The sharp clack of polished shoes echoed through the dimly lit streets of Barkingham. A cold mist clung to the cobblestones, muffling the distant hum of factory machines. The scent of coal smoke mingled with the sharp tang of spilled whiskey from the pub doors that hung ajar.

Victor Blackthorn adjusted the lapels of his tailored coat, his eyes like shards of glass cutting through the gloom. Behind him, the faint growl of his men’s whispers drifted through the air, their loyalty as unyielding as iron. Tonight, Barkingham belonged to them.

Outside The Red Fang, the gang’s headquarters and the most exclusive gambling den in the city, a figure stumbled into the street, clutching at a bloodied shirt. Victor didn’t spare the man a glance as he ascended the stone steps, his calm demeanor unshaken by the chaos he left in his wake.

Inside, the warm glow of chandeliers contrasted with the cold fury in Victor’s gaze. His presence silenced the room. A hundred eyes turned toward the Doberman in the crisp three-piece suit, their breaths held as if awaiting judgment.

With a flick of his wrist, Victor signaled for a drink. The glass of whiskey appeared in his hand as if conjured by magic, and he raised it to the murmuring crowd.

“Barkingham thrives because of order,” he began, his deep voice cutting through the room like a knife. “Our order. Those who understand that will prosper. Those who don’t…” He let the sentence hang, a deadly smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

As he took a deliberate sip, the faint echo of a gunshot rang out somewhere in the distance. Victor’s expression didn’t change. He simply set the glass down and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

“Gentlemen, let’s remind them who holds the leash in this city.”

The room erupted into motion. Men gathered their coats, whispered plans, and readied for action. Victor remained still, the eye of the storm, his mind already ten moves ahead of the chaos he had unleashed.

For Victor Blackthorn and The Iron Fangs, the night was young—and the streets of Barkingham