Chapter 603: Lincoln Gang

The alley behind the rail yard stank of rust, wet concrete, and the faint metallic tang of old blood baked into the ground from fights long past, the sodium lamp overhead flickering like a dying heartbeat casting erratic shadow that danced across the chain-link fence.

Reyna’s fingers were still laced through mine, her pulse a rapid drum against my palm, when the shadows thickened

—seven

silhouettes peeling from the darkness with the synchronized menace of a pack that had hunted these streets together for years.

Three girls stepped into the orange glow first, hips cocked like loaded weapons, lips glossy and curled in identical sneers;

four

boys fanned behind them, shoulders squared, knuckles already cracking, the air around them humming with the low menace of territory marked and challenged.

The tallest girl drawled, voice syrupy with fake sugar, nails tapping a rhythm on her hip. "Look who dragged in fresh meat."

Reyna’s grip tightened. "Back off, Marisol. We’re just passing through."

"Passing through with

him

?" Marisol’s laugh was sharp glass. "Upgrade much?"

I catalogued them in a single, cold sweep: Marisol—bleached roots, red vinyl jacket, eyes like switchblades; girl two—cigarette ember glowing, smirk sharp enough to cut glass; girl three—lashes batting slow, but the hunger in her gaze was pure predator.

The boys were no less obvious: gold-chain with shaved sides, chest puffed like a rooster; wiry-tat with the faded neck tattoo and twitchy fingers; buzzcut, heavy fists; and lanky, hanging back, eyes darting like he already regretted showing up.

Marisol took the lead, heels clicking a slow, deliberate rhythm on the cracked asphalt, each step a claim.

"Well, if it isn’t Lincoln Heights’ favorite stray with her usual energy—crawling back with a leash this time," she purred, voice dripping acid-sweet venom. "Who’s the suit? Rich-boy catalog? Page three—

tall, dark, and clueless

? Or did you finally trade up from the clearance rack of losers?"

Girl two flicked her cigarette, the ember sparking as it hit the ground near Reyna’s sneakers. "Upgrade from gas-station roses and broken condoms, huh? Or did you finally learn to aim higher than community college dropouts who still jerk off to your yearbook photo?"

Girl three tilted her head, lashes batting like butterfly knives, her voice a mocking sing-song. "He’s

pretty.

Bet he doesn’t know you still sleep with a switchblade under your pillow, Rey-Rey. Or that you cried in the Taco Bell bathroom senior year because your ’soulmate’ friend ghosted you for her boyfriend with a car."

"Enough," Reyna snapped, stepping half in front of me, chin lifted, shoulders squared. "Walk away, Marisol. Tonight’s not your night. Keep pushing and I’ll carve that smirk off your face."

Marisol’s laugh was sharp glass shattering on concrete. "It’s

our

corner. You’re the one trespassing—with

him"

She circled closer, nails tapping a war rhythm on her thigh, eyes raking over me like she was pricing meat. "Where’d you find him? Smells like old money, new mistakes, and a mid-life crisis he hasn’t earned yet."

The boys closed ranks. Gold-chain stepped forward, gold chain glinting under the lamp, chest puffed, voice a low growl. "You talk big for someone who used to beg for my help to get gigs at parties—on your knees, remember, Rey-Rey?"

His gaze slid to me, dismissive at first, then snagged on the Patek gleaming on my wrist. "This your new charity case? Pretty boy’s quiet. What’s wrong,

príncipe?

Scared to open your mouth without Daddy’s trust fund to back it? Or did the Botox freeze your balls too?"

Wiry-tat spat on the ground, the glob landing inches from my shoe. "Bet he’s never thrown a punch outside a country club. Let’s see how long that pretty face lasts—probably melts faster than your mama’s makeup in July."

The air thickened; the lamp buzzed louder, casting my shadow long and sharp across the alley.

Gold-chain’s

bravado flickered; wiry-tat’s twitchy fingers stilled. Even the girls shifted, sensing the shift in gravity.

The biggest one—shaved sides, gold chain glinting—stepped forward, eyes locked on my wrist. "Nice Patek, bro. Hand it over and maybe we let you limp out with your teeth."

I didn’t move. Just let the silence stretch until the lamp buzzed louder than their breathing. Then I smiled—slow, unbothered, the kind of smile.

Buzzcut cracked his knuckles, the sound like dry twigs snapping. "Didn’t ya hear? Clock’s ticking, rich boy. Hand over the watch, the wallet, whatever shiny shit you’re flaunting. Maybe we let you limp out with your teeth—and your dignity, if you can find it in that overpriced suit."

