The Corner

The air inside the bar was thick with a tension that matched the events of the day. As Héctor stepped through the door, Enoro followed closely behind, carrying a small sack that jingled faintly with every step. The young girl, Ebichi, trailed after them, her expression unreadable as she clutched a loose strand of hair, twirling it absently. Muwara stood behind the counter, her arms crossed, observing them with an expectant gaze.

Héctor moved toward the central table, gesturing for the others to gather. The group assembled in a tight semicircle, watching as Enoro upended the sack, spilling its contents onto the table. A mixed assortment of worn bills and coins clattered out, accompanied by the muted thud of small packets of drugs.

"Let's see what we're working with," Héctor said, his voice calm yet firm. His eyes scanned the pile, noting the foreign characters on the bills. The script was unfamiliar, but the numbers were in Arabic numerals, allowing him to gauge the total. Kyono Dollars was the currency's name, though Héctor didn't yet know how far this haul would take them.

The drugs, however, held his attention. He picked up one of the pills, a bright, colorful tablet with an embossed logo on its surface. Muwara leaned forward. "Those are Flashbangs. Three pills total. Each one goes for about 100 Dollars on the street."

"Flashbangs?" Héctor mused, rolling the pill between his fingers. The name brought to mind its effects—the sudden, disorienting flash of stimulant-induced energy coupled with hallucinations.

Beside the pills were two small packets of fine red powder. Enoro chimed in, "Dustfire. Each bag's worth about 30 to 50 Dollars, depending on the buyer. High demand but risky to move."

Héctor placed the items back on the table. "We sell them all. I'm not about to let these sit here collecting dust."

Muwara raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Selling drugs… it's not as simple as it looks. And you said you're… out of practice?"

Héctor's lips curved into a thin smile. "It's been a while, but I haven't forgotten how to sell." He hesitated, reflecting on Muwara's words. She'd called him young, an observation that struck a hidden chord. Since arriving in this world, he'd felt his body responding differently, stronger and more agile than it had been in years. It wasn't something he'd shared with anyone yet—the fact that he wasn't just from a different place but a different world entirely. Instead, he answered casually, "I've been doing this long enough to know the ropes."

"Alright," Muwara said, "There's a corner nearby where we used to sell. It's empty now—nobody's claimed it." She scribbled the location on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

Héctor pocketed the note and stood. "I'll handle it. Stay close, though. If things go sideways, I might need backup."

The corner was unremarkable, a neglected stretch of pavement framed by dilapidated buildings and faint graffiti. Héctor leaned against a wall, the small stash of drugs concealed in his jacket. He watched as people passed by, some glancing his way but most ignoring him entirely. The art of selling wasn't just about the product—it was about reading people, finding the ones who needed something they couldn't get elsewhere.

The first few hours were slow. Héctor approached a handful of potential buyers, offering the Dustfire. He encountered skepticism, disinterest, and even outright dismissal. Some accused him of trying to pass off fake goods. It was clear that his status as a newcomer worked against him.

Finally, a middle-aged man with weary eyes stopped long enough to inspect one of the packets. "Dustfire, huh?" he muttered, rolling the bag between his fingers. "How much?"

"Thirty-two Kyono," Héctor replied, keeping his tone firm but friendly.

The man hesitated, then handed over the money. Héctor watched him walk away, noting the man's hunched posture and quick, furtive glances. The transaction had been small but successful. A second sale followed shortly after. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

The Flashbang pills, however, proved harder to move. Potential buyers were wary, questioning their authenticity. "How do I know they're not cut with something?" one man demanded before walking off.

As Héctor debated his next move, a group of five teenagers approached. They were young, likely between fifteen and eighteen, and their nervous energy was palpable. One of them, the smallest, spoke up first. "We heard you got Flashbangs."

Héctor sized them up, noting their fidgeting hands and darting eyes. "Nah."

The boys exchanged glances, and then one of them stepped forward, pulling out an old revolver. "Hand it over," he demanded, his voice shaking.

Two others drew knives, their blades catching the dim light. Héctor sighed inwardly. This was a pathetic attempt at robbery, but the tension in the air was real. One wrong move could escalate things.

"You've got the wrong guy," Héctor said evenly, his voice laced with a dangerous calm. The boy with the gun hesitated, and that moment was all Héctor needed. He lunged forward, grabbing the barrel of the revolver and twisting it away. The boy yelped in pain as the weapon was wrenched from his grip.

