Iverson wrapped his hand firmly around Brenda's elbow, supporting her weight as they walked out of the shop. He pulled the heavy glass door shut and turned the key in the deadbolt.

Brenda tried to jerk her arm away. "I can walk, Iverson. I'm not an invalid."

Iverson didn't let go. His grip was like a steel vise, gentle but entirely immovable. He kept his hand firmly under her elbow, guiding her down the cracked sidewalk.

They walked slowly past a row of dead businesses. Plywood boards covered the windows of the old bakery and the laundromat.

Brenda stared at the wooden boards. Her shoulders slumped. The fear of ending up exactly like those empty storefronts was written all over her face.

Iverson felt the shift in her energy. His chest tightened. He needed to pull her out of her head.

"So," Iverson said, his voice dry. "Did you like the megaphone? I got it for twenty bucks. I was thinking of using it as my new alarm clock."

Brenda's head snapped toward him. Her eyes flashed with irritation. She reached up and smacked the back of his head with her open palm. "You little shit."

Iverson ducked, pretending the slap actually hurt. He rubbed the back of his head, but a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

They reached the intersection.

Suddenly, the roar of a modified engine tore through the street. A matte-black Dodge Charger sped around the corner, its tires squealing against the asphalt. The windows were rolled down, revealing a car full of men covered in neck tattoos.

An empty glass beer bottle flew out of the passenger window.

It shattered against the curb, inches from Brenda's feet. Shards of brown glass exploded across the sidewalk.

Iverson reacted on pure instinct. He grabbed Brenda by the shoulders and shoved her behind his back, shielding her body with his own. His eyes tracked the taillights of the Charger, his gaze turning into pure, frozen murder.

Brenda gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric of his gray hoodie. She was shaking.

Iverson turned around. He forced the lethal coldness out of his eyes and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "It's fine. Just some drunk idiots. You okay?"

He didn't wait for her answer. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

He shifted his eyes to the corner of the street. Two men in dark jackets were leaning against a brick wall, smoking. They weren't looking at the shattered glass. They were looking dead at Iverson and Brenda.

Iverson recognized them instantly. They were Rocco's lookouts.

A violent surge of adrenaline pumped through Iverson's veins. His heart hammered against his ribs. He knew exactly what this meant. Rocco was hunting them.

He didn't let his face change. He couldn't let Brenda panic.

He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, practically lifting her off her feet, and forced her to walk faster. "Let's go. The market is just ahead."

The wholesale warehouse was a massive, decaying concrete building. The exterior paint was peeling off in huge, gray flakes.

They walked toward a rusted metal side door beneath a faded yellow sign that read EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE. Iverson pulled it open, and they stepped into a dimly lit, industrial corridor. The air inside was heavy, smelling strongly of damp cardboard and mildew.

They walked toward the main passenger elevators. A yellow plastic sign hung over the doors: OUT OF ORDER.

Brenda let out a frustrated sigh. She pointed a shaking finger down a dark hallway to their left. "We have to use the freight elevator in the back."

Iverson nodded. He kept his arm around her as they walked down the narrow, windowless corridor.

The motion-sensor lights above them were failing. They flickered violently, buzzing with a sharp electrical hiss that made Iverson's teeth ache.

He walked silently, placing his feet carefully so his sneakers made zero noise. He was listening. Straining his ears for any sound behind them.

They reached the heavy metal doors of the freight elevator. Iverson pressed the up button.

The digital display lit up red. The elevator was on the third floor, slowly making its way down.

Then, he heard it.

The heavy, metal fire door at the entrance of the hallway groaned open.

Iverson's spine locked. Every muscle in his body instantly coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

The sound of heavy boots hitting the concrete floor echoed down the narrow hallway. It wasn't one person. It was multiple. And they were walking with aggressive, deliberate purpose.

Ding.

The elevator arrived. The massive metal doors slowly began to slide open.

The freight elevator doors parted completely. The massive steel box was empty.

Iverson turned to guide Brenda inside, but the heavy footsteps behind them suddenly stopped.

"Well, look what we have here."

The voice was thick, wet, and dripping with malice.

Iverson slowly turned around.

Rocco Gorski stepped out of the shadows, flanked by three massive goons. Rocco's face was scarred, and his neck was covered in faded prison ink. In his right hand, he was casually flipping a butterfly knife. The silver blade caught the flickering overhead light, flashing dangerously.

Brenda let out a choked gasp. All the color drained from her face. She instinctively grabbed the back of Iverson's hoodie, trying to hide behind his tall frame.

Rocco stopped about ten feet away. A cruel, ugly smirk stretched across his face.

He pointed the tip of the knife directly at Brenda. "Rent's due, Brenda. Protection fee. Plus the late penalty for making me walk all the way down here to find you."

Brenda's voice shook, but she forced herself to speak. "I paid you last week, Rocco! You know I did."

One of Rocco's men, a guy built like a brick wall, stepped forward and spit a thick wad of saliva onto the concrete floor.

Rocco laughed. "Rates went up. Inflation, baby. You don't have the cash right now? That's fine. We'll just go back to your little shop and smash everything inside until we feel compensated."

Iverson stood perfectly still. His face was a mask of absolute calm, but underneath, his blood was boiling.

He slowly slid his right hand into the deep front pocket of his hoodie. His fingers wrapped around the hard plastic handle of the megaphone. He calculated the distance. Ten feet. Four targets. One weapon.

Rocco finally seemed to notice the kid standing in front of Brenda. He looked Iverson up and down, taking in the clean clothes and the lean, athletic build.

Rocco sneered. "Who the hell is this? Your little boy toy? Move out of the way, pretty boy, before I carve a smile into your face."

Iverson didn't speak. He didn't blink. He simply shifted his weight, stepping fully in front of Brenda, completely blocking Rocco's path to her.

