It was late. The kind of late where the only sounds outside were the distant hum of engines, the click of heels on wet pavement, and the quiet hiss of a cigarette burning down to its filter. Matt sat in the back office of a half renovated warehouse, staring at a wall covered in notes, maps, and names, the smell of paint and whiskey mixed in the air the scent of beginnings.

The door creaked open. Kristoff stepped in, wiping rain off his coat and tossing a folded newspaper onto the desk.

“Front page,” he said with a smirk. “Another one of ours made headlines. Dixxon’s district doesn’t sleep.”

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “And they said organized crime was dying out. Guess they forgot to check with us.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment heavy with thought. They’d both come a long way. From hustling on street corners to earning the trust of their Godfather. The man had seen something in Matt, maybe potential, maybe just a fool who didn’t know when to quit but either way, he’d handed him an opportunity few ever got.

That morning, Dixxon had called him into his office. No pleasantries, no long speeches just that calm, commanding tone that made even the toughest men sit up straight.

“Matt, it’s time you stood on your own two feet. You’ve earned this. Take Kristoff, build something solid and keep my district strong.”

Standing nearby, Minaxi leaned against the edge of the desk, her sharp eyes flicking between the two men. She didn’t say much, she didn’t have to but when she finally spoke, her voice was steady and precise, cutting through the smoke-filled air.

“You’ve got the drive, Matt. Don’t waste it. The streets remember who puts in the work and who doesn’t. Dixxon is giving you a shot most never get. Make it count.”

Those words had stuck and now here they were on the edge of something new.

Kristoff poured two glasses of bourbon and slid one across the desk.

“So, what do we call this new thing of ours?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Matt grinned, looking out of the window, he watched a stray cat dart across the alley and disappear into the shadows.

“You know, we’ve been tossed around, kicked out, left for dead more times than I can count, yet somehow, we’re still here.”

Kristoff smirked, flicking ash off his cigarette. “Yeah. I guess we’re like the mutts nobody wanted but can’t seem to get rid of either.”

Matt laughed quietly. “Exactly. We don’t need pedigree. We survive. We adapt. We find a way.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. It was Minaxi again, stepping into the dimly lit room, trench coat still damp from the rain. She eyed the two glasses on the desk and the half-smile on Matt’s face.

“So,” she said, “this is the start of it then?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah. We were just figuring out the name.”

She looked between them for a moment before smirking. “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to suit you.”

Kristoff raised his glass. “So what do we call a bunch like us then?”

Matt paused for a moment, eyes narrowing with a half-smile. “The Strays."

Kristoff nodded slowly, a grin spreading across his face. “Has a ring to it, rough around the edges, but still standing.”

Matt looked out the grimy warehouse window toward the city lights and thought about everyone who had helped him get here.

“Big thanks to Godfather Dixxon for the trust and the opportunity. None of this happens without his backing. To Minaxi for her invaluable guidance and faith and to everyone who’s been part of this journey so far, we’re just getting started.”

He took one last sip and stood up, tightening his tie.

“Alright, Kristoff. Let’s get to work."