Chapter 4: The Iron Syndicate

Rain fell like knives that night, slicing down the alleys of Lancaster's underbelly. The streets were slick, the air sour, and the mood tense. Word had spread—The Phantom had taken District Twelve.

And someone was watching.

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Inside an abandoned boxing gym now turned into Alex's base of operations, the mood was quiet, professional. The lights were dim, the walls freshly painted, and armed men now stood watch at every entrance. The once-ramshackle gang called The Rooks had become something else entirely—disciplined, efficient, afraid.

Not of the city.

Of the man upstairs.

Alex Virell stood at a makeshift desk, poring over maps and names. Drug routes, black-market supply lines, weapons caches. Every line was a vein in Lancaster's underground.

And all veins eventually led to one heart:

The Iron Syndicate.

They didn't control the city.

They owned it.

Smuggling. Arms. High-stakes gambling. Bribed cops. Rigged raids. Everyone in the dark bowed to the Syndicate.

Everyone but Alex.

A knock came.

"Boss," one of the Rooks said, cautiously. "They're here."

Alex didn't look up. "How many?"

"Three. Said they want to talk. Brought… a gift."

Alex nodded once.

"Bring them in."

The main floor of the gym had been cleared out. Broken mirrors lined the walls, cracked leather bags still hung from rusted hooks. Alex stood at the center of the ring—lit from above, cold and alone.

The Syndicate's men entered.

Three of them. Black suits, grey ties. Silent. At the center was a tall man with slicked silver hair and a thin scar along his mouth like a poorly concealed grin.

Ronan Vale.

Lieutenant of the Iron Syndicate. Enforcer. Negotiator. Executioner.

He clapped slowly. "The Phantom himself. I have to say… we're impressed."

Alex tilted his head. "Speak."

Ronan gave a short laugh. "No small talk? Fine. You've made noise. You've taken ground. The Syndicate notices things like that."

"I know," Alex said simply.

Ronan's grin widened. "Then you know we don't mind… sharing. You keep your little corner. We stay out of your way. In return, you pay dues. Monthly."

"And if I say no?"

Ronan raised a hand. One of his men stepped forward and dropped a black bag to the floor. Blood leaked out from the bottom.

Alex remained still.

Ronan crouched beside the bag, unzipping it slowly.

Inside was the severed head of a man Alex recognized—Dane, the former leader of The Rooks. He'd vanished after fleeing the city. Apparently, not far enough.

"This is what 'no' looks like," Ronan said softly.

Silence stretched.

Alex finally spoke.

"…He was a liability. You did me a favor."

Ronan's smile faded.

Alex stepped down from the ring, walking right up to the man's face.

"I don't pay dues," Alex whispered. "I collect them."

The tension cracked like a whip.

Suddenly, the Syndicate man beside Ronan reached for his weapon—

But Alex had already moved.

A jab to the throat. A twist of the wrist. A gun in Alex's hand now, aimed directly at Ronan's head.

"You brought three men," Alex said coldly. "I counted ten outside. Tell them to walk away."

Ronan's eyes twitched. "You've made a mistake."

"No," Alex said. "You did. You thought I was someone you could intimidate."

He leaned in close. "I want the Syndicate to come. I want them to try."

Then, as if dismissing a waiter, Alex turned and walked away—gun still in hand.

Ronan stood still for a moment longer, then growled and motioned for his men to leave.

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That same night, in Lancaster's glittering north-side, Lia was preparing her own assault.

A red velvet invitation sat on her vanity—The Thorne Gala, sealed with gold wax. Entry to the Evermore Circle's social sanctum.

She smiled into the mirror, adjusting a diamond earring.

"Ready or not, high society," she whispered. "Here comes your queen."

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In the shadows of Lancaster, war drums began to beat.

One from beneath the streets.

One from above the skyline.

And in the middle… stood two Virells with matching eyes and different weapons.