CHAPTER 300: AT THE HEART OF CHALK LINE

On the far edge of Brinehurst, away from the noise and traffic of the city center, a mountain ridge rose like a dark wall against the horizon. A narrow, winding path led up its slopes, the kind of trail that locals sometimes took for a weekend walk or a quiet escape.

At the summit, the view stretched wide, Brinehurst laid out in miniature below, its streets and rooftops bathed in the pale haze of city light.

It wasn’t a tourist hotspot. Not like the parks, museums, and skyline platforms closer to the wealthy districts. This was quieter, overlooked, and in many ways forgotten. Which made what sat halfway up the mountain all the more surprising.

Nestled into the slope was a sprawling restaurant complex, far larger than anything one would expect to find here. Wide enough to host two thousand guests, the venue could easily rival some of the city’s most popular wedding halls.

And indeed, weddings were held here from time to time. The grand reception hall, with its glittering chandeliers and polished marble floors, had seen its share of champagne toasts and slow dances.

But that wasn’t its main purpose. Not by a long shot.

Because this wasn’t just any restaurant.

It was owned by the Chalk Line Boys. And in their world, this was more than a place to eat, it was their fortress. Their headquarters.

Sure, the Chalk Line leaders were often seen in the pool hall down in the heart of the city, but the real core of their operations was here, in the quiet shadows of the mountain.

The venue employed over three hundred staff members. Officially, they were waiters, chefs, and cleaners. In reality, every one of them was a member of the Chalk Line Boys’ organized network, working in rotation so no outsider ever saw the full scale of their manpower in one place.

The location’s discretion was one of its biggest selling points. Corporations booked it for "team bonding sessions." High-profile VIPs scheduled private meetings here, politicians, businessmen, district officials. Deals were made over glasses of aged whiskey and rare imported wine.

And then there were the less publicized visits, celebrities sneaking in with girlfriends they didn’t want photographed, or slipping away with second and third mistresses.

The Chalk Line Boys had built a reputation for absolute discretion. Nothing that happened here was supposed to leave these walls.

Or so their clients believed.

In truth, the restaurant was one of the gang’s most valuable tools for information gathering. Every staff member, from the maître d’ to the busboy, was trained to listen, to watch, to remember.

Details about new construction projects, pending legislation, insider stock tips... all of it passed quietly into the gang’s hands. And if a guest let slip something darker, an illegal deal, a scandal in the making, the Chalk Line Boys made sure it could be sold to the highest bidder.

They were careful with their information.

The Chalk Line Boys never dumped everything they heard at once. Instead, they held onto it, sometimes for months, waiting for the perfect moment to release it. That way, no one would suspect the leak had come from them. By the time it surfaced, the trail was cold, the connection invisible.

And when it was passed along, it wasn’t through obvious channels. It moved quietly, through whispers and indirect exchanges, woven into the grapevine until it became part of the city’s natural rumor flow.

It was the core of their business.

But today, the restaurant was different.

The usual clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation were gone. The reservation list was empty. Every table on the main floor, usually arranged in neat rows, had been pushed aside, leaving the center space wide open.

Only a single rectangular table had been set up, positioned precisely in the middle, with just one chair on either side.

Nearly all three hundred Chalk Line members stood in formation across the ground floor, their lines crisp, their gazes forward. A few were stationed outside the building as well, watching the mountain road for incoming vehicles.

They were dressed in loose-fitting clothing, practical for movement. But each bore one unmistakable mark: chalk dust rubbed across their faces in uneven streaks, a ghostly white that caught the light whenever they turned their heads.

Then the double doors at the back opened, and the crowd shifted immediately, parting to make a clean path.

A man stepped through.

He was dressed entirely in white, suit, shirt, shoes, and the deep lines etched into his skin told of decades lived in both power and danger. His name was Montez, and here, he was more than a leader. He was the Chalk Line Boys’ figurehead, the man whose word carried absolute authority.

"Alright," Montez began, his voice carrying easily over the assembled men. "Keisha has written up and informed you all of the details for today. We don’t plan for it to turn sour... but at any point, it can."

His tone sharpened.

"You don’t have to like the decision made today. But it’s the best one for all of us. And if you disagree..." His eyes swept the crowd, cold and unblinking. "Then I will personally be making a chalk outline of your body."

A ripple of low murmurs moved through the members, but none dared to step forward.

Then came the sound of several vehicles pulling up outside, tires crunching on gravel, engines shutting off. The heavy thud of doors closing followed.

Montez moved toward the front, a small group of his most trusted members falling in behind him. He pushed open the large, reinforced doors, and the scene outside came into view.

Several vans were parked in formation. From them, men climbed out in perfect unison, each dressed in matching military-style uniforms. Their movements were sharp, practiced.

It was the Rejected Corps.

All of them.

Montez estimated close to two hundred in number, their discipline evident in the way they moved as one.

They’ve grown in size... Montez thought. No wonder, with all the wins they’ve had lately.

Then, from one of the more eye-catching vehicles, a sleek, expensive ride that stood apart from the trucks, stepped the man Montez had been waiting to meet.

Chrono.

"We finally meet," Chrono said, a smile playing on his lips.