"Nottingham." Will Cannon called out Nottingham Winry's name as he slowly stood up, meeting his gaze head-on. "Now that you're here, everyon
"Nottingham."
Will Cannon called out Nottingham Winry's name as he slowly stood up, meeting his gaze head-on. "Now that you're here, everyone's gathered. We can go ahead and start the vote."
"No. I'm not here for the vote."
To everyone's surprise, Nottingham Winry, who had entered the barn alone, simply stood there and stared at Will Cannon. "Before we begin the vote, there's something I need to reveal."
"Something to reveal?"
Nottingham's words stirred murmurs throughout the barn.
What could be more important than electing a new boss after General Rick's death? With the gang's factions still unsettled, what could possibly take precedence?
Could it be that?
As the other 6th Street leaders turned their eyes toward Will Cannon, he started to get a bad feeling. But seeing that Nottingham had entered alone, and knowing that the barn was surrounded by his own men, Will forced down his unease and said with a frown, trying to sound dismissive:
"This election is important. The other gangs are already watching us like hawks. We don't have time to listen to your little announcement."
"But this needs to be said."
Nottingham's voice was firm, brooking no argument. In that moment, he revealed a side of himself that none of them had ever seen before.
No one had witnessed Nottingham Winry looking so serious. But everyone could feel it—that what he was about to say absolutely had to be heard. That ignoring him would lead to something disastrous.
The bad feeling in Will Cannon's gut only grew worse. He looked Nottingham over again. Still alone. Still surrounded by Will's men. After a moment of silence, he finally said:
"You better not waste our time."
"It'll be over quickly."
Nottingham swept his gaze across the barn before fixing his eyes directly on Will Cannon.
That's when Will's dread peaked.
"I'm here," Nottingham said clearly, "to reveal who killed Rick."
What?!
The entire barn seemed to explode in shock at Nottingham's words. Like a bomb had just gone off.
He was going to expose the killer—here? Now?
All of the 6th Street captains turned to look at Will Cannon. None of them had ever confirmed it, but they all had their suspicions. It was simple logic: whoever gained the most from Rick's death was the most likely suspect. That kind of reasoning didn't always work in official investigations—but in gangs? It was right more often than not.
And when they saw the expression on Will Cannon's face—any lingering doubt they had disappeared completely.
His face was twisted in fury—so much so that anyone who knew Will Cannon could immediately tell what was going through his mind.
Will hadn't risen through the gang by charm or strategy alone. He was a powerhouse, known for his brutal victories against rival gangs. And whenever he wore that expression, it meant someone was about to die—shredded, pulped, or worse.
Right now, he was staring at Nottingham Winry with that look.
All Nottingham had done was say he was going to name Rick's killer. He hadn't even said who yet. And Will was already prepared to kill him.
No one was surprised. Nottingham was a stickler for the rules—if he said he had proof, he almost certainly did.
Who leaked it? Will fumed internally. I oversaw the entire thing myself. I even killed the guy who handled it afterward. So how did he get any evidence?!
Will now believed Nottingham had the kind of proof that could destroy him. If it got out—forget becoming boss. He might not even survive the fallout.
The 6th Street Gang might've changed, but one rule hadn't: they still weren't Maelstrom or the Animals. You didn't just rise to power through brute force. Appearances still mattered. And someone proven to have murdered the previous boss—whether directly or by proxy—was automatically disqualified.
Everyone might have guessed Will was the killer. But guesses were fine. As long as there was no proof, everything stayed under control. But if Nottingham showed that proof…
Some of the old-timers were still around. Real veterans. Men who fought in the Fourth Corporate War over fifty years ago. Even some of the gang's founders were still alive.
Will Cannon could not allow Nottingham to speak. He had to be silenced—now—before he could reveal anything. If Nottingham died in the middle of the meeting, they could write it off as an internal dispute. Better than being outed as a traitor and a murderer.
And best of all, Will didn't even need to do it himself.
He subtly signaled a sharpshooter stationed on the second floor of the barn.
The man was one of Will's plants, assigned to another captain's team. If he pulled the trigger, Will could even pin the whole thing on that captain. One less rival to deal with.
As everyone waited anxiously for Nottingham to speak again, the sharpshooter in the shadows slowly drew a Kenshin pistol—easy to pass off as Tiger Claw tech—aiming it squarely at Nottingham's back.
His finger reached the trigger.
But before he could pull it—someone pressed his hand down.
BANG!
A gunshot rang out, slamming into the barn floor. Everyone jumped in shock.
What happened?!
As they turned toward the source of the sound, they saw a blond young man with a thin mustache standing on the second floor—someone long since exiled from 6th Street.
His hand was gripping the shooter's wrist.
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