CHOICES

I - 2014

The club's bass hammered through them like a dodgy heartbeat as they descended the piss-stained steps into Shoreditch's sweating underbelly. Each thud of Duke Dumont's "Need U (100%)" vibrated the crumbling brick walls, the track still ruling London's clubs as it had since the previous summer.

I need you one hundred, one hundred percent...

Two granite-faced security personnel in fitted black tees guided them through the mass of bodies, past girls tottering in River Island heels and wannabe traders who'd wandered east from Liverpool Street Station. The air was thick with vape clouds and chemical promises, turning everything into a proper East End fever dream under strobes that cut like questions.

Cory caught glimpses of Dex's face in the flashing lights – the purple-black bloom across his jaw where Cory's fist had connected, dried blood still crusted at the corner of his mouth. His left eye had swollen shut, a testament to Cory's right hook.

And even when I know you're not the one, I still need you...

Jamaal's shoulder knocked against his, both moving like proper East End boys – heads high even when the gut says run. The businessman led the way, his John Lobb oxfords somehow untouched by the spilled Peroni and Red Bull that made the floor sticky as sin.

They reached a door with 'Private' spelled out in worn gold letters. Inside, the office wasn't playing pretend – genuine mahogany and butter-soft leather that screamed Mayfair quality. The walls still throbbed with bass like a guilty conscience.

I feel guilty... I need you...

"Please, take a seat," the businessman said, gesturing to two leather chairs with the practiced grace of someone who'd spent years in boardrooms. The security team assumed their positions, professional as Swiss watches. Dex huddled in the corner, touching his swollen jaw with tentative fingers, wincing at even the gentlest contact.

The leather whispered beneath them as they sat. The businessman's eyes flickered to Dex, taking in the damage with the careful assessment of someone calculating losses.

I need you one hundred, one hundred percent...

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying all the refined authority of an Oxbridge education, "I find myself in quite the predicament." He gestured toward Dex. "You see, Dex here is rather essential to certain aspects of my operation. His... current condition has created what one might call a significant impediment to business."

The businessman leaned forward, resting his manicured hands on the mahogany desk. "In the next forty-eight hours, I have several rather delicate transactions that require Dex's particular skill set. Skills he cannot possibly execute in his present state." His tone remained perfectly measured, which somehow made it worse. "This disruption needs to be rectified."

He paused, letting the bass fill the silence for a moment. "So, the question before us is quite simple: how do you gentlemen propose to make this right?"

The brothers shared a glance, speaking volumes in silence like only council estate kids can. The businessman's question hung in the air between them, heavy as a loaded gun.

II - 2024

Let me tell you something about watching two London boys get their asses handed to them in Nevada – it's like seeing penguins in the Mojave. The desert sun – not that weak-ass London lightbulb they're used to – but our nuclear-powered death ray in the sky lit them up like they were under interrogation as they stumbled out of the Atlantis Hotel's revolving doors. The Red Army had done a number on them, and it showed.

Holy shit, you should've seen them. Their mama back in England would've had a straight-up coronary. Jamaal was rocking the kind of black eye you usually only see in UFC highlights: right eye swollen shut, a whole-ass abstract painting of purple and yellow. Blood had dried around his nose and lip like he'd been using ketchup instead of a napkin. And that fancy Stussy shirt? Let's just say the Red Army turned it into something you'd see hanging in a SoHo gallery.

"Fucking hell," he mumbled in that thick London accent, touching his face like it might explode. "Look like I've had a rough night in Romford."

Man, I don't know what Romford is, but I'm betting it's a walk in the park compared to what these boys just went through.

And Cory? Jesus H. Christ, he looked like he'd gone twelve rounds with a meat grinder. His knuckles were straight-up hamburger meat – and I've seen enough street fights outside Vegas clubs to know that ain't from hitting soft targets. Every breath looked like someone was jabbing hot pokers between his ribs, and the gash above his eye had turned his face into something you'd see on those British crime shows PBS runs at 2 AM.

