Samuel opened his eyes to find himself lying on a soft, plush sofa. He was in a room where three sofas were arranged in a mid-sized U-shape, centered around a circular table.
On the table sat a flower vase, a few small glasses, and a large bottle of liquor. Beside them, there was a small, framed photograph resting on the surface. Samuel recognized the man in the picture immediately—it was the same giant he had fought at the station. However, he looked much younger here, perhaps around thirty. Standing beside him was a woman, likely his wife.
The muffled strains of a 90s melody drifted from speakers mounted on the walls, filling the room with a surreal, nostalgic air.
Samuel hauled himself up into a sitting position, his eyes darting around the space in a daze of confusion. Just then, a door to the left swung open. Samuel's fists clenched instinctively, his knuckles white as he locked his gaze on the entrance.
Through the doorway stepped the old man, his hair damp and a single white towel wrapped around his waist. A cloud of steam billowed out behind him, a clear sign he had just finished a hot shower.
Samuel stared at him, stunned. A single question hammered at his brain: What kind of game is this old bastard playing at by bringing me here?
Suddenly, a raw, primal voice inside him snarled: None of that matters. Kill this old man and get the hell out of here.
The man walked to the far edge of the round table and stood there, hands on his hips, looking directly at Samuel.
Samuel couldn't help but notice the sheer scale of the man's physique. It was a massive, muscle-bound frame. Though his stomach didn't sport chiseled abs, it was clearly rock-hard and solid—the kind of core built from years of heavy, functional power rather than just gym aesthetics. Standing there in nothing but a towel, the giant's physical presence was even more intimidating than it had been at the station.
But the sight of the man's twisted, mocking grin was more than Samuel could take. He couldn't keep his mouth shut.
"What am I here for, huh?" Samuel spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Did you bring me here just to screw around and waste my time? You old bastard!"
The man let out that same twisted, mocking laugh again. "I suppose I do look old to you," he replied, his voice calm and steady. "The weight of the work has just left its mark on my face over the years. But would you believe me if I told you I'm only forty-five?"
Samuel exhaled, a heavy, jagged breath that seemed to ripple through his entire frame. The realization hit him like a physical blow: the man wasn't an aging, crumbling relic, but a predator at his peak. That explained the crushing weight of his strikes and the terrifying ease with which he'd been dismantled.
It made sense. But sense was the last thing Samuel wanted right now.
His internal fire, which had dimmed for a fleeting second, roared back to life with a vengeance. Excuses, his mind hissed. Stop making excuses. The man had crushed his crew and dragged him here like a common hoodlum. Escaping was a survival instinct, but vengeance was a necessity—a debt he owed to his own pride. He wasn't going to let his ego fold just because he'd found a stronger opponent.
Samuel snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto the man's gaze. He stood his ground, letting his voice grow sharp and cold, cutting through the low hum of the 90s music.
"Spare me the life story," Samuel growled, his jaw tight. "I don't care if you're forty-five or twice that. Save the small talk for someone who gives a damn. We're past the point of introductions—so cut the crap and tell me why I'm here. What's the move?"
The room seemed to shrink as the man's words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. "You will grow under my wing."
Samuel's voice, sharp with rage, barely managed to cut through the stillness before the man continued, his tone devoid of any hint of apology or malice. "I brought you here because I saw the talent in you. You have a raw, untapped potential that is currently being wasted on street brawls and petty turf wars."
The giant walked slowly around the table, his eyes never leaving Samuel's. "You think you're a leader because you can hold a street corner? You're nothing more than a child playing with fire, unaware that you're standing in the middle of a forest. I didn't bring you here to break you. I brought you here because, for the first time in years, I've found someone worth the effort of molding into something… substantial."
He stopped just a few feet away, his expression unreadable. "You want vengeance for your crew? That's easy. But if you want to become the force you think you are, you need to stop acting like a rabid dog and start learning how to lead like a king. So, are you going to keep shouting at me, or are you finally going to listen?"
Samuel's ears burned as the giant's words settled, a cold insult to everything he had built. To be dismissed as a pawn to be molded? It was an affront to his reign over his corner of Texas, where his name alone held weight. The pride that had fueled his ascent flared up again, hotter and more volatile than before.
He cracked his knuckles, the sharp sound snapping like gunfire in the quiet room. He swung his arms in wide, rhythmic circles, loosening his shoulders as he reset his stance, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, focused malice.
"I am the one who carved out my own path in Texas," Samuel hissed, his voice trembling with controlled fury. "I built my empire from the dirt up, and I don't bow to anyone—especially not to someone trying to play puppet master. You think you've won because you dragged me here? You've only made a mistake."
He took a menacing step forward, his chest heaving with the effort to contain his rage. "And when I'm done, my crew will come back for what's left of you to dispose of your carcass."
The giant held Samuel's gaze for a long, heavy moment. Then, a thin, cruel smile curled at the corners of his lips. "Do you even know where your crew is right now?"
The heat of Samuel's rage seemed to instantly vanish, replaced by a chilling, hollow sensation in his chest. He tried to maintain his defiant glare, but his voice wavered slightly as he demanded, "Where?"
