The air in the cavernous factory was thick with the scent of coal and damp earth. It was well past midnight, and the only light came from the moon cutting through the dust-streaked windows, casting long, distorted shadows of the machinery. Vincent Cooper, a man of twenty-five with short, dark hair and skin pale in the moonlight, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. He was a man who had built an empire from the ground up, and this coal factory was his latest testament to that success.

Two of his guards approached, their heavy boots crunching on the loose gravel. Between them, they dragged a small figure, thin and wiry. "This is the one, Mr. Cooper," one of the guards spat, shoving the kid forward. "Caught 'em with a sack of our coal. A real street rat."

The kid stumbled to their knees, their gaze fixed on the floor. Vincent's eyes, sharp and cold, scanned over them. He’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let a petty thief undermine his operation. He reached into his coat and pulled out a handgun, the polished steel glinting in the dim light. He aimed the barrel at the kid's head. He wouldn't allow this to slide.