London, 2024. The gray sky spat a fine, constant drizzle, as if the entire city was weeping without permission. The eastern streets were soaked, gleaming like dirty mirrors under the orange streetlights, and the vapor from old engines floated between the alleys like ghosts from another time. In the heart of Hackney, where misery and crime were part of the urban furniture, walked Jaxon Wells, his hood drenched and his pockets empty.
Jaxon was seventeen, but his eyes had seen more of the world than many adults could imagine. He was born into a broken home, motherless since he was eight, and with a father who had ended up behind bars when he could barely grasp what "abandonment" meant. He understood it later, in the cold winters with no heating, in the empty plates, in the looks of the social workers who came and went without changing anything.
Life had pushed him to survive. Petty theft, school fights, expulsions, juvenile detention. None of that scared him. In fact, it had hardened him. By fifteen he already knew how to break into cars, pickpocket without being seen, and sell stolen goods in Dalston's black markets. But now, at seventeen, he was done just surviving. He wanted more.
That night, walking among the graffiti-covered red-brick blocks, he headed to Marcus Fletch's old garage. Marcus was a former soldier turned ringleader of a small local criminal network known as the Crowford. They weren't a major syndicate, but they controlled drugs, extortion, and street-level dealing in Hackney Central and parts of Stoke Newington. Marcus had seen something useful in Jaxon: obedience, coldness, and a silent ambition.
Jaxon knocked on the metal door with three sharp taps. Instantly, a familiar face appeared through a peephole.
—It's the Wells kid —grumbled a rough voice. The door creaked open, letting out the smell of tobacco, motor oil, and sweat.
Inside, the garage was poorly lit. At the back, Marcus sat on a swivel chair, a beer in one hand and a disassembled gun on the table. He was bald, around forty-five, with military tattoos on his arms and a damaged eye that blinked on its own. When he saw Jaxon, he smirked without humor.
—I knew you'd be back —said Marcus—. Kids like you don't last long without a purpose.
Jaxon didn't respond immediately. He pulled off his hood and wrung out a bit of water from his coat.
—I need work. And you need someone who doesn't talk and gets things done.
Marcus watched him, then let out a dry chuckle.
—Alright. I've got something for you. Simple, but important. A delivery.
An Assignment on the Edge of Crime
The "delivery" wasn't what Jaxon expected. Marcus handed him a black backpack and an address in Tottenham. He didn't say what was inside. "Don't open it. Don't ask. Just give the bag to the guy in the red cap." Jaxon nodded. He was nervous, but didn't show it. It was his first time carrying something for Marcus. If it went well, he could start climbing.
The tube ride was long. Along the way, he observed passengers' faces, wondering if anyone could tell what he carried. No one looked at him. In a city like London, indifference was the first law of the jungle.
Once in Tottenham, he headed to the address. It was a semi-abandoned park, with rusty swings and broken benches. There stood the man in the red cap—tall, thin, with a scar on his neck. Jaxon approached cautiously.
—I've got your stuff —he said, keeping his voice low.
The man looked at him, then held out his hand. Jaxon handed over the backpack. The man opened it slightly, looked inside, and nodded.
—Well done. Go back to Marcus.
The Door to the Irreversible
When he returned, Marcus was waiting with a lopsided grin.
—You delivered, kid. Welcome officially to the Crowford.
He handed him an envelope of cash.
—Fifty quid for this one. Next time it'll be double. Keep this up, you'll have your own crew soon.
That night, Jaxon didn't sleep. He stared at the envelope of cash on his kitchen table, in the dingy room he rented with cash. Something had changed. It wasn't just the money. It was the feeling of having crossed a line.
The City as a Mirror of the Soul
The following days brought more assignments. Surveillance, package drops, intimidation of a shopkeeper who refused to pay "protection." Marcus began to trust him. The other guys—Dean and Rami—looked at him with silent respect. Jaxon had found his place. Or so he thought.
One night, while overseeing a deal on a side street in Clapton, he heard shouting. Something had gone wrong. He ran to the scene and found Rami on the ground, bleeding from his abdomen. Dean was struggling with a masked man. Jaxon didn't hesitate. He pulled the knife Marcus had given him and lunged.
The fight was clumsy, violent, and messy. Punches, screams, blood. Jaxon ended up stabbing the attacker in the shoulder, who then fled cursing. Dean was gasping, shaking, while Jaxon pressed down on Rami's wound.
—Call Marcus! —he yelled.
That night, Rami survived. Barely. Marcus showed up furious, but seeing Jaxon bloodied and still trembling, he only said:
—You've proven you're not a kid. Now you're really in.
The First Betrayal
Days later, Jaxon was summoned to a safe house in north Hackney. There waited a new guy—Lyle, a pale Irishman with murky eyes and a fake smile. Marcus introduced them.
—Lyle's in charge of the northern routes. I want you to assist him.
Jaxon nodded, though something about the guy felt off. They worked together for a week. Lyle talked too much, complained even more, and seemed to know too much about everything. One night during a delivery, the police raided. Jaxon and Lyle fled through alleys, but Lyle vanished. Jaxon ran, hid in a dumpster, and escaped by seconds.
When he got back, Marcus was already waiting.
—The cops weren't coincidence. Lyle talked. Sold us out.
Jaxon clenched his fists.
—What do you want me to do?
Marcus looked him straight in the eye.
—Find him. And do what needs to be done.
The End of Innocence
Jaxon found Lyle two days later, at a bar in Camden. He followed him into an alley. There, he confronted him. Lyle laughed.
—You? A little shit like you?
Jaxon didn't reply. He pulled the knife. Fear wrapped around him, but rage was stronger.
—You used me. Sold us out.
—It was a job, kid. That's how this world works.
—Then the world's collecting now.
The fight was quick. Lyle was stronger, but Jaxon was faster. He stabbed him in the leg, then the chest. He didn't kill him, but left him out of the game. When he returned to Marcus, the man simply nodded.
—You did good. You learned the most important rule: trust only what you control.
End of Chapter 1