Volume 2: The Rules of Survival in the Underground World
Summary: Jack faces off against a rival gang of homeless men at a dumpster. Using his wits and combat skills, he defeats them and claims control over the territory.
Chapter 2: The Battle at the Dump
Manhattan's night was sliced into countless dark fragments by towering skyscrapers. Jack crouched beside a dumpster behind an Italian restaurant, fighting back waves of nausea rising from his gut. That half-eaten slice of pizza—still clinging to strands of hair—was a cruel mockery of the life he once lived. But to survive, he had no choice.
"Hey, kid! Who the hell said you could dig here?"
A harsh voice shattered the silence, thick with menace. Jack slowly raised his head. Under the dim light, three towering figures were closing in on him. At the front was a muscular brute, his face marked by a deep, jagged scar that made him look even more ferocious. A coiled cobra tattoo slithered across his neck, its tongue flickering in the shadows like it was ready to strike. The other two weren't much better—both armed with rusted metal pipes, their bodies reeking of sweat, rotting food, and cheap tobacco.
"This is our turf," the scarred man sneered, spitting onto the ground just inches from Jack's feet. "You wanna scavenge? Pay us first!"
Jack took a slow breath, suppressing the fury bubbling inside him. Just three months ago, who would dare speak to him this way? But now, he had to accept this new identity, adapt to the brutal law of the jungle.
"I don't have any money," Jack replied calmly, his tone devoid of fear, edged instead with the arrogance of a man who once ruled Wall Street.
The scarred man laughed, revealing yellowed teeth. "No money? Then trade something else! I like your clothes—they're not bad, even if they are torn."
Jack glanced down at the tattered T-shirt and grease-stained jeans he'd scavenged from a trash pile. This was the best outfit he'd managed to find in the underground world. If he lost it, he'd be left shivering in the cold tonight—and maybe worse.
"Or," the man added, his voice turning darker, "you can taste my fists. Guaranteed to leave a lasting memory!" He swung his pipe through the air with a dull whistle.
Jack scanned the area, searching for anything he could use. He knew brute force wasn't the answer—there were three of them, all armed, and he was barehanded. He needed time. Needed an opening.
"Can I at least ask how much you want?" Jack asked cautiously, trying to buy himself a moment.
The scarred man seemed to enjoy having the upper hand. "Not much. Just hand over the best scraps you find every day. Got it?"
Every day? That meant fewer resources, less chance of survival. But he couldn't argue—not yet. He had to stay alive first before seizing any opportunity.
"I… I need a minute to think about it," Jack replied hesitantly, feigning uncertainty to lull them into complacency.
"A minute? What the hell do you need to think about?" The scarred man lost patience quickly. He stepped forward, pipe raised and pointed at Jack's face. "Either agree now or get the hell out of this dump—and don't ever come back!"
Jack knew there was no escape. His eyes darted around desperately. Then, he spotted a pile of broken glass near the dumpster. One sharp-edged shard caught his eye—it looked like a crude but effective blade.
A plan formed in his mind in an instant.
He pretended to adjust his pants, using the motion to observe the scarred man's stance. As expected, the man relaxed slightly, smirking in contempt. In one swift movement, Jack grabbed the shard and clenched it tightly in his palm.
"All right," Jack said, raising his head with a defeated expression. "I'll do what you say. Every morning, I'll bring you the best food I find."
The scarred man grinned. "Smart move. Leave it in that box over there." He pointed to a battered cardboard box near the dumpster—their makeshift base.
In that moment of lowered guard, Jack struck.
Like a panther pouncing, he lunged forward and drove the shard deep into the man's arm.
"Ahhh!" The scarred man screamed, clutching his bleeding arm, shock and pain flashing across his face.
Blood gushed between his fingers, staining his sleeve crimson.
"You bastard! You tricked me!" he roared, like a wounded beast.
Jack didn't let up. While the man writhed in pain, Jack drove his knee into his stomach. The brute doubled over with a groan and collapsed to the ground.
The other two homeless men froze, stunned by the sudden turn of events.
"Get him! Both of you! Kill him!" the scarred man bellowed, clutching his arm and glaring at Jack with pure hatred.
Snapping out of their daze, the two lunged forward, swinging their pipes wildly.
Jack dodged the first blow with agility, sidestepped, and kicked one attacker square in the knee. The man yelped and crumpled to the ground.
The second swung again, aiming for Jack's head. Jack ducked, seized the pipe mid-swing, and yanked it away. Off-balance, the attacker stumbled backward.
Jack wasted no time—he slammed his fist into the man's nose. Blood exploded from it as the man fell to his knees, crying out in pain.
Meanwhile, the scarred man staggered to his feet, his face twisted in rage and vengeance.
"You're dead, boy," he growled, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Dead!"
Jack picked up the fallen pipe and pointed it at them, his eyes sharp as blades, filled with icy determination.
"Leave," he commanded coldly. "If I see you here again, I won't stop next time."
The three men, bruised and bloodied, exchanged frightened glances. Supporting each other, they limped away, leaving a trail of blood behind them.
Jack stood still, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly. He stared at his blood-covered hands, emotions swirling within him. This was his reality now—a former Wall Street elite reduced to fighting in alleyways for scraps, for survival.
But he felt no regret. He knew—if he hadn't fought back, he would've been crushed under the weight of this merciless world. He had to adapt, become stronger, endure. Only then could he uncover the truth. Only then could he seek revenge.
He tossed the pipe aside and searched the scarred man's pockets. He found some loose change and a pack of cigarettes. He pocketed the cigarettes, leaving the coins behind—his spoils of war, a small beacon of hope in this brutal existence.
Taking a deep breath, Jack walked toward a pile of old cardboard boxes. He needed rest. He needed to think. And most of all, he needed to find his next opportunity to survive.
Tonight, he had claimed his place in this dump, earned through courage and cunning. But this was only the beginning of the challenges in the underworld.
The icy wind howled through Manhattan's streets, carrying away the scent of blood. Jack curled up inside a torn box, staring up at the fragmented sky above the city skyline—his heart filled with both uncertainty and unwavering resolve.
He would survive.
He would uncover the truth.
And he would make those who betrayed him pay dearly.