They didn't start with guns.
They started with bikes.
Two nights after the rooftop pact, Zay and Keys met behind the abandoned rec center on 49th. The building was gutted years ago—tagged-up walls, broken glass crunching under every step. But the alley behind it was quiet, dark, and just out of camera range.
Keys popped the lid off a manhole-sized storm drain and pulled out his stash: bolt cutters, a crowbar, a dented laptop with Wi-Fi jack tools duct-taped to the lid, and a burner phone that looked like it survived a war.
"You ready?" he asked, grin wild.
Zay just nodded and slid on a mask. "Show me."
---
Their target was a rental e-bike hub two blocks over. Nothing major—just city-owned bikes people used to get around without cars. Each one had a tracker and a smart lock.
Most people thought they were unstealable.
Most people didn't know Keys.
In less than two minutes, he disabled the GPS on two of them. By the third, he was humming.
Zay kept watch, eyes locked on every passing headlight. He wasn't paranoid. He was calculating.
Three bikes. Clean. No alerts. Off-grid.
The next move was old-school.
They stripped the bikes for parts, replaced the trackers with blank chips from a sketchy Reddit tutorial, then reassembled them in a friend's basement.
By sunrise, they'd flipped the bikes to a local delivery crew for $150 each.
"Yo," Keys said, counting out the cash. "That's four-fifty for one night."
Zay didn't smile. But his eyes sharpened.
Not bad for kids with nothing but stolen tools and anger.
---
They did it again two nights later. Then again. Then they started customizing the bikes—spray paint, false decals, even cutting in glove compartments for "drops."
By the end of the week, they had $1,200 split between them. Enough for burner phones, better masks, and a cheap storage unit near the docks.
"We ain't even touched the real game yet," Keys said, laying on the floor of their tiny rented space. "We're just in the prologue."
Zay didn't answer right away.
Instead, he pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote something down.
A name. A symbol.
"What's that?" Keys asked.
Zay turned it toward him. A jagged flame drawn in red ink. Beneath it, two words:
Cinder Crew.
Keys smirked. "That's hard."
Zay folded it once and put it in his jacket.
"One day, they'll say it with fear."
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