The meeting wasn’t in a boardroom. It was in the back of a pawn shop that hadn’t legally existed for years. The flickering overhead light made it look like a crime scene or a low-budget indie film. Either worked. Queens didn’t care.

@FutureScare sat behind a battered folding table draped in a ripped velour tablecloth. She was halfway through a bottle of WKD Blue, straw in one hand, smirk in the other.

Tony stood across from her, polished shoes, pocket square, and the faint scent of expensive cologne. He adjusted his cufflinks.

“You sure you’re up for this? Queens ain’t a catwalk, sweetheart.”

She took another sip through the straw, narrowed her eyes.

“You’re not here to sell suits. You’re here to stitch up a city. I don’t need another clown with a measuring tape and a dream.”

“I need someone who handles waste. Financial, physical, reputational, along with audits. And doesn’t flinch at a bit of screaming from the back room.”

Tony smirked.

Scare leaned back, swirling the dregs of her drink with the straw. She reached into her jacket and dropped a single key on the table. Long. Black. Cold to the touch.

“40th Avenue. The shopfront’s yours. No signage yet. Just ghosts and dust. Call it what you want. Just make sure whatever you build…makes people nervous when they say it out loud.”

She stood, bottle in hand, already turning to leave.

Tony picked up the key, turned it over in his hand.

“Iconoclastic Inc.”

Scare stopped in the doorway, raised an eyebrow, then laughed once, sharp, sudden, wicked.

“No one’s gonna know what the fuck that means.”

They walked out together, the heavy silence between them carrying more weight than any contract ever could. Scare peeled off down an alley, bottle still in hand, disappearing into the city like she’d never existed.

Tony headed toward his car, the late sun hitting his shoes as he unlocked the door and slid inside. The door shut with a hollow clunk. Quiet. Final. He sat there for a moment, alone with the key. Inside the car, the radio was busted, so the only sound was the hum of the engine and the low murmur of New York eating itself alive. He rested one hand on the wheel, the other still turning the key over in his fingers. “Iconoclastic Inc.” It tasted good every time he said it in his head, like blood in the mouth after a fight you won.

Iconoclast.

The kind that tears things down. Breaks symbols. Burns tradition. The ones who look at a statue and see rubble. At a throne and see kindling. An iconoclast doesn’t just challenge the system. They make it flinch. This wasn’t about legacy. It was about demolition. About building something that makes people whisper, not praise. Queens didn’t need another syndicate. It needed a sledgehammer in a suit.

He lit a cigarette, even though he hated the taste, and rolled his shoulders. He’d need a left and right hand. Someone to anchor each side while he moved like smoke between them. No one gets far without muscle and brains. But even fewer get far without madness and history.

He’d need to call @Natasha. Cold as concrete and twice as likely to leave a dent. Her bloodline had soaked more pavement than most morticians ever see. And @MrKrabs. One of the most violent financial minds he’d ever met. The kind of man who could write off a homicide as a business expense and then file it in triplicate. Between them, they weren’t just lieutenants. They were a foundation. Cemented in blood, bullet casings, and whatever was left of last month’s enemies.

Tony turned onto 40th Avenue. No signage. Just ghosts and dust, like she said.

Perfect.

Time to build something worth burning the old world for.
Time to make them say it out loud…
Iconoclastic Inc.