Rocco's face flushed red with sudden rage. He hated being ignored.

He lunged forward, his heavy boots stomping on the concrete. He reached out with his left hand, aiming to grab Brenda by her hair and rip her away from Iverson.

The moment Rocco's hand crossed the invisible line, the dead look in Iverson's eyes vanished.

He became a monster.

Iverson's left hand shot out faster than a rattlesnake strike. His fingers clamped down on Rocco's thick wrist like a steel trap.

Rocco gasped, his eyes widening in shock. He tried to yank his arm back, but the teenager's grip was impossible. The physical strength radiating from Iverson's hand was terrifying.

In the same split second, Iverson used his right hand to shove Brenda backward.

He didn't shove her blindly. Instead, his right hand clamped onto her shoulder, pulling her out of the line of fire. With a surge of irresistible but calculated force, he guided her backward into the empty elevator car, using his own body to buffer her momentum so she wouldn't lose her footing. Brenda screamed as she stumbled backward, landing safely inside the steel box.

Iverson released Rocco's wrist and took a quick half-step back.

He raised his right leg and kicked the elevator's exterior control panel with devastating force.

The plastic panel shattered. Sparks exploded from the broken wires. The safety mechanism triggered, and the heavy metal elevator doors instantly began to slide shut.

"Iverson!" Brenda screamed from inside the car, scrambling to her feet, her hands reaching out for him.

Iverson looked at her through the narrowing gap. His eyes were soft for a fraction of a second. He gave her a single, firm nod.

Boom.

The metal doors slammed shut, locking together. The gears ground loudly as the elevator began to ascend.

Iverson was alone in the hallway with four angry gang members.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and tossed the megaphone onto the floor. It clattered against the concrete.

He rolled his shoulders back. He tilted his head to the left, then to the right. The joints in his neck cracked loudly in the quiet hallway.

Rocco stared at the closed elevator doors, his face twisting into a mask of pure, humiliated rage. He pointed the butterfly knife at Iverson.

"Kill him," Rocco spat. "Break his legs."

The two goons standing behind Rocco roared and charged forward simultaneously, one from the left, one from the right.

Iverson didn't back away. The adrenaline in his blood felt like liquid fire. He stepped directly into their path.

The goon on the left swung a massive, looping right hook aimed straight at Iverson's temple. Iverson simply dropped his center of gravity. The heavy fist sliced through the empty air, the wind of the punch ruffling Iverson's hair.

As he ducked, Iverson planted his left foot and drove his right fist upward in a brutal, flawless uppercut.

His knuckles connected dead center with the right goon's jaw.

The sound of teeth shattering echoed loudly in the narrow corridor. The man's eyes rolled back into his head instantly. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the concrete like a dropped sack of cement.

The left goon froze for a fraction of a second, his brain failing to process how fast his partner had just been put to sleep.

That one second was all Iverson needed.

He pivoted on his heel, using the momentum of his previous punch to spin his body. He launched a devastating roundhouse kick. His shin connected with the left goon's ribcage with a sickening crack.

The man screamed, the air violently forced from his lungs. He flew backward, crashing hard against the cinderblock wall before sliding to the floor, clutching his broken ribs and gasping for air.

Two down. Five seconds.

Rocco and the third goon stood paralyzed. The reality of the violence had just shifted completely.

Iverson's cold eyes scanned the hallway. In the corner, next to the elevator, sat a yellow janitorial cart. Sticking out of the bucket was a heavy-duty mop with a thick metal handle.

Iverson lunged for it. He grabbed the metal pole, pulled it out, and slammed the wet mop head onto the floor. He stepped on the plastic base and violently yanked the metal pole upward. The plastic snapped.

He now held a four-foot, thick aluminum pole. It was heavy, industrial-grade metal, completely unforgiving.

The third goon pulled a black steel baton from his jacket and rushed forward with a battle cry.

Iverson didn't even turn his body completely. He gripped the pole with both hands and thrust it backward like a spear.

The blunt end of the aluminum pole drove deep into the third goon's stomach.

All the breath left the man's body in a wet gasp. He folded forward, instantly dropping his baton. Before he could hit the ground, Iverson whipped the pole around and brought it down viciously on the back of the man's knees.

The goon dropped to the floor, screaming in agony, completely disabled.

Now, it was just Rocco.

Rocco's hand was shaking so violently the blade of his butterfly knife vibrated. He was backing away, his eyes wide with absolute terror.

Iverson lowered the thick metal handle. He let the tip drag against the concrete floor. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The sound was slow, rhythmic, and terrifying. He walked toward Rocco like a predator cornering a wounded animal.

Rocco screamed, a desperate, high-pitched sound, and lunged forward, thrusting the knife wildly toward Iverson's chest.

Iverson's eyes were dead. He stepped slightly to the right, letting the blade miss him by inches.

With a fluid, merciless motion, Iverson swung the heavy aluminum pole. It smashed directly into Rocco's right wrist.

The bone snapped with a loud pop.

Rocco shrieked like a slaughtered pig. The knife clattered to the floor. He grabbed his broken wrist, falling to his knees.

Iverson didn't stop. He stepped behind Rocco, dropped the pole horizontally across the man's throat, and pulled back, placing him in a brutal chokehold.

Rocco gagged, his hands clawing uselessly at the metal pole crushing his windpipe.

Iverson leaned down. His lips brushed against Rocco's ear. His voice was a terrifying, quiet whisper.

"If you ever look at Brenda again," Iverson breathed, "I won't break your wrist. I'll break your neck. Do you understand me?"

Rocco nodded frantically, tears and snot streaming down his face, choking on his own saliva.

Suddenly, the piercing wail of police sirens erupted from outside the building. Heavy boots slammed against the lobby floor below.

The cops were here.