Brooklyn, New York

As night fell over Brooklyn, the borough came alive with the chaotic energy of urban life. Neon lights bathed the streets in a kaleidoscope of colors, while a diverse mix of people—white, Black, and Asian—moved through the bustling crowds. New York City, the largest metropolis in the world, is a melting pot of cultures, and Brooklyn, its most populous borough, is home to over three million residents.

But Brooklyn is also known for its darker side. The streets are often lined with addicts, prostitutes, drunks, and gang members. Women in revealing clothing, their lips painted a bold red and faces caked in cheap makeup, smoke low-quality cigarettes as they eye the men passing by. This scene is especially common in an area known as "Hunts Point," often referred to as New York's red-light district.

South Bar, Brooklyn

Inside the South Bar, the atmosphere was electric. Strobe lights flashed, heavy metal music blared, and a singer screamed into the microphone. A stripper twisted around a pole, surrounded by men with excess testosterone and women shrieking in excitement. The bar was a microcosm of the era's impetuous.

Basement of the Bar

In a dimly lit, 30-square-meter basement, the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. A bloodied young white man lay on a hard wooden bed, barely clinging to life. A middle-aged man in a white coat, glasses perched on his nose, was sweating profusely as he tried to stitch up the young man's gaping wound. His hands trembled with nervousness.

In the corner near the door stood three men, all armed. The leader, a burly Black man, furrowed his brow in concern.

"I... I can't do it!" The bespectacled man suddenly turned to the three men by the door, swallowing hard.

The Black man looked at him expressionlessly, pulling a small black cylinder from his pocket—a silencer for his gun.

"Please, he's beyond saving..." The middle-aged man panicked, trying to back away but stumbling and falling to the ground. In his frantic movements, he knocked over a box of surgical instruments, the clattering noise piercing the silence of the basement.

Thud!

The Black man attached the silencer and fired a single shot. The middle-aged man collapsed, a bullet hole in his forehead, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

The Black man gestured to his companions. A bald white man opened the door and called out. Two men entered and dragged the body away.

"Is my brother going to make it?" the bald man asked, his eyes burning with anger.

"Wait, it's too sudden. Maybe there's still hope," the Black man replied in a low voice.

Just then, the door creaked open, and a young man in his late twenties appeared. He was clearly of Asian descent but had striking sea-blue eyes, indicating mixed heritage.

"Vincent, you're finally here," the Black man said, visibly relieved. He let the young man in and closed the door.

Vincent, dressed in a leather jacket, nodded silently and approached the bed, looking down at the barely conscious young man.

"...Save... me..." the young man whispered weakly, his lips trembling.

"Who is he?" Vincent asked.

"The doctor," the Black man replied.

Meanwhile, the bald man and the Black man exchanged a few words. The bald man stepped forward, urgency in his voice. "Can you save him?"

"Yes," Vincent said, but he didn't move immediately. Instead, he looked at the young man on the bed and added, "Robbie, your best shooter, is in bad shape this time."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Stop wasting time and save him!" the bald man snapped, raising his gun at Vincent.

Vincent frowned, turning to the bald man and then to the Black man behind him. "New guy?"

"Robbie's brother, just arrived from New Jersey... Robbie, put the gun down!" the Black man commanded.

The bald man hesitated, then reluctantly lowered his weapon.

At that moment, a sweaty man burst into the basement, breathing heavily. He handed an envelope to the Black man, who tossed it to Vincent without a second glance.

Vincent caught the envelope, opened it, and saw two stacks of crisp dollar bills. He raised an eyebrow, tucked the envelope into his pocket, and pulled out a small cloth roll from another pocket. Unrolling it, he revealed a set of surgical tools.

Vincent only carried these essentials; the rest, like gauze and disinfectants, were provided by the client. He put on sterile gloves and examined Robbie's wounds. "Four gunshot wounds, two stab wounds... he's in bad shape," he muttered to himself.

Half an hour later, Vincent left. Robbie, now bandaged and receiving a blood transfusion, was out of danger.

