Volume 2: The Rules of Survival in the Underground World
Summary: Jack begins building his own intelligence network, using his profits to bribe homeless informants and gather critical information from the shadows.
Chapter 8: The Intelligence Network
Jack's casino had officially opened inside the abandoned subway station. If one could call it a casino at all—it was more like a fragile dream built on desperation. The floor was greasy with years of grime, the air damp and heavy with mildew. Ragged figures crowded around the table, their eyes flickering with hunger, numbness, and madness. A single dim bulb swung overhead, casting long shadows across tired faces, emphasizing how far removed this place was from the glittering skyline above.
Lame Billy stood beside the table like a cold statue, leaning heavily on his cane. His lone eye gleamed with calculation as he watched both the crowd and Jack. He had given this young man a chance—but trust was not something easily earned down here.
Jack, wearing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses scavenged from a trash pile—looking oddly refined despite the surroundings—shook the dice cup with practiced ease. A smile danced on his lips, equal parts charm and control. Once, he had moved millions on Wall Street. Now, he used the same skill to extract crumpled bills and warm coins from those society had cast aside.
On the first night, Jack adjusted the odds so that most players walked away with small wins. The homeless men shouted with excitement, boasting about their "luck," convinced they were chosen by fate. Those who lost glared through red-rimmed eyes, already planning their next bet. Jack knew this psychology well—it was greed, hope, and addiction wrapped into one. It was the very essence of gambling.
A week later, Lame Billy counted the growing stack of cash on the table and grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "Kid, you've got some real talent! Who'd have thought we'd make this much in just a few days?" He shoved a handful of notes into his pocket with rough fingers, greedy and impatient.
Standing respectfully nearby, Jack smiled humbly while mentally mapping out his next move. This was only the beginning—a tiny step forward.
"Billy," he said, "this is nothing compared to what we could do if we expanded. We can bring in more people, make more money."
Billy narrowed his eyes. "What do you have in mind?"
"We need a safer, more concealed location," Jack replied. "And someone stationed outside to keep watch for cops. Also, we should hire more muscle—to keep things running smoothly and prevent cheating."
Billy stroked his chin, his lone eye narrowing in calculation. "I'll handle the manpower. But don't forget—you're giving me seventy percent of the profits."
Jack bit back a curse but kept smiling. "Of course, Mr. Billy. You're the boss. Without your support, I wouldn't be anywhere."
True to his past reputation as a gang leader, Billy wasted no time. Within days, he secured a new location—an abandoned warehouse deep in the sewers. It was dark, damp, and reeked of decay, with rats scurrying along the walls. But its isolation made it nearly invisible to the police. He also brought in several enforcers—muscular men with scarred faces, ready to maintain order or enforce it violently.
As the business grew, Jack turned his attention to another crucial aspect of survival: information.
In the underground world, knowledge was more valuable than money. Intelligence meant survival.
He began cultivating a network of informants—homeless individuals who roamed the city unnoticed, yet saw everything. There was Rat, who scavenged the dumps; One-Eye Lou, who begged near train stations; and various petty hustlers who hovered around the edges of the black market. In exchange for scraps of food, cheap cigarettes, or the occasional chocolate bar, they provided bits of gossip, rumors, and observations.
The information ranged from the mundane to the dangerous: Scarface Jimmy recently stole a shipment of smuggled cigarettes and plans to sell them on the black market.
Every Wednesday afternoon, the captain from the Fifth Precinct goes to confession at St. Mary's, leaving the surrounding area under-policed.
Mari the Cripple and Crazy Joe got into a violent fight over a piece of cardboard near the landfill.
Jack never dismissed any piece of information. Like a seasoned hunter, he sifted through the noise, searching for patterns and value. He understood that even the smallest detail could save his life when danger struck.
Through these reports, Jack learned of a new force rising in the underworld. They operated quietly but aggressively, selling suspicious goods on the black market and engaging in brutal turf wars. Their rapid expansion had caught the attention—and suspicion—of other gangs. Jack sensed that this group might soon pose a threat to his operation. He needed to prepare before they came knocking.
Beyond the black-market activity, Jack remained fixated on Richard. He instructed his informants to keep an ear out for any mention of him. But the information was scarce. Richard had vanished without a trace, completely cut off from the underground.
That silence unsettled Jack more than anything.
He knew Richard too well. That ruthless, relentless man would never let go. He was plotting something—waiting in the shadows, preparing to strike with deadly precision.
One cold night, Jack sat alone in the casino, sipping cheap whiskey to stave off the chill. The dim light cast sharp shadows across his angular face, making him look older, wearier. He stared into the bottle as the liquid swirled, mirroring the uncertainty of his future.
Then, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
Isabella.
She wore a tattered coat pulled tightly around her thin frame. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She hesitated at the threshold, then stepped inside.
"Jack…" Her voice was low, hoarse, trembling slightly.
Jack looked up, a mix of emotions stirring within him. He knew Isabella had always wanted to escape this world—but fate kept pulling her back, like a butterfly trapped in a spider's web.
"What is it?" he asked calmly, though his heart raced. Perhaps she had news—something that could help him finally turn the tide against Richard.
Isabella took a breath and whispered, "I heard… Richard has been meeting with some people in secret. They're planning something big. I don't know exactly what—but I think it's aimed at you."
Jack's stomach dropped. Cold dread settled in his chest.
So it was true. Richard hadn't forgotten him. He had been watching, waiting like a snake coiled in darkness, ready to strike when least expected.
"Thank you, Isabella," Jack said sincerely. "This information means a lot." He studied her face, concern softening his expression. "How are you holding up?"
She shook her head with a bitter smile. "Same as always… But I've made a decision. I'm leaving this place. Going somewhere no one knows me. Starting over."
Jack looked at her, sorrow mixing with admiration. He knew the path she chose was fraught with danger, but he respected her courage.
"Good luck, Isabella," he said gently. "If you ever need help, come find me. I'll do whatever I can."
She nodded and disappeared into the night.
Left alone once more, Jack sank into thought.
Richard's plot. Isabella's struggle. The brutality of the underground. And his burning desire to rise again—all tangled together, tightening like chains around his chest.
He knew he had to accelerate his plans. He needed to build power quickly to survive in this merciless world, to confront Richard, and reclaim everything that had been taken from him.
And now, more than ever, he relied on the intelligence network he was slowly weaving together.
Only with the right information could he navigate the shifting tides of the underworld. Only with knowledge could he carve a path toward survival, revenge, and—perhaps—one day, redemption.
He raised the whiskey bottle to his lips and drank deeply, letting the fire burn down his throat. He welcomed the pain.
Because he knew—soon, the battle would begin. And this time, it would be deadlier than ever.