The Northside Crips were many things, but careless wasn't one of them.
For years, they had survived by paying attention—to rhythms, to disruptions, to the quiet movements that happened long before sirens or headlines followed. North Compton had its own pulse, one they knew intimately. When that pulse shifted, even slightly, they noticed.
And it had shifted.
The temporary offices on the edge of North Compton had appeared almost overnight. No banners. No flashy press releases. No police escorts. Just lawyers, consultants, and residents going in and out with expressions that didn't match the usual despair of the neighborhood. People walked in cautious and walked out… hopeful.
Hope was dangerous.
That alone was enough to put the place on the Crips' radar.
Inside a dim back room of an old barbershop—one that had stopped cutting hair years ago but never stopped serving its other purpose—the leadership gathered. The shop smelled faintly of disinfectant layered over decades of smoke and sweat. A single fluorescent light flickered overhead.
Big Trev sat with his chair leaned back against the wall, thick arms folded. Snake paced back and forth, restless energy rolling off him in waves. A few others sat quietly, eyes sharp, ears open.
Ghost, the oldest among them, sat at the head of the table. He didn't speak often, but when he did, people listened.
"This ain't city work," Trev said finally. "No ribbon cuttin'. No nonprofits."
Snake scoffed. "Maybe it's some crypto bullshit. Tech people always think they can just walk in."
Ghost raised a hand, silencing them.
"You see the security?" he asked.
A younger man nodded. "Too disciplined. Not cops. Not rent-a-guards."
"That means money," Ghost said calmly. "And planning."
Snake stopped pacing. "So they pay."
"That's how it usually goes," Trev agreed.
Ghost's eyes narrowed. "Usually."
Silence followed.
North Compton wasn't forgiving to outsiders who forgot where they were. Protection money wasn't just tradition—it was infrastructure, twisted as it was. Anyone who wanted to operate had to acknowledge the existing order.
Eventually, Ghost stood. "We go in. No violence unless it's forced. We talk."
The decision was made.
Less than an hour later, three vehicles rolled up outside the temporary office building. They parked openly. No rush. No concealment. Confidence was its own armor.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted the moment the Crips entered.
Residents froze mid-conversation. Lawyers stiffened. The hum of printers and quiet discussion died instantly.
But not everyone reacted.
Two men near the back wall didn't move at all.
They were dressed plainly—jeans, jackets, nothing that screamed authority. But their posture betrayed them. Feet planted. Eyes scanning. Calm, controlled breathing.
Snake grinned as he stepped forward. "Who in charge here?"
One of the men peeled away from the wall and met him halfway. His voice was even, almost polite.
"You shouldn't be here."
Snake laughed. "That ain't your call."
"It is today," the man replied.
The Crips noticed then—the subtle bulges under jackets, the way the exits were quietly blocked, the unnatural stillness of everyone except the residents.
Big Trev frowned. "You strapped?"
The man didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"This building is under private security," the man continued. "There will be no demands made here."
Snake's smile faded. "You don't tell us—"
Another voice cut in from the side. "The CEO is willing to meet."
Everyone turned.
The speaker was younger than expected, but his presence filled the room. "With your boss," he added. "And your top people."
Ghost stepped forward slowly, studying them. "Neutral ground?"
"Yes."
"No weapons?"
"Yes."
Ghost nodded. "Then we'll hear him out."
The Crips left without incident. No threats. No raised voices. But the message lingered.
Someone powerful was behind this.
Across Los Angeles, far from North Compton's cracked pavement, Derek sat in a private dining room of a discreet restaurant. No signage. No windows facing the street. Privacy cost money, and Derek paid for it gladly.
Mayor Thomas Reed arrived early.
He stopped short when he saw Derek.
"You're… young," Reed said, unable to hide his surprise.
Derek stood and shook his hand. "You're cautious. That's good."
They sat.
Reed didn't bother with pleasantries. "You've blindsided half the city council."
"I didn't hide," Derek replied calmly. "I moved efficiently."
Reed exhaled. "A project this size doesn't just happen."
"It does when delays are removed," Derek said.
The mayor studied him. "What do you want?"
"Stability," Derek answered. "Speed. And distance."
Reed frowned. "Distance?"
"No interference. No sudden inspections. No political games."
Reed leaned back. "That's a lot to ask."
"So is rebuilding a neglected community," Derek replied evenly.
Silence stretched between them.
"Fifty years of tax exemption," Derek continued. "Fast-tracked permits. Accelerated approvals."
"And in return?" Reed asked.
Derek met his gaze. "Jobs. Housing. Schools. A rebrand that puts Compton in the same sentence as growth instead of crime."
Reed tapped his fingers against the table. "And the narrative?"
"All yours," Derek said. "I don't need applause."
The mayor hesitated. "If this fails—"
"It won't," Derek said simply.
Reed searched his face for arrogance and found none. Just certainty.
Finally, Reed nodded. "Fifty years. But this becomes a cornerstone of my administration."
Derek stood. "Of course."
They shook hands.
As Derek exited through a private hallway, his phone vibrated.
A single message from security.
> They're willing to talk.
Derek slipped the phone back into his pocket, expression unchanged.
Two negotiations. Two power structures. Both approached differently. Both resolved without bloodshed.
This was how Derek operated—not with brute force, but with leverage, preparation, and the quiet understanding that everyone, no matter how powerful, had something they wanted.
And he always arrived holding it.