"Boss, who was that? Why did you pay him first?" the bald man asked.

"That's Vincent, the doctor. He's a genius, only works for gangs, charges a fortune, and demands payment upfront," the Black man explained. "He saved my life once, and Mario's too. No one in the New York underworld dares to touch him."

Mario, a legendary name in the American underworld, was the godfather of New York's largest gang.

Later That Night

Vincent hurriedly left the bar and took a cab back to his small, rundown apartment on Oak Street. He tossed the envelope onto the bed, stripped off his clothes, revealing a lean, slightly muscular frame. He grabbed a burger and milk from the fridge, sat on the bed, and turned on the TV.

The news reported an explosion at Johns Hopkins University in Maryland, with casualties still being counted. Vincent absentmindedly flipped through channels, unable to focus on any program. He turned off the TV, feeling restless.

Chewing his food, he stared at the ceiling, his mood somber.

The Next Morning

At 7:30 AM, Vincent woke up, stretched, and opened the curtains. He did some push-ups and sit-ups, then went for a run. By 8:00 AM, he was back, showered, and dressed in a sharp suit. He fixed his hair with gel and smiled at the mirror, transforming from a brooding young man into a confident, upwardly mobile professional.

He took the envelope and his briefcase, stopped by the bank to deposit the $20,000 into a designated account, and then headed to the subway. Thirty minutes later, he arrived in Manhattan, the heart of New York's financial district, home to the famous Wall Street.

Green Dot Biopharma, one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the U.S., was headquartered in a 30-story building in southern Manhattan. At 8:50 AM, Vincent arrived at the CEO's office. He wasn't the CEO, but the executive assistant.

Vincent didn't drink coffee, but he always brought a cup into the office because someone else did.

At 9:00 AM, the sound of high heels clicked down the hallway. A woman in her thirties, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, entered. She exuded a mature, commanding presence, though her stern expression made her seem unapproachable. This was Hillary Horvath, the CEO of Green Dot Biopharma.

"Boss," Vincent greeted, handing her the coffee. He quickly briefed her on the day's agenda, including a meeting with a European distributor and a financial report that needed her signature.

Hillary listened in silence, sipping her coffee. When Vincent finished, she dismissed him with a wave. "Cancel the board meeting. Have Mr. Nash come at 10:00 AM. Notify all mid-level managers of a meeting at 2:00 PM."

"Yes, boss," Vincent replied, heading to his desk.

Hillary glanced at him and called out, "Wait!"

Vincent turned. "Yes, boss?"

Your tie is hideous. Change it next time," she said, her lips curling in distaste.

Vincent looked down at his brown tie, which he thought was fine, but he nodded. "Of course, boss."

He returned to his desk, ready for another day of managing calls, handling documents, and scheduling meetings. Vincent took his job seriously; it paid him over $60,000 a month, and many in the company coveted his position. He worked diligently, ensuring he met every demand of his boss. That afternoon, during lunch, he left the office to buy a new tie.

Later That Afternoon

In the hallway outside the conference room, Vincent made a phone call. "Hi, Dr. Mien. The money was wired this morning... Yes, I know. I'll send another payment once I get my paycheck... How is she?... Good. Tell her I'll visit this weekend... Okay, bye."

He hung up and let out a long sigh.

6:00 PM

After a long day, Vincent took the subway back to his apartment in Brooklyn. He chose to live there because the rent was cheap.

Back in his small, old apartment, Vincent checked his answering machine—no messages.

Vincent's "underground business" brought him two or three clients a month. He only took on critically injured patients, specializing in gunshot and stab wounds. In other words, he worked almost exclusively for the mob. If you weren't part of the underworld, you wouldn't even know how to reach him.

Vincent, the underground doctor, was known to many in New York, but few had seen him.

For two years, Vincent had lived this double life, all to make more money.

May 20, 2025

At 7:00 AM, Vincent was jolted awake by the sudden noise outside his window.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The violent knocking on his door sent a chill down his spine. His keen sense of smell picked up the faint scent of blood. Something was wrong.