The Brutal Revenge

Chapter 4: The Power Play

Jones sat in the dimly lit dorm room, his fingers drumming against the wooden desk. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and the faint traces of sweat, remnants of last night’s victory. The bruises on his knuckles still throbbed, a painful reminder that the fight was far from over.

His crew was restless, the tension crackling like static in the air. Victory didn’t bring peace, only the promise of retaliation.

"Clinton won’t let this slide," Leo muttered, his voice tight with unease. He stood near the window, his grip firm on a steel baton. His eyes were sharp, scanning the darkness outside like he expected an ambush at any moment.

Jones exhaled slowly, rubbing a bruise on his jaw. "I don’t expect him to. That bastard thrives on control. He’ll retaliate, and we need to be ready."

A knock at the door cut through the silence. The room went still.

Leo moved first, yanking the door open just enough to see who was outside. A folded piece of paper was shoved through the gap before the footsteps retreated down the hall.

Jones grabbed the note, unfolding it with steady hands. The handwriting was jagged, written in thick, angry strokes.

Midnight. Be there, or be forgotten.

No signature. No explanation. But they didn’t need one.

"It’s Clinton," Leo said, his voice low. "He’s calling for a meeting."

Jones scoffed, tossing the paper onto the desk. "He’s trying to flex his power."

Leo’s jaw tightened. "It’s a trap."

Jones nodded. "Of course it is."

Silence stretched between them.

"So?" Leo pressed. "We showing up?"

Jones’s mind worked fast. Clinton wasn’t stupid. If he was gathering the major players, it meant he was either trying to turn them against Jones or put on a display of dominance. Either way, walking in unprepared was suicide.

"We go," Jones decided. "But not alone. I want eyes everywhere. If things go sideways, we need a way out."

Leo smirked. "I was hoping you’d say that."

The underground bar was packed, every gang and faction squeezed into the smoky, dimly lit space. The heavy bass of music vibrated through the air, but it couldn’t drown out the tension that thickened the room.

Jones walked in with his crew, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and cheap cologne clung to the air, but the only thing that mattered was the power shift brewing beneath the surface.

He scanned the room. Every major player was here, drawn like moths to the flame of Clinton’s call. Some came out of curiosity. Others came out of fear. But they were all here to watch the fight unfold.

Clinton sat at the far end, lounging against a leather booth like he owned the place. His group surrounded him in a tight formation, their eyes locked onto Jones the moment he stepped inside.

"Ah," Clinton drawled, lifting his drink in mock salute. "Look who decided to show up. Thought you might be too busy licking your wounds."

Jones kept his expression neutral. "Scared of what? A spoiled brat playing king?"

A ripple of amusement ran through the room. Clinton’s smirk faltered for a split second before he laughed.

"Always with the sharp tongue," he mused. "But let’s cut to the chase, shall we? You stepped on my toes last night. That’s a problem."

Jones shrugged. "You don’t own this place, Clinton. Just because you’ve been running things doesn’t mean you get to keep the throne forever."

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder. Some nodded in approval, others watched with knowing smirks.

Clinton leaned forward, his smile sharpening into something darker. "That sounds like a challenge."

Jones didn’t blink. "Maybe it is."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Clinton chuckled, shaking his head. "You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But guts alone won’t keep you alive in this game."

Jones smirked. "Then let’s see who plays it better."

Clinton’s jaw tightened, but he leaned back, feigning nonchalance. "We’ll see, Jones. We’ll see."

The air in the room shifted. The crowd sensed the shift in power, the pull of violence just beneath the surface. Clinton clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention.

"Let’s make this interesting," he announced, his grin widening. "No weapons. No tricks. Just you and me."

Jones narrowed his eyes. "You want a fight?"

Clinton’s smirk was slow and deliberate. "I want a message."

A ripple of excitement went through the room. This wasn’t about words anymore. Clinton wanted a public display.

Jones knew it was a setup. He knew Clinton was trying to make an example out of him.

But he also knew he couldn’t walk away.

"Fine," he said.

The crowd roared in approval.

The circle was cleared in seconds. Bodies pressed in, forming a tight wall around the makeshift ring. The rules were simple. No weapons. No interference. Just fists and blood.

Jones rolled his shoulders, keeping his breathing steady. Clinton smirked, stretching his arms as if he had already won.

"Try not to embarrass yourself," Clinton taunted.

Jones cracked his knuckles. "I was about to say the same to you."

The moment the fight started, Clinton lunged. He was fast—faster than Jones expected. Jones barely dodged the first punch, feeling the wind of it brush past his jaw.

Clinton didn’t let up. He followed with a brutal hook that caught Jones in the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

Pain flared, but Jones gritted his teeth. He staggered back, barely keeping his balance.

Clinton grinned. "Already struggling?"

Jones smirked, wiping blood from his lip. "That all you got?"

Clinton’s grin twisted. He came again, swinging hard. But this time, Jones was ready. He ducked low, avoiding the hit, and drove his fist straight into Clinton’s gut.

Clinton gasped, his body jerking from the impact.

Jones didn’t stop. He followed up with a savage right hook, his knuckles slamming against Clinton’s jaw. The force sent Clinton stumbling, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The crowd roared.

Clinton growled, his eyes burning with fury. He charged again, throwing a wild punch. Jones sidestepped, grabbing Clinton’s arm and twisting it sharply.

Clinton cried out, but Jones didn’t let go. He slammed his knee into Clinton’s ribs before shoving him back.

Clinton crashed to the floor.

The room fell silent.

Jones stood over him, breathing hard, his fists still clenched.

Clinton coughed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His glare was venomous.

"This isn’t over," he rasped.

Jones tilted his head. "It never is."

Clinton wiped blood from his mouth, his smirk returning despite his battered face.

"You really think this means you’ve won?" he asked, his voice low.

Jones didn’t answer.

Clinton chuckled darkly. "You’ll see soon enough."

The tension in the air crackled like electricity.

Jones turned, stepping out of the ring. The fight was over.

But the war had only begun.

And Clinton was already planning his next move.