They stood there, looking about as lost as a vegetarian at a Texas BBQ, while the slots behind them chirped away like mechanical birds on meth. The morning crowd flowed around them – yoga moms with their green smoothies, tourists looking like they'd fallen asleep in a microwave, dragging their Samsonites like they were full of gold bricks.

"You alright, bruv?" Jamaal asked, voice rougher than truck stop coffee.

Cory's attempt at a shrug wouldn't have fooled a blind casino dealer. Could've been his shoulder, could've been the weight of knowing they let Rose down and were deep into her shit.

"You?"

Jamaal's return shrug spoke volumes in that universal language of 'we're completely screwed.'

I'll tell you what – these boys looked about as out of place as a snowball in Death Valley. The casino signs flashed their promises of easy money while our palm trees – which must've looked exotic as hell to these London boys – swayed in what we call a light breeze but probably felt like standing in front of a jet engine to them.

"What's next then?" Cory asked, sounding about as hopeful as a Pirates fan almost every day of their existence.

Jamaal just stared past the cab line, past the cars baking like TV dinners in the sun, past those mountains that probably looked as fake as a three-dollar bill to his London eyes. His face was blanker than a rookie poker player's tell.

Cory pulled out his phone – screen cracked like their plans – and dialed with fingers that looked like they'd lost a fight with a cheese grater. The ringtone cut through the casino chaos like a kitchen knife through butter. Six rings. Seven. Then Rose's voicemail clicked on, calm as December in Reno: "Leave a message."

Meanwhile, the city kept rolling like a loaded die – tourists chattering about buffets and blackjack, cabbies laying on their horns like they were conducting an orchestra, slots singing their siren song to the next sucker's wallet.

But our London boys? They stood there like two statues outside Caesar's, only with more bruises and less dignity. Twenty years of hustling in their hometown, always knowing which strings to pull, and now this – nothing but Nevada heat and the taste of copper pennies.

Jamaal finally broke the silence, words coming through his split lip like he was speaking in cursive: "Reckon Peggy's caff is still doing them bacon sarnies with the brown sauce?"

Cory almost laughed, but his ribs vetoed that real quick. "Bit far for breakfast, bruv."

"Yeah," Jamaal agreed, squinting at the sky like it had personally offended him. "Bit far for everything. So what we gonna do now?"

Cory cracked his neck. "Time to decide if we're going to let those boys get away with what they did or not."

"You sure?" Jamaal inquired. "Rose may have other plans."

"Yeah, she might, but we've got our own choices to make. We can't let this stand on business."

And ain't that the truth? Two East End boys who'd run out of East End tricks, standing in the Nevada sun like they were waiting for a bus that ain't never coming. In Vegas, they say the house always wins. But this was Reno, and these boys weren't even playing the right game anymore.

III - 2014

The businessman's words hung in the fetid air like cigarette smoke in a broken lift. Cory leaned forward, elbows on knees, fresh sweat darkening his Fred Perry polo. Next to him, Jamaal's fingers drummed against his thigh, keeping time with Duke Dumont's relentless bass that vibrated through the walls like a monster's heartbeat.

"Three hundred thousand pounds sterling," the businessman said, each syllable cut with Savile Row precision. His Cartier watch caught the light as he adjusted his position, the face probably worth more than six months' rent on their Hackney flat. "That's what Dex's particular skillset would have secured us over the next forty-eight hours." He touched his gold cufflinks – the kind you'd find in Asprey's window, not Roman Road Market. "A conservative estimate, I might add."

In the corner, Dex looked proper tragic, his jaw swollen like he'd tried eating a brick. Blood had dried black around his collar, and his fancy shirt looked more like a crime scene than designer now. His good eye kept darting between them like he was watching a particularly violent tennis match at the All England Club.

I need you one hundred, one hundred percent...

The music filtered through the walls, taking the piss.

"However," the businessman continued, opening his desk drawer with manicured fingers, "there is an alternative." He withdrew a manila envelope thick as a brick of sterling. "Tomorrow evening, a specific container arrives at Tilbury Docks. It requires... alternative logistics management."

