Chapter 61: Chapter 61: The Hierarchy Line
"You know, staring at other people’s homes is quite rude."
Jason instantly recognized the weight of the new presence. He slowly turned.
Two armed men stood directly behind him, the vanguard of the threat. The one who spoke was Black, easily two meters tall, and built like a tank. The other was a pale-faced Caucasian. Both wore the standard dark suits, but unlike the neighborhood security, these men were equipped for war: an HK416 assault rifle hung openly in the black man’s hand, and a Glock 19 (9mm) rested on his hip. They both wore discrete earpieces, the universal sign of high-level protection detail.
Behind them, four more men, equally heavily armed, emerged from the shadows, flanking the leader. Two massive, black armored SUVs—likely Chevy Suburbans customized for tactical use—pulled up silently behind the initial group, their windows tinted obsidian black. In total, Jason was surrounded by at least sixteen armed personnel, all holding serious expressions and serious hardware.
Jason remained utterly motionless. His hands stayed casually at his sides, his breathing slow and even. He wouldn’t cause problems for Ethan.
"I’m just familiarizing myself with the neighborhood," Jason replied smoothly, his voice calm, betraying nothing of the killer coiled inside him. "Security protocols, you understand."
The black man, clearly the leader and radiating raw, physical power, stepped closer. "I understand, but I saw you leave House 89," he said, his voice deep and gravelly. "In this neighborhood, hierarchy is important. It prevents a lot of trouble. You might be the best security among the mid-tier houses, but you don’t even come close to the upper-tier homes and the people in them."
The man gestured with the muzzle of his rifle toward a faint white line painted almost imperceptibly on the asphalt ahead. "The rules here are simple. If the people above don’t talk to you, you don’t cross. See that line? It isn’t painted for decoration. It’s there so idiots who don’t know their place don’t cross it. And if they do cross it, they better be prepared to die."
Jason’s teeth ground together. Every muscle in his body screamed for activation. He burned with the desire to show these armed dogs exactly who the Dark Reaper was. He had survived far worse situations, and no one who had spoken to him with such arrogant balls had ever lived to tell the tale. But today, his mission was clear: Do not screw up. Do not cause trouble for your Boss.
With a practiced, chilling smile, Jason replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I see... My mistake entirely."
He began to walk slowly back towards Ethan’s house, maintaining his posture. A couple of the guards snickered, and the white man called out, "If you lack the balls, how do you expect to protect your principal?"
Jason stopped, but he didn’t turn around fully. He just tilted his head, the terrifying smile widening. His voice dropped, suddenly becoming razor-sharp, cutting through the heavy tension.
"Behind that line," Jason challenged, his eyes locking onto the taunting guard. "How about you come back here, behind this line, and we can test whether or not I have balls?"
His smile was predatory. The black leader felt a sudden, inexplicable tightening in his chest. He was surrounded by trained, heavily armed men, with more muscle waiting in the armored vehicles, yet this unassuming old man showed not the slightest hint of fear. His confidence was unnatural.
The black man forced a laugh, feigning indifference to salvage the situation. "I have better things to do than waste my time with someone who is worthless and can’t even afford a real house."
Jason shook his head, the smile vanishing, replaced by cold contempt. "Don’t confuse yourself," he returned, the final jab delivered like a poisoned dagger. "Your boss is the one who paid for his house. You are just a dog who couldn’t even afford a dumpster in this neighborhood with the salary you’ll make in your whole life. Don’t think you’re a lion when you don’t even rank as a housecat."
Jason didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked away, leaving the sixteen armed men seething in the street.
As Jason continued his walk back, he deliberately crossed the invisible hierarchy line. He noticed immediately that the houses now became slightly, almost imperceptibly, less opulent. The marble gave way to high-end stone, the custom lighting was less elaborate, and the landscaping, while immaculate, was a degree less exotic. House 89, Ethan’s home, was clearly positioned at the very top of this "mid-tier" area, right on the border of the "upper-tier" area patrolled by the aggressive guards.
The difference in security was even more striking. When Jason walked past the other houses in this section, he encountered the standard neighborhood patrol guards—men in uniform, with radios and light sidearms. They watched him approach, but their demeanor was completely different from the congressional guard.
They were visibly uneasy. They averted their eyes quickly, tightened their grips on their radio mics, and stood rigidly at attention. They didn’t challenge him; they acted as if a high-ranking officer was walking through.
Jason immediately understood. The black guard had been right. The lower-tier security was terrified of the upper-tier security detail. He, Jason, had just been involved in a stand-off with a man carrying an assault rifle and surrounded by an entire armed squad—and he had walked away laughing. To these local security guards, that meant Jason was not a "mid-tier" resident’s dog; he was someone connected to the untouchable elite, or, worse, a problem that could get them all fired or hurt.
They seemed to fear him now, not for his strength, but for the potential disaster he represented.
The hierarchy works, Jason mused, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. A good word from that muscle-head could ruin every guard in this lower section.
He returned to House 89, his inspection complete. The neighborhood was far more dangerous, and far more political, than he first assumed.