In 2024, the United States was a husk of its former self—a nation reduced to bloodstained alleyways and glass towers of corruption. Democracy was a myth. The real rulers were the Seven: seven crime families that held the country's spine in their iron grip, each one more brutal than the last.
At the top sat the Valor Family, cruel architects of terror and enforcers of the criminal order. Based out of New York, they acted as the backbone of all organized crime across the nation. Ruthless, calculated, and merciless, the Valor Family's word was law in the underworld. Disobedience meant obliteration. They didn't just punish—they erased. If Valor fell, the entire structure would collapse.
Below them stood six more pillars of horror:
Krossov Bratva – Known as the "Corruptors," this Eastern European syndicate controlled America's banking black market, public debt loans, and predatory lending systems. To those who defaulted, they delivered brutal reminders—fingers severed with surgical precision, stitched skin mailed to family members. Their reach was insidious, extending into federal banks, student loans, and Wall Street fraud.
The Sanguine Brotherhood – Enforcers of fear and executioners of rebellion. They policed small-time gangs and silenced those who spoke against the syndicate. Their punishments were horrifying: victims were forced to drink pig's blood before being sealed in barrels and tossed into the ocean. Rumor had it pirates were paid $1 million for retrieving and slaughtering these floating bodies as a grim message to others.
The Vesper Syndicate – Nicknamed "the Reapers," this family specialized in high-stakes luxury estate scams, celebrity kidnappings, and precision-planned heists. Their punishments were almost theatrical in brutality: victims were kept awake by adrenaline injections and force-fed espresso mixed with crushed glass until their organs ruptured. Corpses were then mailed home inside funeral wreaths, mouths stuffed with cyanide-soaked $100 bills.
The Obsidian Tongue – This shadowy empire thrived on human trafficking, counterfeit pharmaceuticals, and illegal underground gambling dens. Known for their theatrical cruelty, they often ripped out the tongues of enemies before killing them—tongues sent to victims' families inside ornate jade boxes. They boiled enemies alive in scalding tea oil and bottled the fat as "luxury cooking oil" sold in their own restaurants.
The Zatstruga Family – Cold-blooded mafiosos from the Arctic North, these scientific sadists controlled drug experimentation, arms trafficking, and secret "ice prisons." Their torture methods bordered on madness: they injected victims with liquid nitrogen until veins exploded and buried bodies naked in snowbanks, dousing them with vodka so wild dogs tore the flesh apart trying to lick the alcohol. Their black market drugs were as potent as their punishments were inhuman.
The Palladium Family – The most sophisticated and invisible of them all, they controlled law, justice, and order. High-profile law firms, private intelligence agencies, and political consulting firms were all under their payroll. They fixed trials, buried evidence, and orchestrated assassinations disguised as suicides or accidents. Their arsenal was blackmail: honeypots, deepfakes, and damning footage of senators, judges, and FBI agents ensured that no one dared challenge them.
Together, these seven families ruled America with blood and fear. The government? Just a scapegoat. In reality, the underworld was a sprawling empire of nightmare logic, with secrets darker than any war.
On July 17th, 2024, a crimson moon cast an eerie glow over New York City. The streets were quiet—not with peace, but with dread. In that silence, 17 matte black BMWs tore through avenues like hellhounds loosed from chains. Their engines roared as pedestrians and stray animals were crushed beneath wheels that didn't slow for flesh or bone.
Their destination: an abandoned factory surrounded by nothing but swaying grass. Each car screeched to a halt in perfect sequence. From the vehicles emerged men in tailored black suits, faces obscured by sleek sunglasses despite the night. They moved like a single organism, disciplined and dangerous.
Inside, a man sat slumped in a rusting chair, his white suit now soaked in blood and sweat. Behind him stood a hundred guards, armed to the teeth. Overlooking it all, on the upper catwalk, stood a woman with short, sharp hair. She sipped beer in a purple cocktail dress and watched like a queen observing a public execution.
Then came the footsteps—the slow, deliberate gait of someone who enjoyed being feared. Liu Xiang, Japan's most infamous contract killer, stepped into the flickering light. Dressed in black with a long coat, he exuded a chilling presence. In his grip, by the hair, was a woman—a terrified, pregnant woman.
"You're the dumbest businessman I've ever seen," Liu said to the bound man.
Alex Sanchez, once hailed as a tech prodigy and economic revolutionary, now looked like a broken animal. Blood ran from his swollen face.
"She's pregnant!" he screamed as Liu shot his wife three times in the stomach.
"Not my fault she got pregnant," Liu sneered.
He gave a nod. The guards surged forward with hammers and blades. Alex's joints were dislocated one by one. His screams echoed through the factory as they shattered bone, sliced skin, cut ears, and plucked out his eyes. When the screams faded into pitiful whimpers, they stripped him and his wife bare and lit them on fire. The factory became a furnace. Flames reached the rafters, licking at the steel like hell itself had been summoned.
Somewhere across the city, Hunter gasped awake.
Sweat soaked his shirt. His breathing was erratic, wild. His sheets were tangled around him like restraints. "Calm down, Hunter," he whispered to himself. "It was just a dream."
But it wasn't just a dream. It never was.
He staggered to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stared into the mirror. His eyes, wide and haunted, stared back. His iPhone buzzed to life on the counter.
3:35 a.m.
In the room next door, his parents and 15-year-old sister slept peacefully. His mother often told him he looked too tired for someone so young. That he needed to rest more. But how could he? Not when the shadows of the past clawed at his spine.
Hunter was tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp-jawed, but the weight of his hidden life dulled even his strongest features. He was a university fresher with a promising future—or so it seemed on the surface.
Then came the knock.
It started soft. A polite rapping.
Then again. Louder.
And again. Louder still.
Hunter froze. The knocking became pounding. Like fists driven by hatred.
He crept down the stairs. The hallway stretched like a tunnel to hell. Each knock sent a jolt down his spine. As he reached the door, the noise stopped. Instantly. Unnaturally.
He waited. Silence.
Then he slowly unlocked and opened the door.
A man stood there.
Tall. Dressed in black. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his eyes. His smile was a razor cut into his face.
"Traitor," the man whispered.
Then came the gunshots.
Flashes lit up the porch. Blood sprayed the hallway walls. Hunter dove backwards, screaming as bullets tore through the air.
More shouting. Screams from upstairs.
His mother. His sister.
Hunter scrambled to his feet, blood on his face, panic in his chest. He ran through the house, glass shattering around him. Windows exploded. Doors were kicked in. Dark shapes flooded into the home like a plague.
A hand grabbed his arm—his father.
"Run, Hunter!"
He didn't hesitate.
He ran.
Into the night. Into the storm. Into the old world he thought he had left behind.
Behind him, his childhood burned.
And ahead, the crime syndicate waited, hungry to finish what they started.