Chapter 837: The Red Hood (Part 2)

The kids of the Tailhook Gang, carrying all sorts of packages and dragging various boxes, left along the corner of the street.

Fortunately, the wasteland behind the warehouse had not been included in the renovation zone; at its edge still lay a small patch of trees, where they could only huddle for the night.

As soon as they reached the trees beside the wasteland, Jason saw another group of children approaching; the Tailhook kids, just settled, immediately grew wary—the two largest boys pulled out their guns, and the opposing group also looked startled.

"Jason?? What are you doing here too? Were you kicked out too?!" A tall Black boy stepped forward and said: "Aren't you guys the strongest kid gang on that street?"

His tone held no mockery, only surprise—this kid gang barely numbered a dozen, all thin and weak, the kind that ranked at the bottom.

"Yoan, were you kicked out too?" Jason walked up and said: "If I'm not mistaken, your Birch Gang must've been driven off too—they had two motorcycles before…"

The Black boy named Yoan nodded: "Yeah, we were all expelled. Word is, it's some kind of relocation program…"

He shook his head again: "We got slots, but the gang members don't want us living there. They can rent out empty houses for high rent—do nothing and still make money."

Jason glanced at the kids behind him, then said to Yoan: "Come over here. We're setting up tents. Together, we'll be stronger."

Yoan said nothing—he knew his gang was weak, and now that he could latch onto Jason was already good luck. Everyone knew Jason was the smartest kid leader here.

The other kids went to set up tents, but Jason pulled Yoan and Six-Finger Boss Lady aside, going out to the wasteland beyond the trees. Jason looked left and right: "This won't work. We'll die out here."

Before Yoan could speak, Jason said: "This is only Phase One. Phase Two might cover most of the East District. Phase Three could finish transforming the entire East District and the docks. Where will we go then?"

"The cops in the South and West won't let us in. The North? Forget it—full of gang bosses. Where else? The sea?"

"And the younger kids need stable lives. They starve fast. Without a stable base, we can't work. Without work, they have nothing to eat. They'll starve to death—and when they die, we'll grow weaker still."

"But what can we do?" Yoan raised his voice: "The gangs won't let us back. Every extra person takes a room, costs them forty or fifty dollars a month in rent—that's forty or fifty dollars…"

Jason took a deep breath: "There's another way."

"What way?" Six-Finger Boss Lady asked. She seemed to sense it.

Jason turned, looking at the kids setting up tents. Their faces showed sorrow, but no despair. In truth, they'd endured this many times before.

The Tailhook Gang hadn't been born in this neighborhood. Jason took over and moved them here. Their old street gang was brutal—he barely got them out alive.

Later, the street they settled on was too poor to find work, couldn't feed the gang. After wandering, they came here, held their ground, and in just one year became one of the top two kid gangs.

Though they felt sorrow, they still had hope—because Jason was still here, still leading them to a new home.

But Jason knew they wouldn't get a new home.

As soon as the newspaper broke the news, every gang saw the situation: fewer people in their territory meant more empty rooms, more rent.

Jason felt fear. He didn't understand who made this rule—because he realized it was digging up the gangs' roots.

Fewer people meant more resources per person. Would they unite? Share fairly? No. The more they wanted, the fewer people they needed.

They didn't think: without kid gangs, there's no fresh blood, no bottom-tier members—then force falters. Without mid-tier members, finances collapse. Without other top-tier members, the gang structure shatters.

They only thought: one less person, one more room, one more income. Ten less people, ten more incomes. If all the houses were theirs, moving into the rich district was just around the corner.

Jason saw someone had stabbed the gangs in the back—but gave them an anesthetic. They only saw luxurious homes, convenient transport, rent rising daily, land values soaring.

They didn't see: those they drove out were their own future.

But Jason saw it. He understood: if past humiliations and exploitation could be endured, this situation left no room for retreat.

Capital would devour anyone who drifted along, drive them from the land they were born on, strip them of home, property, everything.

Those who gained all this felt no shame, showed no pity. They thought it was all natural.

It seemed they could still wander, still search for a new home—but in truth, they had nowhere to go, no path left.

The gangs here would drive them out, claim more houses. Gangs elsewhere would do the same. In the end, streets would be given to street vendors for profit, houses to gangs for rent, jobs to those with stable housing, food to those with money.

They would lose everything—and who could they blame?

At that point, they'd only blame themselves: for having no money, no job, no home; for not trying hard enough; for lacking talent.

Those who never read those books, never understood this truth, would just repeat these words and march to their graves.

But Jason refused this fate. He didn't want these kids to accept it either.

But now, reading was too late. They had no luxury for education. Or rather, Jason remembered something Schiller had told him: learning through practice was never too late.

