.
"Wait—Victor? Old man Sri's gone, now he's in charge? I can explain! I'll cooperate!"
Frankie didn't blink. Two operatives grabbed Ah Ghost by the arms.
The rest were zip-tied in seconds.
"Chen Guoming! You're too! Our grandfathers swore brotherhood at the Mazu temple! You're selling out your own for him?"
Ah Ghost thrashed, voice cracking with rage and fear.
Phil stared him down. "Because we're , I won't let trash like you poison our people."
Albert muttered under his breath: "Cha-ching."
---
The purge ran all night.
Frankie's teams hit over a dozen holdouts, guided by Phil and Albert's intel.
Some fought back. Got put down fast. Professional.
Most never saw it coming.
By 3 a.m., the main ops were wrapped.
In a hidden warehouse at South Side PD, Phil and Albert stared at mountains of drugs, guns, and cash. Dizzying.
They'd been cops for years. Never seized this much in one night.
Frankie was on the phone, tone respectful. "Yes, Victor. All clear. Haul's 20% over estimate… Got it. Distribution as planned."
He hung up, turned to the detectives. "Victor's pleased. Per the deal: one-third of the cash goes to PD—you, Albert, and your six trusted officers. Another third to our crew. The rest gets logged upstairs."
Albert swallowed hard. "That's… a lot of money. Brass will ask questions."
"Already handled," Frankie said coolly. "Your white bosses get a shiny drug-bust report and doctored seizure logs. Real numbers stay with us. As for the product…"
He nodded at the piles of white powder. "Gone within a week. Burned at the university incinerator. Won't hurt another soul."
Phil frowned.
Frankie cracked a rare half-smile. "We don't touch drugs. That's his rule. Professional disposal."
After Frankie's crew took their cut and rolled out, only the cops remained.
The six younger officers stared at the cash pile—years of salary in one stack.
"Sarge, this…"
The rookie hesitated.
Phil took a deep breath. "Take your share. Remember: we did this to clean the streets, not get rich. If anyone asks, stick to the script."
Once the team cleared out, Albert finally asked: "Phil… are we good? Working with Victor Lee? Guy's no choirboy."
"You can marry that deputy chief's daughter now—the blonde you've been eyeing. Turn this into a down payment. He won't say no."
Phil looked out at the sky starting to lighten. "Nothing's black and white, kid. But starting tonight, South Side's a little cleaner. Sometimes change needs a sledgehammer."
---
Next day, Chinatown exploded.
Overnight, every major trouble spot got wiped out. Dozens "arrested"—official story. But sharp eyes noticed: those "arrested" never showed up again. And the security company suddenly needed a lot of steel drums.
That afternoon, Master Zhao—respected elder, legendary boxing coach—was chosen to confront Victor.
Victor's office was bare-bones: no photos, no trophies. Just furniture and a clunky computer.
He brewed tea for the old man himself, movements smooth and respectful.
"Master Zhao, what brings you?"
Victor smiled like he didn't already know.
Zhao cut straight. "Victor, people are scared. Last night—was that you? Are those men really just… arrested?"
Victor poured slowly. "Chicago PD conducted lawful anti-crime operations. I'm just a businessman. I gave Detective Chen some community tips. Helped them climb the ladder."
Zhao locked eyes. "Let's not play games. They're gone. And why only dens? Italians and Black gangs untouched?"
Victor set the teapot down gently. "Master, you've trained fighters your whole life. You know sometimes you focus fire on the biggest threat first. Internal cancer has to go before we grow outward."
"But not with kangaroo courts!"
Zhao's voice rose. "And I hear you wiped debts clean but kept squeezing other groups? That's a powder keg for race wars!"
Victor's smile vanished. Eyes turned steel.
"Master Zhao, you know why Chinatown always gets stepped on? We're too polite. Too fractured. Sri ruled with terror and chaos. I don't.
I'm building order."
He stood, walked to the window. "I shut down crime because it was killing our kids. And yeah, I'm pulling our people in line. That's why you're here, right?
Debts? Our new finance company took over loans—better terms. Other groups? Contract's a contract."
He turned, voice calm but ironclad. "Anyone struggling— or not—who took a wrong turn? Security company hires them. We stick to low-risk downstream: gold, guns, whatever. We collect, flip it, take 50% profit. No blood on our hands. Let others do the dirty."
Zhao was quiet a long time. Then sighed. "You're playing with fire, Victor. Power corrupts even the best."
"I gave them chances. Most are still breathing."
Victor nodded slightly. "But you're right. I'm not building an empire. Not trying to last forever. I just want to see how far I can take this."
After Zhao left, Victor sat at the desk, fired up the bulky computer.
A map of Chicago glowed on screen—territories marked in colors.
He clicked. Turned all zones solid blue—his color.
The board was set.
Internal purge: complete.
Next: consolidate resources. Then, with all of Chinatown behind him, expand.
A glint in his eye—cold, precise hunger for control.
He picked up the phone.
"Blair… how long until Skyline Entertainment Gaming can close on Trump Plaza in Atlantic City?"