Héctor turned just in time to dodge a knife swing from one of the others. He countered with a swift punch to the ribs, dropping the attacker to the ground. The second knife-wielder met a similar fate, stumbling back as Héctor struck him with a controlled but forceful kick.

The three boys left standing were paralyzed with fear. Héctor leveled a hard glare at them. "Who put you up to this?" he demanded.

They exchanged uneasy looks before one of them stammered, "It wasn't our idea! Someone said you were selling and told us to… to take your stuff. Said it was a test."

"A test for what?"

"To… to join his gang."

Héctor clicked his tongue in irritation. He examined the revolver, finding it loaded but on safety. The boy who'd wielded it spoke up, his voice pleading. "That… that was my grandpa's gun. Please, give it back. If I don't return it, pop is gonna kill me."

Héctor's expression remained unreadable. "You tried to rob me. The gun's mine now. If you want it back, you'll have to buy it from me."

The boy's face fell, but he didn't argue. Héctor gestured at the group. "Take me to your boss. Now."

The boys hesitated, but the revolver in Héctor's hand left them little choice. They nodded reluctantly, leading him away from the corner and into the shadows of the city's underbelly.

The journey was an exercise in contrasts. Bright neon lights illuminated the main streets, but as the boys led Héctor further away, the glow faded into dim, flickering bulbs. The air grew heavier, carrying the stench of decay and burnt chemicals. Cracked pavement gave way to patches of dirt, and buildings became increasingly dilapidated. Every step deeper into this world reminded Héctor of his old life, where power was seized, not given.

"It's up ahead," one of the boys muttered, his voice barely audible. He pointed to a crumbling two-story house surrounded by overgrown weeds and scattered debris. The windows were boarded up, and faint music emanated from within, a mix of muffled bass and offbeat rhythms. Two men sat in the front yard on mismatched plastic chairs, passing a cigarette between them. They looked up as the group approached, their eyes narrowing.

"Who's this?" one of them barked, standing and tossing the cigarette to the ground.

Before the boys could answer, Héctor stepped forward, radiating a calm authority. "I'm here to talk to your boss. About some bad decisions he's been making."

The man's lips curled into a sneer. "Yeah? And who the hell are you?"

Héctor didn't reply immediately. Instead, he reached into his waistband and pulled out the revolver, holding it loosely by his side. The weight of the weapon was enough to shift the atmosphere. The two men exchanged glances, their bravado wavering.

"Listen carefully," Héctor said, his voice cold and measured. "That corner I was selling at? It's mine now. If your boss doesn't like it, he can come talk to me himself. But if you send children to do your dirty work again, I'll make sure none of you get another chance."

The second man, shorter but stockier, stepped forward aggressively. "You think you can come here and make threats? You've got no idea who you're dealing with."

Héctor raised the revolver, aiming it squarely at the man's chest. "No. You don't know who you're dealing with." And pull the safety off.

The stocky man hesitated, then lunged. Héctor fired twice. The gunshots echoed sharply through the still afternoon, silencing the music and sending birds scattering from nearby rooftops. The man staggered backward, collapsing into his chair, blood pooling around him. The other man froze, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

Héctor turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Run," he said simply.

The man didn't need to be told twice. He bolted toward the shadows, disappearing into the alley behind the house. From inside, there was a commotion—voices shouting, footsteps scrambling. People began pouring out of the house, a mix of disheveled addicts and low-level enforcers, all with the same panicked look.

The boys Héctor had brought along instinctively stepped back, unsure of what would happen next. Héctor didn't flinch. He stood his ground, the revolver still in his hand, as the crowd dispersed, some fleeing down side streets while others disappeared into the city entirely.

"Stay here," Héctor ordered the boys, his tone brooking no argument. He stepped over the fallen man and entered the house.

The interior was even more decrepit than the outside. The air was thick with smoke, and the walls were stained with grime and graffiti. Empty bottles and discarded needles littered the floor, and the furniture—what little there was—was in various stages of disrepair. In the far corner, a man with horns sat slouched on a torn couch, flanked by two others. He had the look of someone who was used to giving orders.

"You must be the boss," Héctor said, stepping closer.

The man sneered, but it was forced. "Kinda, but you've got guts showing up here, stranger. But guts won't keep you alive."

