He summoned the men who controlled the underground drug routes—the ones who fed addiction street by street while pretending they were untouchable. They gathered in a private room, confident, careless.
Aiden didn't raise his voice.
"The supply stops today," he said calmly, fingers resting on the table. "Every port. Every warehouse. Every route you breathe through."
They laughed at first.
"You want your poison back on the streets," he continued, eyes cold, "you work for me. You listen. You watch. You report. From now on, you are my eyes."
Their laughter died.
One man tried to protest.
Aiden leaned closer. "Refuse—and your users will think you vanished. Permanently."
They agreed.
They always did.
Next came politics.
Aiden made a single call to a senior figure from a ruling party—the same man who had smiled beside him during fundraising dinners, who had accepted his money without asking where it came from.
"I funded your rise," Aiden said quietly. "Now you'll return the favor."
The man threatened exposure.
Aiden laughed softly. "You already signed your confession. I just haven't released it yet."
Silence.
"You'll stall investigations. Redirect attention. And if you fail—" his voice hardened, "I'll make sure your fall is public, humiliating, and irreversible."
Then came the officer.
The one with a buried rape and murder case. The one Aiden had saved years ago by erasing evidence and silencing witnesses.
The man arrived sweating, shaking.
"I don't want trouble," he pleaded.
Aiden placed a drive on the desk. "Everything is here," he said. "Photos. Statements. Originals. I kept copies."
The officer's face drained of color.
"You'll turn," Aiden said. "You'll protect my interests now. Or I'll finish what I spared you from back then."
The man nodded. He didn't have a choice.
_________
At the same time,in an alleway:
A thin woman arrives just before dusk,hood pulled low, steps quick and uneven.
The spot is exactly where it's always been—behind the shuttered warehouse, where the air smells of rust and wet concrete. Two men wait in the shadows. One of them taps his foot, impatient. The other watches her too closely.
"You're late," the taller one says.
"I had trouble," she mutters. Her hands are already shaking. "Do you have it or not?"
The shorter man holds up a small packet between two fingers. "Twelve hours," he says calmly. "Same as last time."
Her breath stutters. "That's not enough."
"It's what you get," he replies. "Unless you help us."
She snatches the packet, then freezes as his hand closes around her wrist. Pain sparks up her arm.
"Listen first," he says. "Then decide."
She presses her free hand to her temple. The pounding behind her eyes is unbearable. Withdrawal is already crawling under her skin.
"I can't," she whispers. "I can't side with criminals."
The taller man laughs softly. "Criminals?" He leans closer. "You've seen the news, right? False accusations. Framed photos. AI edits. The owner's being hunted."
She hesitates.
"What if it's true?" he continues. "What if they're destroying him because he's powerful?"
Her fingers curl tighter around the packet. She hates herself for listening—but the ache in her bones is louder than her conscience.
"I just need this," she says weakly. "Just to get through today."
"That's why we're here," the shorter man says gently. "Help us, and the supply resumes. Clean. Regular."
She swallows hard. "What do you want me to do?"
They exchange a glance.
"We need the protest suspended," the taller man says. "Confusion. Fear. People turning on each other."
Her heart sinks. "How?"
He smiles. "You talk. You cry. You tell them the march is a trap & at the same time,feed us the information."
She nods slowly, shame burning her chest.
"Good," he says, releasing her wrist. "Do this—and you won't suffer."
As she walks away, clutching the packet like a lifeline, one thought keeps repeating in her mind:
If it's a lie… I'll never forgive myself.
But the craving drowns that voice out.
By nightfall, the city had begun to rearrange itself around Aiden's will.
Spies in alleys. Officials looking the other way. Men who owed him their freedom tightening the net for him once more.
Broken voices.
Carefully planted names.
Information peeled away layer by layer, like skin.
By the time the city realized something was wrong, Aiden already knew who would betray him—
and who would bleed first.
And somewhere behind locked doors,
I understood with chilling clarity:
This wasn't chaos.
This was choreography.
He was reclaiming control.
And this time, he wasn't doing it to protect me.
________
Public protest for justice—
Protesters had gathered early, before the sun dipped too low.
Some carried placards made from cardboard and markers that bled through the paper. Some carried nothing at all—just folded arms, tense shoulders, hope pressed thin against their ribs. They weren't shouting yet. They were waiting, murmuring to one another, adjusting bags, wiping sweat from their necks.
"This'll be peaceful," someone said. "It has to be."
A woman beside him nodded. "We're just asking to be heard."
When the march finally began, it moved slowly, like a body unsure of its own balance. Feet scraped against asphalt. Banners lifted and dipped. A chant started somewhere in the middle, uneven at first, then louder as voices joined.
"Justice—justice—justice—"
It felt almost safe.
Until it didn't.
At first, no one noticed the strangers.
They didn't carry signs. They didn't chant. They drifted along the edges, weaving in and out of the crowd, bumping shoulders too hard, laughing at nothing. One man kept rubbing his jaw, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. Another scratched his arm until red lines bloomed.
"Hey—watch it," a marcher snapped when one of them shoved past.
The man only grinned.
Then a bottle shattered.
Glass exploded near the front line, spraying across the road. A woman screamed as shards bit into her calf. People froze, stunned, looking around for the source.
"Who threw that?" someone shouted.
No answer.
Another crash—this time a stone slammed into a placard, ripping it from someone's hands.
"What the hell is happening?" a man yelled.
Before anyone could react, one of the strangers lunged forward and shoved an elderly protester. The man fell hard, his head striking the pavement with a sickening sound.