Lanky, still hanging back, muttered, "Dude’s not even scared. Look at him smiling. Probably pisses caviar."

I smiled again—slow, lazy, the kind that says

I’ve already won and you’re just catching up.

[Ding! Mission generated.]

Act Cool: Beat the boys and act all cool doing it.

Rewards: Protection Mark!]

"You want the watch?" My voice was ice over velvet, each word measured as I looked at my watch. "It’s worth more than your mom’s house, your dad’s car, every bad tattoo you’ve got, every regret you’ll have by morning, and the combined IQ of this entire petting zoo. But sure—come and get."

Gold-chain lunged first, fist cocked high and wild, the kind of swing that telegraphs from the next zip code.

I pivoted half a step to the left, my body flowing like water, palm sliding behind his back mid-swing with the precision of a dancer guiding a partner.

His momentum carried him forward; I added the gentlest push—center of gravity, leverage, physics—and he flew, shoulder slamming into the chain-link fence with a metallic

clang

that rattled the entire alley.

He

crumpled,

gold chain tangled in the mesh, gasping, ego shredded before his pride hit the ground.

Wiry-tat came low and fast, shoulder aimed at my ribs like a battering ram. I dropped my stance an inch, caught his wrist in a vice of fingers, twisted outward—joint lock, Aikido principle—and spun him mid-charge.

His feet left the ground for a heartbeat; I released at the perfect angle, sending him crashing into Buzzcut. They

collided

in a tangle of limbs and curses, sneakers scraping concrete, elbows flying, both sprawling in a heap against a stack of rusted oil drums that clanged like church bells.

Buzzcut recovered up first, face red, fists swinging wild haymakers. I sidestepped the first, ducked the second, then tapped his chest with two fingers—center mass, just enough force with my high stats to disrupt balance.

He stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling, and slammed spine-first into a dumpster with a hollow

boom

that echoed off the brick walls. The lid rattled shut behind him; he slid down, dazed, buzzcut scraping metal.

Lanky finally moved—hesitant, eyes wide—but commitment is a cruel master. He charged with a sloppy right hook. I leaned back, the punch whistling past my jaw, then caught his elbow mid-follow-through.

A gentle twist, a step behind, and I guided him face-first into the same chain-link gold-chain had kissed moments earlier. The fence rattled again; Lanky’s knees buckled, his breath fogging the metal.

The girls shrieked and charged at Reyna—claws out, hair flying like war banners. I moved before thought, a blur of instinct like centuries of muscle memory.

Marisol lunged first, nails raking for Reyna’s face. I slid behind her in a heartbeat, arms wrapping her waist from behind in a hug that looked almost romantic, my chest to her back, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Easy,

princess,"

I whispered, voice velvet and lethal, breath warm against her skin. "You’re prettier when you’re not trying to scratch her eyes out—or when you’re not cosplaying a discount villain."

She froze, breath hitching, body melting against mine for a stunned second—pulse racing under my forearm—before I released her, spinning her gently but firmly into girl two’s

arms.

Girl two caught her reflexively, both staggering.

Girl two recovered fast, nails slashing for Reyna’s throat. I intercepted mid-air, catching her wrist, spinning her into a ballroom dip that left her back arched over my arm, hair brushing the ground.

"Jealousy’s a bad look on you,

cariña,"

I murmured, lips near her temple, voice low enough to vibrate through her ribs. "Makes your cheap perfume smell like desperation." I set her down facing the wall, dazed and flushed, her hands bracing against brick as she caught her breath.

Girl three tried a slap, palm whistling. I caught her wrist inches from Reyna’s cheek, kissed the inside of it once—soft, mocking, the barest brush of lips—then tucked her hand into Marisol’s.

"Hold your friend," I said, tone gentle but final. "She’s had enough—and so has your

recycled

mean-girl

routine."

The boys were scrambling up, faces red, pride bleeding. Gold-chain spat blood, gold chain dangling like a noose. "You think you’re hot shit—"

I tilted my head, aura flaring just enough to make the air hum, the lamp flicker in sync. "I don’t

think

.

I am

."

"Fuck he’s so cool...

" Girl two bit her lips, admitting.

Reyna’s laugh rang out, wild and proud, cutting through the tension like a blade. The seven backed off, muttering, disappearing into the shadows they’d come from, tails between their legs.

I turned to her, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, thumb lingering on the curve of her jaw. "I still think dollars buy everything. Like proper manners and training"

She grinned, eyes shining like the city itself had lit them. "Shut up and kiss me, god-boy."

[Mission Complete. Protection Mark acquired.]