The car rolled through the fractured streets of Rio de Janeiro, its engine humming softly against the backdrop of a broken city.
The vehicle, a matte black sedan with a reinforced frame, glided over the uneven asphalt, its tires crunching against stray debris and shattered glass.
The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, had sharp, calculating eyes that flickered between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. His face, chiseled by time and hardship, bore the faint shadow of a beard.
Luca Morales drove with one hand lazily on the wheel, the other resting near his hip, where a pistol sat snug against his ribs.
He wasn't in a rush. He never was.
Outside, the city groaned under its weight, a wounded beast limping forward through time.
Collapsed buildings loomed like skeletal remains, their steel frames jagged and rusting, reaching toward the sky like the broken ribs of a fallen titan. The roads beneath them were fractured and uneven, littered with shattered glass, crumbled concrete, remnants of a past life—faded billboards advertising products that no longer existed, street signs pointing to places that had long since fallen into ruin.
Streetlights buzzed weakly, their dim glow casting trembling shadows onto the cracked pavement. They were remains of the old world, struggling against the ever-creeping darkness.
The once-thriving districts of Zona Sul and Centro, once the heart of Rio de Janeiro, had been hollowed out by disaster and time. Their streets, once pulsing with life, now carried only whispers of the past.
Makeshift markets had sprung up amid the wreckage—vendors selling scavenged electronics, black-market medicine, and home-brewed alcohol, anything that could keep people afloat. Nearby, small repair shops worked endlessly, their dimly lit interiors packed with salvaged machines and desperate workers trying to patch together whatever could still be used.
But not all streets held onto life.
Some had been abandoned entirely, reclaimed by nature or something worse.
Ivy and moss crept over the ruins, vines twisting through shattered windows and broken doorways as if trying to stitch the city back together in their way. In these places, the only sounds were the distant howls of stray dogs and the wind whispering through hollowed-out buildings.
Those who still lived in Rio knew better than to linger in such places after dark.
In the distance, above the broken skyline, stood Christ the Redeemer.
Or what was left of it.
The towering statue, once a symbol of faith and unity, now bore the wounds of catastrophe. Cracks ran deep through its stone surface. The statue had broken away entirely, leaving a space whose grace had once blessed the city below. Scaffolding wrapped around its base, workers moving like ants, trying to restore what had been lost. Welding sparks flickered in the night, tiny bursts of light against the vast darkness.
He came across a dimly lit street, letting the engine quiet as he slowed to a stop.
He felt it.
The Eyes on him.
The street was lined with silent watchers, their gazes heavy, unreadable. Men slouched against the walls of crumbling buildings, some sitting on doorsteps, others leaning against rusted-out motorbikes. Their faces were half-lit by the dim glow of streetlights, shadows carving out sharp lines across their expressions.
Some smoked, the glow of their cigarettes flickering like fireflies in the gloom. Others rested their hands near their belts, where blades or guns likely rested. A quiet, unspoken tension crackled in the air.
This wasn't a neighborhood where outsiders could walk freely.
Luca's gaze swept over them, cataloging the familiar faces—fighters, runners, thieves, and ghosts of the old world. These weren't regular civilians. These were his men. His people.
A few shifted, their body language cautious, waiting for a sign.
Then, Luca nodded. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled.
A beat passed.
The tension shattered.
A handful of men stepped forward, at first cautiously, then with genuine familiarity.
Luca smirked, stepping forward, his movements measured yet easy. As the first man reached him, their hands clasped in a firm shake, fingers locking with a quiet sense of understanding. The tension in the street, which had been thick like jungle air before a storm, began to break.
"Morales." The man nodded, his voice rough with the edge of long nights and harder days.
"Good to see you back, boss," another added, stepping in with a clap on Luca's shoulder, the impact solid, grounding.
More men gathered around, their postures loosening, the wariness melting into something else—something familiar.
Bruno, his face lined with old scars and the weight of years spent in the underbelly of the city, grinned and muttered in Spanish,
"Thought you went soft on us, cabrón."
Luca chuckled, shaking his head. "Soft? You wish."
Luis, younger than the rest but just as sharp, elbowed Diego in the ribs.
"He's probably been drinking fancy shit and enjoying himself while we're out here working."
Diego snorted. "Yeah? Then why does he look like he hasn't slept in days?"
"Ask your mama, chico," Luca retorted.
The group broke into low, knowing laughter, the kind that came from men who had lived through too much together.
Someone passed a cigarette; Luca took it, letting the smoke curl between his fingers before handing it off again. Another handed him a half-empty bottle of rum, and he took a swig, the burn settling warm in his chest.
Around them, the night in the city carried on—the distant sound of music, laughter from open windows, a couple arguing in rapid Portuguese from a balcony above. But here, in this little pocket of the world, Luca was home.
The men weren't just soldiers, criminals, or survivors.
They were his. And they were waiting for him to lead.
Here, among these streets, Luca Morales wasn't just a name. He was a presence. A returning king—or maybe a returning soldier who had survived another war.
This was his turf. His home.
SOMETIME LATER
The dimly lit backroom was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and spilled liquor. A single bulb flickered above, casting long shadows on the scarred wooden table where Luca and his men gathered. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation, their postures relaxed but charged with the undercurrent of something bigger.
Luca leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the table's surface as he scanned the faces of his crew.
"Listen up," he said, voice low and steady. "This is the biggest shipment we've had since the Shift. Weapons. Drugs. Enough money to buy a goddamn city if we wanted. The cartel is moving it through the Amazon, and we're the ones bringing it in."
A murmur of approval rippled through the room, some nodding, others exchanging glances.
Rodrigo, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, grinned. "How much firepower we talking?"
Luca smirked. "Enough to make sure no one—government, rival gang, or those jungle-dwelling psychos—tries to fuck with us."
Bruno let out a low whistle. "Cartel from Colombia, huh? Thought they didn't trust us much after… y'know."
A brief silence settled over the room. Everyone remembered.
Years ago, back when the world still functioned, the Brazilian and Colombian syndicates were anything but allies. Bloody turf wars, double-crosses, and bodies left in shallow graves defined their history. But the Shift changed everything.
Now, it wasn't about loyalty or old grudges. It was about survival.
Luca shrugged, running a hand through his short dark hair. "That was before the Shift. Before the world went to hell. Now? It's just business. They need soldiers. We need resources. This deal goes smooth, we become untouchable."
The room hummed with a mix of excitement and ruthless ambition.
Luis, the youngest of the crew, leaned forward. "And if it doesn't go smooth?"
Rodrigo snorted. "Then we make sure it does."
Luca chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, kid's got a point."
He exhaled, letting the weight of their situation settle.
"We all know how this works. The world ain't gonna stay like this forever. Governments are licking their wounds now, but give them time, and they'll be back on their feet. And when they do? They'll come for us first."
Bruno cracked his knuckles. "Then we take what we can while we can."
Luca nodded. "Exactly. This ain't just about one job. This is about staying ahead. The drugs, the weapons, the money—it's not just for business. It's for what comes after. We need to be ready."
Rodrigo smirked. "And if that means playing nice with some cartel bastards, so be it."
Luca lifted his glass, swirling the dark liquid inside. "So be it."