Jack liked being seen.
He leaned against the rail outside his apartment, gold chain resting openly on his chest, watch catching light every time he moved. He lifted his phone and grinned.
"You planned this," Jack said. "Didn't you?"
Arron lay on his bed, phone to his ear, laptop open beside him. His voice was calm.
"Yes."
Jack laughed. "Man, last month I was broke. Now people stare like I'm dangerous."
"That's because they think image equals power," Arron said. "You dress well, they assume success. That's how you attract followers."
Jack nodded slowly. "So the clothes weren't just vanity."
"No," Arron replied. "They're bait."
Jack shook his head, amused. "I swear, you're evil."
"Focus," Arron said. "How much did you spend?"
"Enough to look expensive," Jack answered. "Not enough to look stupid."
"Good," Arron said. "Now about recruitment."
Jack straightened. "Yeah. I did what you said."
Arron listened.
"I started with the homeless kids," Jack continued. "The bullied ones. No protection, no crew, no future."
"And?" Arron asked.
"I gave them food first," Jack said. "Just like you told me. Then shelter. Then rules."
Arron nodded to himself. "People protect what saves them."
Jack smirked. "You should put that on a shirt."
"Stay serious," Arron said. "Did you separate them from other gangs?"
"Completely," Jack replied. "Different clothes. Different routines. They don't even talk to outsiders now."
"Good," Arron said. "Loyalty grows in isolation."
Jack paused. "You really think like this all the time?"
"Yes."
Jack exhaled. "Remind me never to betray you."
Arron ignored that. "What about the property?"
Jack's grin returned. "That one was genius."
Arron shifted slightly. "Explain."
"There was this half-apartment building near my place," Jack said. "Total mess. Broken pipes, cracked stairs, mold everywhere."
"How much?" Arron asked.
"They wanted one-fifty," Jack said. "I used your script."
"Describe the damage. Emphasize future costs," Arron said.
"Exactly," Jack replied. "I told them it was a legal nightmare."
"And?"
"One-twenty," Jack said proudly. "Cash."
Arron typed. "Renovation?"
"Twenty thousand," Jack answered. "Just enough to make it usable, not pretty."
"That's fine," Arron said. "It's not meant to attract customers. It's meant to house assets."
Jack laughed. "You really just called people assets."
"They chose to stay," Arron said.
Jack looked around the street. "Now here's the part I like most."
Arron waited.
"I bought it under the company," Jack said.
Arron allowed himself a small smile. "Hot Rivers Bay Cleaning Company."
"Still can't believe you registered that," Jack said. "Government stamp and everything."
"I registered it because it creates distance," Arron replied. "And you're listed as CEO."
Jack puffed his chest. "Real businessman now."
"You sign documents," Arron said. "I control direction."
Jack lowered his voice. "Boss."
At school, Arron walked the hallway beside Mitchel Wasike.
Mitchel carried both bags, breathing hard but unfazed. "They really committed to that weird freak nickname."
Arron shrugged. "Words don't hurt if they don't matter."
A boy nearby laughed. "Weird freak gang."
Mitchel raised his hand casually. "Yeah. Founding members."
The laughter died awkwardly.
They sat together at lunch. Plastic chairs scraped. Whispers floated around them.
Mitchel chewed loudly. "You ever notice they only talk when they think they're safe?"
Arron nodded. "Fear needs numbers."
After school, Arron went straight home.
No detours. No meetings. No witnesses.
Back in his room, he checked his phone.
Jack: Six more kids joined. All clean records.
Arron: Good. Give them work schedules.
Jack: Cleaning company work?
Arron: Yes. Uniforms. Routine. Discipline.
Jack: You really turning crime into a nine-to-five.
Arron: Order outlasts chaos.
Jack replied a moment later. You scare me sometimes.
That night, Jack stood inside the renovated building. Fresh paint. Dim lights. Young people sat quietly, eating.
Jack spoke, repeating Arron's words almost exactly.
"You stay here, you work, you eat, you follow rules."
Someone asked, "Who runs this place?"
Jack smiled. "Someone who doesn't like attention."
Across the city, Detective Isseren stared at the tire photos again. Straight lines. No struggle.
Hegel frowned. "Still thinking about it?"
"Yes," Isseren said. "Someone planned this."
She closed the file slowly.
Arron turned off his laptop.
Jack became visible.
A company was born.
A building changed hands.
A gang began to grow—not wild, not loud, but structured.
And the one pulling every string stayed exactly where no one would look—alone in his bedroom, building an empire one phone call at a time.