"What are you planning?" Six-Finger Boss Lady asked. "Don't do anything stupid. My injury? It was from a gang member on my boyfriend's street. He abandoned me, refused to help. I don't even want to think of him…"

"Yes. We shouldn't look to anyone. Don't expect them to pity us for any reason." Jason's tone grew colder. He looked at Yoan and Six-Finger Boss Lady:

"What we need, we must take ourselves."

Night fell, the stars deepened. Gotham had rarely been so dry—perhaps the storm days had swept away the clouds, or perhaps nature had granted quiet for the cries of the weak.

On the roof of a low building, a gang boss in a suit sat in a leather armchair, reading the paper. He took a puff of his cigar: "All the kids driven out? How many were there?"

"Twenty-six, boss. Freed up twenty-six rooms."

The gang boss chuckled: "Thanks to these little bastards—sucked my blood for years, finally gone. Left me a nice payout."

"Look at how hot the Hell's Kitchen market is now. These houses? No trouble renting. Ten dollars is the floor price. I've already lined up with the boss on the western street—we'll raise prices together. No third street will dare lag behind…"

The gang members hurried to flatter him. They were just a small gang—barely a dozen men, two or three hundred dollars a month income. But after renovation, rent alone could bring over a thousand. Maybe even his salary would rise.

"By the way," the gang boss waved a finger: "Since we'll have rent income now, we don't need the dock route anymore. Car repairs are a bottomless pit—why bother?"

"Who's in charge of that route? Fire him. But I'll split half his salary among you…"

"Also, I heard Hell's Kitchen's security is managed jointly by big gangs. Then, cut half the guards we had watching the door…"

The roommates glanced at each other, then nodded: "True. I heard the small gangs in Hell's Kitchen don't need so many people. Fewer people, fewer problems…"

No sooner had he finished than a commotion rose from below. The gang boss's face darkened. Several members rushed out to check.

Soon, only the boss remained. Then, a noise came from the balcony. The boss cautiously drew his pistol—but it was Six-Finger Boss Lady.

"Don't shoot! Boss, I've got urgent news!" She looked frantic: "The gang next door is in trouble. I came to warn you—it's about the relocation. Life or death!"

Seeing a girl, bandaged arm, someone he'd seen on the street—probably a kid gang member—and hearing urgency, his guard lowered half. "What is it? Why rush here?"

Six-Finger Boss Lady glanced around, lowered her voice: "When we left this street today, we passed by the next gang's place. Heard one of their accountants say—the relocation plan has changed…"

The gang boss frowned: "Changed? What changed?"

But Six-Finger Boss Lady hesitated: "Boss, you kicked us out. We have nowhere to live. The kids are starving. We need money—right now."

The gang boss snorted: "You want to bargain with me? You little bastards have bled me for years. We're being generous letting you go!"

"I know you dream of your own house. But I tell you—you're daydreaming. Every house here is mine. Starve? Freeze? Who cares? Die sooner—it'd be better."

Six-Finger Boss Lady's face grew cold. She said: "We worked for you over a year. Delivered countless tips. Without Jason, would you have controlled the dock route?"

"Jason?" The boss sneered, slumping back into his chair, chambering a round. "That brat? Thought he was so smart. But look—he's gone too. Thinks he'll become some big shot, live in a mansion? Dream on!"

"You vermin from the bottom? You'll never own a house. Starve daily—it keeps you quiet. Let you eat well? How would I survive?"

Six-Finger Boss Lady stared silently. The gang boss felt a chill—he realized her gaze looked at him like a dead man.

As he rose, a shadow fell over his head. A rope slipped over his face, tightening around his throat.

Emerging from the shadow was Jason's cold expression.

His face was calm. He said nothing. But his hands, gripping the umbrella strap, bulged with veins.

The gang boss clawed at his neck, kicked, flailed—then his eyes bulged, tongue protruded, chest stopped rising. Six-Finger Boss Lady covered her mouth.

Jason held the umbrella strap with all his strength, never loosening. In that moment, the dying life moved him not at all. For the first time, he bore the sin of murder—no longer innocent.

In normal society, murder is illegal. In gang rules, kid gangs must not resist. But as the rope bit into the boss's flesh, nearly snapping his cervical spine, Jason never once considered letting go. He knew—he had to do this. He'd always wanted to.

His fingers loosened slightly. The umbrella strap fell to the floor. The clasp clattered—sharp, deafening.

"Boom." Gotham's night rain finally came. In a nondescript window of the low building, lamplight glowed on a red hood—like Gotham's sunset.

"Why wear that hood?" Six-Finger Boss Lady asked.

Jason's reply, through the glass, pierced Gotham's rainy night—like a late spring thunderclap.

"Because I like the color of the hood."