The man adopted a look of mock regret, his expression shifting into a performance of pity. "Before I brought you here, I started a rumor in your territory. I made sure everyone knew the Iron Shadows were finished—that the leaders had abandoned them, leaving only the stragglers behind."
He let out a short, condescending chuckle. "You might not realize it, but the reputation of your crew has spread far and wide. And everyone knows exactly how much the people in that district loathe you and your men."
The man exhaled slowly, watching the blood drain from Samuel's face. "The locals didn't need much encouragement. They swarmed your base and beat your boys until not a single one of them could even stand, let alone crawl away. The police had a hell of a time dragging them out of there. They're all in custody now—the hearing is coming up, and after that, it's straight to prison."
The fire within Samuel turned poisonous, a slow-burning acid that threatened to consume him from the inside out. He realized with brutal clarity that every bridge behind him had been turned to ash—his empire was gone, his boys were behind bars, and the very people he once ruled were now thirsty for his blood. In this state, picking a fight with this monster was nothing short of a suicide mission.
Samuel clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He closed his eyes and drew a long, jagged breath, trying to force his rage and humiliation deep down into the gut of his soul. When he finally opened them, the explosive fury was gone, replaced by the cold, hollow mask of a man facing a merciless reality.
With a heavy exhale, Samuel looked down and spoke, his voice low but steady,
"I... I don't want an enemy in you. But mark my words, I will never submit to anyone's dominance. My head does not bow to any man."
The man picked up a glass from the table and began pouring the liquor, erupting into a loud, hearty laugh as if he'd just heard the best joke in the world. Samuel watched him, bewildered, unable to fathom what kind of psychological screw was loose in the old man's head. Finally, he couldn't help but ask, "What? What's so funny?"
The man calmed down and moved over to sit beside Samuel. His sheer mass was so immense that the sofa groaned and sank deeply under his weight.
After draining the entire glass in a single, effortless gulp, the man turned to him and said, "I love your mindset, kid—you've got absolutely nothing left, and yet you still refuse to be anyone's slave."
Samuel sat back with force, trying to match the man's presence, but the sofa cushions only pushed back against him. It felt like trying to shift a mountain; the sheer weight of the man beside him made the entire frame of the furniture feel unmovable.
The man began pouring another glass, his movements steady and calm. "I know you were the true backbone of that crew," he said. "Without you, what would their standing have even been? They didn't have the status or the guts to rule anything on their own."
Samuel was genuinely caught off guard by the sudden praise. Just as he was processing the compliment, the man extended the glass toward him and said, "Go on—take a hit."
Samuel slid the glass back toward the man, rejecting it flatly. He leaned back into the sofa and said, "I don't drink, sorry. To me, alcohol is poison. My dad destroyed his liver with that stuff. Every single day, my mom and dad would tear into each other because of his drinking."
As he spoke, Samuel pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his filthy cargo pants.
The man took another swig and smirked at him. "Look at this world-class hooligan. Doesn't touch a drop of liquor, apparently. Just blows smoke."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the only sound being the low hum of the 90s music and the crackle of Samuel's cigarette as it burned halfway down. In that same span of time, the giant had already put away six or seven glasses of liquor, his pace relentless.
Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike the man. He snapped his head toward Samuel, his eyes widening as he stared him down.
"Hey," he blurted out, "are your mom and dad still around?"
Samuel looked at the man and let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. The giant's brow furrowed in suspicion, sensing he had struck a nerve.
Taking a slow drag from his cigarette, Samuel replied, "No. There was a couple who ran the orphanage where I grew up. I used to call them Mom and Dad."
He exhaled a long, thick cloud of smoke and leaned back completely into the sofa, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. "Anyway, that's all ancient history now. He's dead, and I haven't seen her in a year."
The man sat with his head bowed for a long time, lost in thought. Finally, he looked up and said, "I could tell just by looking at your clothes. Why did you run away from the orphanage?"
For a fleeting second, the chaos and trauma of that day a year ago flashed before Samuel's eyes. A surge of restless rage began to churn inside him. But with a sharp effort, he reined himself in.
"Maybe I'll tell you later," he muttered, cutting the memory short.
The man let out a disappointed sigh. "Oh, alright then."
Suddenly, the door on the right side of the room slammed open with a loud bang.
Samuel jumped, his head snapping toward the noise. When he saw the giant erupt into laughter at his startled reaction, Samuel forced himself to sit back, stiffening his posture.
"It's not that funny," he muttered sharply.
Two young men stepped through the doorway. Their clothes were torn and covered in dust, and their faces bore the smeared, dark stains of dried blood.
One of them grinned. "Boss, we're back. Everything's been wiped clean."
The giant reached for two more glasses, his eyes brightening. "You're finally back, James!"
Samuel stared at the newcomers, his voice laced with suspicion. "Who the hell are these two?"
The man didn't look up as he poured the drinks. "These," he replied calmly, "are flowers just like you—seeds that I planted myself."