Marion was a small-time street boss in Hell's Kitchen's 39th Street. Back when Frank was still alive, Marion had a firm grip on the marijuana trade in his immediate area.
He wasn't high up the ladder. Premium product like powder or ice was beyond his reach, and he didn't have the nerve to move that kind of merchandise on Frank's turf anyway. Life wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible either—even when the cops picked him up, the charges were minor enough that he'd be back on the street within days.
But now Frank was dead, and Marion's mind was racing with possibilities. He was self-aware enough to know the throne of New York's underworld was out of his reach. He had no illusions about that.
What Marion wanted was simple: the right to sell powder on 39th Street.
Before now, not just 39th—the entire powder trade across Manhattan and greater New York had been run exclusively by people Frank personally approved. Frank might allow middlemen to buy from him, but he absolutely forbade anyone from smuggling in product from outside the city. That had been the privilege of the top boss.
Marion was sharp enough to understand the risk calculus. Getting caught with marijuana meant a few days until bail. Getting caught with powder meant decades behind bars—maybe a century of consecutive sentences.
So he'd been content as a small-time neighborhood king, owning the weed trade on his block, with no interest in picking at the scraps Frank left behind.
But the situation had completely changed. With Frank dead, the Frank Gang was visibly fracturing.
In truth, the power structure shouldn't have collapsed this fast—the real problem was how Frank had died. The circumstances were humiliating. It had shattered the fearsome reputation Frank had spent years building, and people's respect for the Frank Gang evaporated along with it.
Probing attacks came one after another against what remained of the gang. And the shocking thing was—the Frank Gang offered almost no resistance. The organization that had once seemed iron-disciplined and formidable turned out to be a hollow shell.
Marion didn't know that another major player had intervened. But he understood one thing clearly: his moment had arrived.
He was already the neighborhood kingpin of 39th Street. Take out a few competitors, and the entire block's drug trade was his. Then reach out to some Mexican suppliers for powder, and green cash would rain down on him like a monsoon. With serious money, buying off police and expanding territory became trivial.
That was exactly how Frank the crime boss had publicly built his empire.
Maybe Marion could become a second Frank. No—not a second Frank. Marion the First.
Fired up by the vision, Marion started recruiting.
But when he actually tried to put the plan into motion, he discovered his personal war chest was bone dry—empty enough for mice to run laps in. And his existing crew, while decent enough at selling weed, would probably drop their guns the moment a real firefight started.
While he was burning with frustration, a thought suddenly struck him: his "little friend" — a Black high school kid.
He'd once tried to use those students to push marijuana. But before anything came of it, the school confiscated and destroyed the product. It was around that time that Marion had a personal awakening of sorts. After one particular night, he and the strapping young man had developed a much deeper "connection."
And so, after a thorough "conversation," Marion decided to recruit student soldiers.
Tonight was the night they were supposed to gather. Tonight was supposed to be the time to go to war.
But Marion waited and waited at the agreed spot, and not a single person showed up—not even his own guy.
With no other option, Marion took his remaining crew and went looking for his own guy, Pinas.
Marion had barely reached the base of a run-down apartment building when he spotted Pinas's friend, Morris.
"Morris! Stop right there! Where's Pinas? I waited for him all afternoon and he never showed!"
Morris—the same Morris who had once tried to block President Maya's path—had spotted Marion from a distance. His first instinct had been to keep his head down and slip past. But the gang boss had eyes like a hawk and recognized him instantly.
Now, caught under that direct question, Morris felt a cold knot form in his gut.
"Boss Marion, please, don't stress—Pinas is home right now, you can go see him yourself!" he blurted, already backpedaling. Before Marion could say another word, Morris broke into a run up the apartment stairs, shouting over his shoulder: "I'll go tell him you're here!"
Marion was done waiting. He'd had enough of it today. He took the stairs himself, his crew in tow—he'd been to Pinas's place before and knew the way.
The door swung open, and Marion recoiled.
"Oh my God! Pinas, what the hell happened to you? What happened to you—you look like several hundred guys drained you completely dry!"
And that wasn't an exaggeration. Pinas looked absolutely wrecked. His eyes were hollow, his body limp—but more alarming was the color of his face. His normally dark skin had taken on an ashen, grayish-white pallor.
"Mar... Mar... Marion... boss... I'm sorry. I'm... too... tired. I need... rest. Come back... tomorrow. We'll talk... tomorrow."
Pinas struggled through those words, then face-planted onto his bed and didn't move again.
Marion stood frozen, mouth open. He wanted to explode—but looking at the state of Pinas, he couldn't even manage it. The guy was genuinely destroyed. He hadn't even showered—still reeking of sweat, collapsed on the mattress. His eyes were still rolling around in their sockets, so he hadn't passed out, but the rest of him was completely gone.
"What happened to you?"
Pinas let out a low groan and said nothing.
"We're supposed to hit the S boys tonight. You know that, right?" Marion snapped.
Another muffled groan. Nothing else.
"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Don't think sleeping with me gives you the right to pull this crap!" Marion's face twisted with fury.
Groan. Silence.
"The hell is wrong with you?!" Marion stepped forward and slapped Pinas across the face several times.
Pinas let out a sound that wasn't even a groan anymore. Nothing.
Watching Pinas lie there completely unmoved, Marion finally hit his limit.
He was a ruthless boss. He yanked the Browning from his waistband, racked the slide with a sharp click, and leveled the barrel at Pinas's head.
"Talk. What happened?"
Pinas's large eyes filled with tears. Whether it was grief over a changed friendship or pure terror that his life was about to end, it was impossible to say.
"I... I ran... thirty... kilometers (18.6 miles) today. I've got... nothing left. Someone... carried me... home."
Marion stared at him. Then it clicked.
This man had just run thirty kilometers. He had nothing left in him—couldn't even walk back on his own two feet.
"You absolute moron! A marathon is only 40 kilometers (24.9 miles)! What were you thinking?! You knew we had work tonight! We had a future in front of us—real money, real power—and you went and ran a marathon instead?! What, are you trying to become an athlete?!" Marion erupted.