Chapter 121: Call Me Sir! Max spotted ten men pouring out from the back of the van, all dressed like Dud. Same boots, same jackets, same dead-eyed look. The only thing that set them apart? A small mark stitched onto the tops of their hats. Subtle, but definitely there. I never paid much attention to military stuff, Max thought, squinting. But those have to be rank markings, right? Looks like they’re all wearing the same one, maybe that’s what a private wears? But this guy... he’s got something different. I don’t know exactly what it means, but I can tell he outranks the others. But that wasn’t the only thing eating at Max. The word gang war kept looping in his brain like a siren that wouldn’t shut up. That term wasn’t just thrown around. Not even in street gang circles. The problem with criminal groups? Most of them weren’t just little neighborhood squads. They were big. Organized. Spread out across different zones, different cities even, and this was the case for even Street Gangs. The Pit was an exception. The Billion Bloodline had called on them for help, but that was a weird move. The Pit was known for being scrappy and small, obsessed with fighting more than territory. That wasn’t normal. Most gangs were bigger, more methodical. So when someone said "war," they weren’t talking about a single blowout in a back alley. No. It meant constant, ruthless clashes with another crew that matched them in size and strength. And it never ended in one night. Wars like that hit everything, rival businesses, stash houses, clubs, bars, anywhere money flowed. Each side did whatever they could to cripple the other, step by bloody step. There were only three ways it usually ended: one side got completely wiped out, the two bosses made a deal and called it off, or one gang absorbed the other. No matter how it finished, it always came at a cost. People got hurt. People got killed. "Come out. You’re coming with us," Dud barked, like this was routine. Max stepped out of the vehicle without flinching. "You think I’m gonna run?" Dud chuckled, low and sarcastic. "Man, I don’t care. You high school kids always think you’re some kind of gangster. You’ve got no idea what the real thing looks like." Max had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes. This guy’s got no clue, he thought. I’ve already lived through worse than anything he’s talking about. I didn’t just survive it, I came out stronger. He’s talking tough to the wrong person. "If you want to be part of this world," Dud said, not even looking back, "then you better start living it." Max followed a few meters behind, keeping just enough distance to react if Dud tried something sketchy. But he noticed something weird, Dud didn’t seem to care about him. Not like he was a prisoner. Not like he was an asset, either. Just... there. Like Max didn’t matter. When they reached the group, the ten men straightened up in a rough line and threw a small salute Dud’s way. It was off. Max had seen military salutes before, on TV, in real life, at a few parades and ceremonies. This wasn’t that. Some of the guys looked sharp, others were half-assing it. There was respect in it, yeah, but it didn’t have that clean, disciplined snap. More like a crew nodding to their boss, not soldiers answering to a commander. Right, Max reminded himself. Dipter said this group, The Rejected Corps, was made up of people who’d been kicked out of their branches. Dishonorably discharged, forced out, whatever. No wonder they don’t act like standard military. "Sorry I was a little late, boys," Dud said casually, like he hadn’t just walked out of a shady mission. "Had to take care of another important task." "No sweat," one of the men replied. "If you’d been more than fifteen minutes late, we would’ve gone in ourselves." "These guys are trickier than they look," another chimed in. "They’re brutal when it comes to tools." "Damn right," a third one added, holding up a hand with a missing finger. "Last time, one of ’em chopped this clean off! So now I owe them, what, ten fingers back?" The others laughed like it was a running joke. Out in the middle of the street. No shame, no effort to hide it. Just a bunch of half-mad ex-soldiers swapping stories about violence like it was stand-up comedy. Even though it was late and they weren’t in a busy part of the city, people were still walking by, some glancing over, most minding their own business. But anyone who stared too long got a look back. Cold. Direct. Enough to make them think twice. Max watched them all scurry off. That was all it took, one hard stare from the wrong kind of people, and the street cleared like smoke in the wind. When Max finally stepped up beside Dud, the rest of the group clocked him immediately. The red hair. The school uniform. Still in it. Still buttoned up like he’d just walked out of class instead of into whatever this was. "The hell is this?" one of the men scoffed. "You babysitting now, Dud? Times really that tough, man?" The others burst out laughing. "Seriously," the same guy added, "you gotta be desperate to drag a kid along." One of them suddenly lunged toward Max, throwing his shoulder forward like he was about to swing. Max didn’t even flinch. He just stared past him, following Dud’s eyes, calm as ever. "Oh? We’ve got ourselves a tough guy, huh?" the man muttered, backing off. "But for real, why’s he here? It’s gonna be a massacre when we go in." Dud shrugged. "Boss’s call. Says he’s a rookie he’s interested in bringing in. So he’s tagging along." That shut them up fast. The second Dud mentioned the boss, the mood shifted. The teasing dried up. Faces dropped. "A rookie the boss is watching, huh?" said a guy named Rain, whose slick, black hair looked like it hadn’t been dry in days, like he permanently lived in a downpour. "So I’m guessing that means he’s decent at fighting or something?" Rain glanced at the others. "Wait... does that mean we’re supposed to protect him?" Dud snorted. "Protect him? Hell no. If he can’t survive, then he’s not worth bringing in. That’s the whole point." The group turned their attention across the street. A sleek, modern restaurant loomed ahead, big glass windows, soft lighting inside, people eating dinner like nothing shady was about to go down right outside. The place looked upscale, the kind of joint that could seat 150 easy. Clean floors, white tablecloths. Polished. Legit-looking. But Max knew better. One of their establishments? Owned by another gang, maybe. If they’re targeting it, then this city might be even more messed up than Nottinghill. Hard to believe, but... maybe. Rain turned to him. "Hey, kid. What’s your name?" "Max," he said. The word barely left his mouth when it happened, a blur, a sudden jolt, Rain’s fist came flying in fast, cracking Max right in the side of the head. His chin took the brunt of it, and he felt the shockwave rattle straight through his skull. He hit the pavement hard. Max lay there, jaw throbbing, the world slightly tilted. His vision danced, and for a moment, everything sounded like it was underwater. Rain stood over him, sneering. "You see that, Max?" he said, voice low and venomous. "That means I outrank you. So from now on, you call me sir, you piece of crap high schooler." Max groaned, then slowly raised a hand to wipe the spit from his mouth, blood-tinged, warm, metallic. He grinned through the pain. "Haha... well," he said, dragging the words out just enough, "eat my d*ck... Sir."