Héctor smirked. "Neither will bad decisions. Like sending kids to do a man's job."

The kinda-boss gestured to his flunkies, who stepped forward menacingly. Héctor didn't give them the chance. He raised the revolver and fired twice, both men fell death. The cracks of the gunshots made the kids outside jump.

"Sit down," Héctor barked to the kinda-boss, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The guy hesitated but obeyed, retreating to the edges of the room. He glared at Héctor but didn't move.

"Good," Héctor said, lowering the revolver slightly. "Now, here's how this is going to work. That corner? It's mine now. Your money and goods?" He gestured around the room. "Mine too." There were money and drugs scattered on the ground.

The kinda-boss scoffed. "You think you can just take what's mine?"

"I don't think. I know." Héctor's voice was calm but unyielding. "You've lost control. So, you can either walk away, or you can end up like your friends."

The kinda-boss clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. Finally, he spat on the ground and stood. "Fine. You want it? Take it. But don't think this is over."

Héctor didn't respond, watching as the man stormed out, shoving past the boys outside.

"You," Héctor shouted at the teenager outside, the one who had the revolver. "What's your name?"

"Hi-sari," the kid stammered.

"Good. Hisari, you work for me now. You and your friends are gonna take everything valuable here and bring it up to the Norisa bar" Héctor's gaze swept across the room, taking in the debris and lingering stench. "Then i will gave back this" said signaling the gun.

Hisari nodded quickly, and Héctor turned to leave. Outside, the other boys stood silently, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. Héctor holstered the revolver and glanced at them.

"Fast" he said. "And remember who pays you for work, and who doesn't."

The boys enter, leaving Héctor alone in the quiet street. He looked back at the house, now silent except for the faint creak of shifting floorboards.

Héctor returned to the bar as the city began to settle into the uneasy quiet of the night. His footsteps were deliberate, the weight of the revolver tucked securely at his side serving as a reminder of the night's events. The streets around the bar were mostly deserted, save for the occasional stray cat or the faint rustle of trash caught in the wind.

Muwara was waiting at the counter, her eyes narrowing when she saw him. "You're back," she said, her tone a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Héctor nodded, dropping the revolver onto the counter with a deliberate thud. "They won't be a problem anymore," he said simply.

Enoro emerged from the back room, his arms crossed. "What happened?"

"A conversation," Héctor replied, his tone clipped. "They needed a reminder about who's in charge now." He pulled a folded wad of cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter. "That's what they left behind. Call it a donation. Some kids are gonna bring more, i think"

Muwara stared at the money, then at the revolver. "You killed someone," she said, though it wasn't a question.

Héctor didn't flinch. "Yes. And it won't be the last if they keep testing us." He leaned against the counter, his gaze unwavering. "This isn't a game, Muwara. If we want to hold onto this bar, this territory, we have to show them we're serious."

Muwara's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue. Instead, she turned her attention to the cash, counting it methodically. "This will help," she admitted after a moment. "But if they come back—"

"We'll deal with it," Héctor interrupted. His voice was calm but carried an edge that brooked no disagreement. "The next step is to secure more resources. That means more money, more soldiers, and more weapons. We're vulnerable right now, and I don't like being vulnerable."

Enoro frowned, stepping closer. "And how exactly do you plan to get all that?"

"By being smarter than them," Héctor replied. "I already have a lead. That house I cleared out? It was a hub. Their leader's going to notice the disruption, and when they do, they'll come looking. We'll be ready for them."

Muwara exchanged a glance with Enoro, uncertainty flickering in her expression. "You're talking about taking on a gang. That's not just five guys with sticks."

"I know," Héctor said. "If we take them out, we control this sector."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. Finally, Muwara sighed. "Fine. But you'd better be right about this. If it goes wrong…"

"It won't," Héctor assured her, though his mind was already racing with contingencies.

Finally, at late night the teenagers came, a duffle bag full of cash and drugs was place on the floor. "My revolver" demanded Hisari.

Héctor's mind drifted briefly to the first time he saw a gun here. This world was different from his own, and guns were more rare than ever. "Mh... Nah, i think you are short, but here," Héctor said throwing a wad of cash, 200 Dollars neatly folded. "If you want more, and the gun, sell this in the corner you find me.", offered Héctor, pulling a bag of Dustfire. 

His first soldiers.