"Bruv's chatting about thieving," Jamaal muttered to Cory. "Proper brass neck on this one."

"Indeed," the businessman's smile was cold as a banker's heart. "Inside, you'll find everything necessary – security rotations, access codes, container numbers. The sort of intelligence Dex typically provides when he isn't... indisposed."

"Yeah, about that," Cory cut in, jerking his chin toward Dex. "Your boy there was running his mouth, looking to hurt my brother. His boys were trying to hold down my brother for a cheap shot. Where I come from, that needs sorting."

"Quite," the businessman replied, dry as chalk. "And your preferred method of 'sorting' has cost me rather significantly."

"All because I was simply talking to his bird," Jamaal added, voice hard as East End concrete. "The way I see it, he got what was coming."

The businessman's sigh could've withered plants. "Gentleman, your street corner philosophies about honor and reputation, while quaint, are irrelevant. What matters is compensation."

Cory straightened, shoulders squaring up like he was outside the vindaloo place on a Friday night. "Nah, fam. We ain't about this life."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He said no," Jamaal backed his brother, proper East End solid. "We ain't your mug punters. This job's got more ends than Arsenal's back four."

The temperature in the room dropped faster than West Ham's league position. The security men shifted their weight, leather shoes creaking against hardwood. Even the music seemed to pause, holding its breath.

"Perhaps," the businessman said, each word now arctic cold, "you misunderstand the severity of your situation. This isn't a negotiation. This is—"

"Mate, allow it," Cory cut in, standing slowly. His chair scraped back like a challenged chess piece. "We might be a couple of wrong'uns from the estate, but we ain't simple."

Jamaal rose beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "Whatever's in that container's heavy, innit? The kind of thing that gets man buried, not just nicked."

The businessman's face had gone still as a funeral mask. Only his eyes moved, calculating, reassessing. Finally, he spoke, voice smooth as aged whisky but bitter as medicine: "I'm going to give you twenty-four hours to reconsider this... regrettable decision." He stood, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease. "I strongly suggest you use this time to contemplate the remarkable difference between an opportunity and a requirement."

He gestured to the door, the movement elegant as a conductor's. "Think carefully, gentlemen. About your options. About your futures." His smile returned, sharp as a switchblade. "About dear Dex here and how unfortunate it would be if his current condition became... permanent. How you two would be investigated for the attack on him that has seemingly resulted in his untimely demise. Or if similar misfortunes were to befall others."

Dex didn’t seem too pleased with that in the least bit, his eyes growing at the thought.

"That a threat, bruv?" Cory's fists clenched.

"Merely an observation," the businessman replied, sitting back down like a king dismissing peasants. "Twenty-four hours. Do try to make the intelligent choice."

They left the office like men walking through mud, the bass swallowing them whole again. The club's strobes painted their faces in technicolor masks. Behind them, through the closing door, Dex caught their eye, his good one wide with fear, probably realizing his mouth had started something his boss was finishing.

The brothers emerged into the main club, where beautiful people danced their beautiful dances, oblivious to the undertow of violence and power swirling beneath their feet. The music thumped on, Duke Dumont's lyrics now a warning:

I feel guilty... I need you...

Twenty-four hours. To choose between bad and worse.

"Proper fucked this one, ain't we?" Jamaal muttered, barely audible over the bass.

"Like England on a Euro Cup day," Cory agreed, jaw set hard as concrete. Above them, Shoreditch's early morning traffic rumbled on, while below, in this underground kingdom of neon and menace, the clock had started ticking.

IV - 2024

Let me paint you a picture of what rock bottom looks like in Southern California. Two London boys nursing their Lagunitas IPAs in some dive bar off Pacific Beach – the kind of joint that's dark enough to hide bruises but honest enough to serve proper pints. Their faces were healing, sure, but some scars go deeper than skin.

Three weeks since Reno. Nary a word or sight from Rose. The brothers had found this spot three days ago – it reminded them of a boozer back in Bethnal Green if you squinted hard enough and ignored the surfboards on the walls and pictured West Ham jerseys instead.

