Far beneath the city, past abandoned maintenance tunnels and rusted service corridors that the public had long forgotten existed, the Fox Gang gathered in their true headquarters.
The underground arena was alive with noise.
What had once been a neglected subway maintenance chamber had been stripped and rebuilt into something far more brutal. Steel beams and scaffolding formed layered walkways along the circular walls, giving dozens of men places to lean, shout, drink, and watch the violence that defined their world. Industrial lamps hung from chains overhead, throwing harsh white light across concrete floors that had long ago absorbed the stains of sweat, blood, and cheap alcohol.
At the center of it all stood a boxing ring.
Its ropes were black, thick and slightly frayed from years of use, and the canvas beneath them carried dark patches that no amount of scrubbing had ever managed to remove.
The Fox Gang filled the structure like a pack of restless animals.
