He got into his slightly modified car.
A nitrogen booster had been added. For a short burst, it could push the speed to one hundred kilometers per hour, while normal cars struggled to hit sixty.
The roads were wide and paved with concrete.
Smooth.
Stable.
America, flush with profit, had poured most of its World War I funds into domestic construction.
Almost every village was connected by concrete roads.
If you want to get rich, build roads first.
Good roads meant faster travel and smoother transport of materials, boosting countless industries along the way.
Driving this primitive car, Ryden still couldn't help envying the idea of flight.
What was the coolest thing about Iron Man?
Flying.
Fighting villains came second. Soaring freely through the sky-that was the real flex.
One day, he'd be up there too.
He'd said the trip from MIT to Brooklyn would take two days by bus.
Slow.
But cheap.
Driving himself, it took less than five hours.
If not for the car's speed limits, it could've been even faster.
When he got home, the place was empty.
He went next door.
Inside, Terrence sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Sherry was crying in her mother Barbara's arms.
"Brother Ryden! You're here!"
"I'm back," Ryden said gently.
He knelt and hugged the little girl.
"Little Sherry, be good. Don't cry. I brought you lots of treats. Now help your mom make a big lunch for me, okay?"
He turned and hugged the teary-eyed Aunt Laura as well.
"Don't worry, Aunt Laura. I'm here. Things will get better."
Then he looked at Terrence.
Once carefree.
Now empty.
Ryden sighed and walked over.
Slap.
The sound cracked through the room.
Terrence's head snapped to the side, but his eyes were still unfocused, drowned in grief.
"You don't deserve to be Uncle Brad's son if you're like this," Ryden said coldly.
"What's the point of sitting here being sad? Will that punish the killer?"
"No."
"We have to work to catch the bastard."
His voice was loud.
Sharp.
If it were Ryden, he'd stake his life on revenge.
Repaying evil with kindness?
Sorry.
He wasn't a gentleman.
He'd leave that saintly nonsense to saints.
He was just a man.
And with his own parents' blood debt unresolved, he refused to sink into despair.
Even if his soul was different, this body and these memories were his responsibility now.
"They're too powerful," Terrence finally said, voice shaking. "They have connections all over the city. Sister Sera said it-we can't touch them. They'll just find some nobodies to take the fall."
The pillar of his family was gone.
His belief system had collapsed.
Ryden laughed.
"I never said we'd rely on them."
"We settle our own scores."
"If you want revenge, pick up a gun and come with me. We'll gather intel."
"Good practice."
"You don't want to be crying when you get to the military academy."
"I don't want a coward for a friend."
"You're acting like a girl."
The words stung.
They were meant to.
Terrence's face twisted with anger.
He grabbed a gun.
"Fine! Let's do it! Who's afraid of who? For my dad, I'm not afraid of anyone!"
He punched Ryden in the chest.
Hard.
Brotherhood.
"Tch. No need to say thanks," Ryden said calmly.
"Now that you've pulled yourself together, follow me."
"I need to know what happened. And I need to give you some weapons."
"Preparation matters."
He lifted his own gun.
In times like these, only cold steel brought security.
Terrence hesitated, then asked quietly, "Ryden... have you ever thought about avenging your parents?"
Ryden paused.
He turned back and smiled brightly.
"Of course."
"I'm already working on it."
"That's a child's duty."
Terrence patted his shoulder.
"Good brother. I'll back you too."
They headed to the Spades Gang's headquarters.
The Old Sailor Bar.
Since the gang started selling street food in Brooklyn, their cheap snacks had exploded in popularity.
Cheap.
Filling.
No cooking. Eat and go.
Perfect for single men.
Half the price of a burger.
The only downside was the lack of meat.
Extra meat cost extra.
After a month of expansion and Ryden's written guidance, Marlos had recruited a large number of peripheral members.
Only those vetted and personally known were brought into the core.
Only then were they issued AK-47s.
At present, the AK-47 wasn't for sale in New York.
Even on the black market, the price was absurd.
The Old Sailor was noisy.
With the economy recovering, these hooligans were gambling again.
Several booths in the back had been merged into a large office.
Even Ryden needed an announcement before entering.
Not Marlos's idea.
Ryden simply didn't want his identity exposed.
Staying in the shadows was more effective.
The dirty work belonged to professionals.
"Master Ryden!" Marlos jumped up the moment he saw him. "What wind blew you here? Please, sit."
The larger the business grew, the more Marlos realized how terrifying this young master's mind was.
Every development followed his predictions exactly.
If Ryden stayed in this line of work, unifying New York's underworld wouldn't be impossible.
But Ryden wasn't stupid.
Why trade luxury for bloodshed?
There were too many beauties waiting for him.
"You've done well," Ryden said calmly.
"I'm here to ask something."
"Do you know any gangs that recently clashed with the police?"
"Give me the details."
No pleasantries.
This was business.
When there was work, they talked work.
Drinks could wait.
IF YOU LIKE THE STORY PLEASE COMMENT AND RATE THE STORY AND ADD IT TO YOUR LIBRARY
YOUR SUPPORT IS VERY MUCH APPRECIATED