Trade

Shadows clung to the bar's corners as Dean Tucker squared off against Brick Tyson, the hulking enforcer bleeding the life from his livelihood. Brick's fists clenched like iron vices, veins bulging along arms thick as oak branches. Dean dodged the first swing, his breath sharp in the stale air, heart pounding a war drum. Brick lunged again, a bull in human skin, but Dean countered with a precise jab to the ribs—crack, like splintering wood. They circled, sweat-slicked and feral, the room shrinking to just their ragged breaths and the scent of spilled whiskey. Brick's haymaker grazed Dean's jaw, splitting skin, copper blooming on his tongue. Dean tasted revenge, drove his knee into Brick's gut, folding the giant like cheap paper. Fists flew in a brutal ballet, each blow landing with the weight of unpaid debts. Brick staggered, eyes wild, but Dean pressed, a final uppercut sending the gang leader crumpling to the floorboards, empire shattered in the dust.