Inside a West Coast construction materials warehouse, a man in a red shirt desperately pleaded his case:
"Frank, I swear I'm not lying! That bastard ca out of nowhere, took out all my n in minutes, and walked off with the paynt!"
Surrounded by a group of enforcers, one of his fingers was clamped in a pair of tal pliers... a prelude to far bloodier consequences if his explanation failed to satisfy.
"You're telling 'one guy' took down over twenty ard n in minutes? What was he, Captain Arica stepping out of a comic book?!" Frank D'Amico, the impeccably suited drug lord, let out a cold laugh, "Terry, between that fairy tale and you pocketing the cash before tipping off the cops about the shipnt... well, I know which one I believe."
"Frank, you have to believe ! The guy even said he'd be paying you a visit soon!" The man nad Terry scread, raw terror in his voice.
Having worked under Frank for years, he knew exactly how the West Coast kingpin dealt with traitors.
"Alright, my son is waiting for to take him to the movies. I don't want to disappoint him." Frank shook his head and turned away, "Joe, handle this." he ordered.
Ignoring the agonized shrieks behind him, Frank leisurely strolled into his car....
Truth be told, business hadn't been going well lately.
Two weeks ago, over a dozen of his n were slaughtered in a Queens factory, which cost him hefty bribes to contain. Now, soone seed to be systematically sabotaging his New York operations, hijacking paynts and tipping off cops to drug stashes.
The financial blow hit the West Coast kingpin hard...
"Who the hell did I piss off?" Frank racked his brain to no avail.
He had built his empire through smuggling, laundering profits through posing as a legitimate import-export business owner. As his influence grew, even law enforcent turned a blind eye to his operations.
Yet now, his empire was under attack...
.....
While the drug lord fretted over his crumbling operations, a certain part-ti vigilante in Queens was having a far better evening happily counting cash on his bed, tossing Benjamins onto the floor...
"Cri-fighting really is the fastest 'get rich quick' sche." Sean sat up from his bed, grinning at the stacks of cash strewn across his room.
Several suitcases nearby overflowed with neatly banded bills, generous "donations" from Frank's operations, soon to be converted into top-tier training equipnt.
Stashing the money under his bed, Sean pulled on a compression shirt. His once-lanky fra now carried defined muscle, each brutal training session inching him closer to transcending human limits.
Soon, he'd pay the West Coast kingpin a personal visit... Eliminating threats required cutting them at the root.
If Frank connected the dots between Sean and his dead n, the retaliation would never end. It's much better to just remove the problem permanently... not that the world would miss a drug lord.
The past month had been intensely productive. By day, Sean maintained his high schooler facade... by night, he pushed his body through hellish regins.
Thankfully, his lack of social ties made reinventing himself effortless.
*Ring ring*
The phone interrupted his workout. A familiar voice greeted him:
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