The Miami dusk had a strange way of stretching its limbs over the concrete like a sleeping beast, restless and waiting. Neon signs buzzed in the shadows, and the heavy bass of underground clubs throbbed through the cracked windows of half-abandoned streets. Down on 6th and Calderon, the engine of a Harley Davidson growled like it knew something was coming. Felix sat on it, helmet in hand, calmly watching the alley across the road as Ivan lit up his second cigarette of the evening.
"Fucker's late," Ivan muttered, exhaling a trail of smoke into the gold-streaked sky.
"He'll show," Felix replied, running a hand over the fuel tank of the bike. "They always do when they owe us money."
Ivan smirked, the kind of smirk that promised chaos. "And when they don't?"
"We make them wish they did."
A couple of years back, they were nobodies. Now, they were whispers in the alleys, rumors in smoke-filled pool halls. And yet, to themselves, they were just Fernando and Eric. Friends since the age of bruised knees and shared secrets. But the streets never cared about childhoods.
The dealer eventually showed, hands shaking, reeking of sweat and something sour.
"Chill, man. I-I got it," he stuttered, eyes flicking to the twin holsters beneath Ivan's open jacket.
Ivan didn't blink. "You're three days late."
"I had to move weight. Cops been crawling like ants since that motel burn."
Felix stepped off the bike, not raising his voice. "Next time you bring excuses, bring a priest too. You'll need the fucking prayers."
The cash was handed over, thick with grime and fear. As the dealer scurried off, Ivan chuckled. "You got a way with words, Fortress."
"You do the fire. I hold the walls."
They had a rhythm. Chaos and control. Flame and stone.
---
Back at their shared garage—a half-legal repair shop that fronted for their less than legal business—Felix leaned over blueprints of a new shipment route, his hands steady even as the world buzzed with danger. Ivan, still shirtless from the earlier scuffle, cleaned his Colt .45 like it was religion.
"You ever think we're being watched?" Felix asked casually.
Ivan looked up. "We're always being watched."
But neither of them knew how close that truth was. Three blocks away, in the back of a tinted Cadillac, a man in a burgundy suit watched them through binoculars.
"Still just street rats with shiny bikes," he murmured.
"They've got spark," said another voice beside him.
"Spark burns out. Or burns bright enough to draw fire."
Back at the garage, one of their crew—Jaylen—busted in with blood running down his lip.
"Those assholes from Cortez's crew jumped me near Northpoint. Took the stash and gave me this as a receipt." He held out a middle finger.
Ivan stood, rage flashing in his eyes. "Fucking Cortez."
Felix nodded, already locking up the plans. "Let's pay a visit."
---
The Cortez boys hung around an old rail yard. Perfect for a quiet fight. Ivan revved his bike loud enough to turn heads. By the time Felix rolled up beside him, silence fell like death's shadow.
"We got a message," Ivan called out, cigarette clenched between teeth.
"What message?" sneered one of the gang.
Ivan pulled the cigarette out, tossed it. "Bang."
Gunfire erupted. Felix ducked behind a crate, eyes scanning, precise. Two down. One caught in the leg. Ivan, reckless as ever, ran straight into fire, yelling like a devil unleashed. He lived for that shit.
Felix hated unnecessary blood, but he loved keeping Ivan alive more.
When it was over, four Cortez boys were bleeding in the dirt. Jaylen limped over, smiling. "That's how we send fucking receipts."
Ivan spit on the gravel. "Tell Cortez to send someone better next time. These clowns were just warm-ups."
Felix stood beside him, eyes distant. "We're gonna need to watch our backs now."
Ivan laughed. "Let them come. They'll know why the streets are starting to call us something more."
---
Somewhere uptown, behind thick walls and darker secrets, a different name was whispered.
"Those two. Fernando and Eric."
"They ride like ghosts and shoot like soldiers."
"They're not ghosts. Just boys with bikes."
"They won't be boys for long."
And as another shadowed figure lit a cigar, the file marked "Felix & Ivan" landed on a desk next to a dozen others. But none had a red stamp like this one.
**"Watch Closely."**
---
The city was shifting. The big bosses could feel it. Two friends, no—two firestorms—were starting something. Something that even they couldn't predict.
And Felix and Ivan? They had no idea the monsters watching from the dark. All they wanted was power, respect, and revenge.
But the city never gives anything without a price.
Not even to cousins of crime.