Volume 2: The Rules of Survival in the Underground World
Summary: Jack seizes an opportunity in the black market, stepping into a dangerous world where fortunes are made—and lives are lost. He hopes to earn enough to fuel his revenge.
Chapter 6: The Black Market Deal
New York at night was a furnace where desire and danger melted together. Even behind the polished skyline of the financial district, dark and damp corners festered—places where illegal deals thrived in the shadows. Jack pulled his tattered coat tighter around his body, scavenged from a pile of garbage. The cold wind sliced across his gaunt face, sharpening the angles of his features. He stood at the entrance of a narrow alley on the edge of Lower Manhattan, breathing in the stench of rotting food, urine, and cheap cigarettes—a nauseating cocktail that clung to the air.
Old John's raspy voice echoed in his mind: "If you want to survive underground, brains aren't enough—you need guts and cunning. The black market is where money flows fastest… and where people die easiest. Play with fire, and you'll burn, kid."
Jack knew it was true. He needed capital—fast. If he wanted to uncover the conspiracy that had ruined him, the black market was both a shortcut and a minefield.
After several nights of observation, Jack had learned the rules of this alley. No suits and ties. No high-end negotiations. No digital transactions. Just raw, primal commerce: cash, goods, and eyes filled with the kind of greed that could turn deadly in seconds.
His target tonight? Stolen luxury watches. Once worn by the city's elite, these timepieces had slipped through the cracks of society into the underworld—where they were among the most sought-after black-market items. Jack planned to buy them low, refurbish them slightly, and sell them at a premium to discreet buyers willing to pay for anonymity. The profit margin was huge—if everything went smoothly.
Taking a deep breath, Jack pushed aside his unease and stepped into the alley.
A few ragged homeless men huddled around a fire built from old tires, their faces lit by flickering flames. Their expressions were blank but watchful, sizing up every passerby. Jack kept his gaze forward and walked straight to the far end—the designated meeting point.
In the dim light, a short man in a baseball cap leaned against a damp brick wall, smoking. His face was hidden beneath the shadow of the cap, but his eyes gleamed like those of a snake waiting in darkness.
"You Jack?" the man asked, exhaling a ring of smoke. His voice was rough, cutting through the silence like broken glass.
"I am," Jack replied cautiously. "Old John sent me."
The man nodded. Without a word, he reached into his jacket and carefully pulled out a plastic bag wrapped tightly around its contents. He peeled one corner open, revealing the glint of metal in the weak light—Rolex crowns, Patek Philippe engravings, Vacheron Constantin designs. Each watch whispered wealth and status. Priceless treasures now buried in the underworld.
"All here," the man said quietly. "Latest models. Genuine. No tricks."
Jack took the bag and switched on a small flashlight, inspecting each piece carefully. Some dials had scratches, some straps were torn, and others showed signs of heavy wear—but even damaged, these watches were worth a fortune.
"How much?" Jack asked, keeping his tone neutral.
"Two thousand. Final offer." The man exhaled another puff of smoke, indifferent.
Jack frowned. That price was higher than expected, but he understood the unspoken rules of the black market. A little bargaining was acceptable—but push too hard, and you risked anger or suspicion.
"One thousand five hundred. That's my maximum." Jack offered, watching the man's reaction closely.
The man scoffed, eyes narrowing. "One-five? You think I'm running charity? Any one of these pieces sells for over ten grand on the street. You really think I'd give them away?"
"I know their value," Jack replied calmly. "But you also know they're stolen. They can't be sold openly. And they need repairs before they can fetch top dollar. One-five gives us both a profit. Fair deal."
The man fell silent, studying Jack as if trying to see through his mask. The alley was quiet except for the wind and distant car horns.
Seconds ticked by. Jack's heart pounded. This moment was critical—one wrong move, and everything could fall apart. Or worse, cost him his life.
Finally, the man gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. For Old John's sake, one-five it is. But next time, no discounts. Don't break the rules."
Relief washed over Jack. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope—his entire savings, gathered bit by bit. He handed it over. The man counted the bills quickly, then nodded.
"The goods are yours." He handed the plastic bag back to Jack and disappeared into the shadows without another word.
Jack turned and left the alley, the weight of the plastic in his hand heavier than just metal and glass.
But the moment he stepped onto the street, a chill ran down his spine.
He wasn't alone.
Behind him, the same homeless men who had been warming themselves by the fire were now approaching. Greedy grins twisted their lips.
"Well, well, looks like our boy hit the jackpot tonight," one of them sneered, gripping a thick wooden stick. He slammed it against the pavement, the sound echoing like a warning shot.
Jack's stomach dropped. He had walked right into trouble. In the black market, the risks weren't only from the law—they came from predators lurking in the dark, ready to tear apart anyone who smelled of success.
"I don't have any money," Jack said, forcing calm into his voice. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm just another nobody."
"Oh yeah?" Another man chimed in, holding up a rusty knife that caught the moonlight. "Then why did we just see you walking out of that alley with a bag, huh? You made a deal, didn't you? Got yourself a nice little profit."
Jack knew arguing was useless. These were desperate men, driven by hunger and greed. They wouldn't listen. All they saw was the chance to take what he had earned.
He scanned his surroundings, looking for anything he could use. The alley was narrow, walled in on both sides. Only one exit—and it was blocked.
Desperation struck. Then, his eyes landed on a rusted trash bin in the corner, overflowing with rotting food and filth. It reeked—but in that moment, it became his only hope.
With a deep breath, Jack grabbed the bin with all his strength and hurled it toward the nearest thug.
"Ah!"
The bin crashed into the man's chest, spilling garbage everywhere. He screamed in pain, clutching his head as he collapsed to the ground.
Seizing the chaos, Jack bolted from the alley, sprinting into the night.
Behind him, shouts rang out like wild animals chasing prey. He didn't dare look back. If they caught him, there would be no mercy—only pain, maybe death.
Using his knowledge of the streets, he darted through alleys and side roads, weaving between obstacles—leaping over trash piles, scaling fences, slipping through crowds. He ran until the sounds of pursuit faded into the distance.
At last, panting and leaning against a wall on a bustling street, he stopped.
He looked at the flowing crowd, the neon lights, the glittering cityscape beyond. Life went on. He had survived.
This black-market deal had nearly cost him everything. But he knew—it was only the beginning.
To survive in this brutal world, he had to become stronger. More cautious. More cunning. He had to learn to hide his emotions, to deceive when necessary, to manipulate when possible. He had to become like a fox—sly, silent, always searching for opportunity in the midst of danger.
He tightened his grip on the plastic bag, feeling the weight of the stolen watches inside. His eyes burned with determination.
He swore he would return to Wall Street. He would expose those who had destroyed him—and make them pay the price.
And this was where it would start.