The First Strike

If Pante thought Jasper was going to sit back and wait for the knife to come, he was dead wrong.

Jasper wasn't just going to survive in Blackridge. He was going to take control of his own fate. And that meant hitting first—before Pante even saw it coming.

Jasper spent the next few days watching. Learning.

Pante ran Blackridge like a chessboard. He didn't do the dirty work himself—he had runners, informants, enforcers. They handled smuggling, controlled gambling, ran protection rackets. Ragor had just been a blunt instrument.

Now Ragor was gone.

That meant Pante's machine had a weak spot.

Jasper just had to find it.

The opportunity came fast.

Jasper learned that Jayce, one of Pante's key runners, was making a drop during kitchen duty. Drugs were a major power source in Blackridge, and Jayce was the one making sure the right hands got their cut.

No Jayce, no supply. No supply, no control.

Jasper made his move.

The kitchen was chaotic—loud, messy, full of blind spots.

Jayce was moving through the back, a small package tucked inside his jumpsuit. Jasper waited, keeping his head down, scrubbing trays like just another inmate doing his time.

Then—he struck.

A tray slammed into Jayce's stomach, sending him stumbling back into the storage room. Before he could recover, Jasper followed, locking the door behind them.

Jayce whirled, furious—but Jasper was faster.

A knee to the gut. An elbow to the jaw. Jayce collapsed, coughing.

Jasper crouched, yanking the package from Jayce's jumpsuit. He crushed it under his boot, white powder spilling like dust across the grimy floor.

Jayce's eyes widened in horror. "You—you don't know what you just did!"

Jasper leaned in, voice cold. "I know exactly what I did."

Pante's operation was bleeding now. And Ethan had thrown the first punch.

The moment Jasper stepped out of the kitchen, he knew the whole yard would know within the hour.

Pante wasn't just going to be mad.

He was going to retaliate.

Jasper didn't care.

Let him come.

War had begun.