"Tried Rose again?" Jamaal asked, though he already knew the answer. His eye was still fifty shades of purple, but at least he could open it now.

Cory just shook his head, running a finger around the rim of his glass like he was trying to make it sing. The cut above his eye had scabbed over, turning his face even meaner than usual.

That's when the California dream team showed up – two blonde sisters or sorority girls or whatever, straight out of central casting for "The Real Housewives of Who Gives a Fuck."

"Oh. My. God," the taller one chirped, clutching her White Claw like a lifeline. "Weren't you guys on TV recently?"

Jamaal, bless him, managed what passed for a smile these days. "Yeah, love. We're wrestlers."

"Wait," her friend squinted through fake lashes. "Aren't you the ones who got, like, totally destroyed by those Russian guys?"

Jesus H. Christ, you could've heard a pin drop in Mumbai.

"Right then," Jamaal turned back to his beer, dismissing them faster than a bouncer at Ministry of Sound. The girls huffed off, probably to find someone more interested in their brand of California comfort.

That's when Cory's phone lit up like the Vegas strip. His eyes scanned the message once, twice, and then he slid the phone across the bar's scarred wood to his brother.

PRIME BOOKING TEAM: Tag Team Match confirmed for Long Beach—Kinetic Innovation vs. The Red Army (Ivan Stanislav & Kenny Freeman).

"Fucking hell," Jamaal's face split into something between a grin and a snarl. "Kenny Freeman. That cocky little prick. Gonna rearrange his face proper this time. Show him what happens when you fuck with East London."

"Ivan's mine," Cory growled, and I swear the temperature in the bar dropped ten degrees. "Gonna make that Russian bastard bleed. Proper job, like that night behind The Blind Beggar when—"

"Are you two sharing old stories?" A familiar voice cut through the darkness like a laser. "Because I’ve got one, and it involves the demise of a Russian army."

Rose materialized from the shadows like she'd been conjured, looking sharp as a switchblade in designer denim and calculated rage. The brothers straightened instinctively – sensing the tone of Rose’s voice meant that the game was on the verge of changing. About fucking time.

"You’ve been dark for a minute," Jamaal said, but there was no heat in it.

"Yeah, had to take care of some business," Rose replied, sliding onto a barstool. Her smile was pure predator. "They came for you two. They came for David. They came for me. Now, we come for them. It’s time to remind them how we are."

"Yeah?" Cory leaned forward, the light catching the hunger in his eyes. "We’re ready."

"First," Rose ordered a whiskey neat with a gesture that brooked no argument, "this is not a regular wrestling match, boys. This is simply the opening salvo for what’s to come, but I need you two to play your part and do what is necessary. You understand?" They quickly nodded.

The bar's neon cast red shadows across their faces as they huddled closer, three sharks circling the same prey. Above them, some country song whined about broken hearts and pickup trucks, but they were writing a different kind of song at that table altogether.

The kind that ends in blood.

Rose sipped her whiskey, and even the ice cubes knew to stay quiet. "So here's what we're going to do in Long Beach..."

And as she started laying out her plan, you could almost feel sorry for the Red Army. Almost. But then again, they'd never seen what happens when you back East London boys into a corner.

Or what happens when Rose decides it's time for payback.

V - 2014

Their flat smelled of their mum's cleaning obsession – disinfectant and desperation fighting a losing battle against East London damp. Cory sprawled on the sofa that had seen better decades while Jamaal stood in front of their ancient fridge, door open like he was waiting for something better to materialize between the margarine and yesterday's curry.

"State of this," Jamaal muttered, pushing aside a container of something that might've been chicken before the Blair administration. There was no sense in either boy of talking about what’d happened the night before. "Mum doesn’t seem to have done another shop, ain't she?"

"Proper depressing," Cory agreed, watching Match of the Day highlights on mute. Arsenal were getting battered again, which felt about right for how the day was going. "She working tonight?"

"Yeah, bruv. Night shift at the hospital." Jamaal shut the fridge like he was closing the door on his hopes and dreams. "Can't be dealing with this microwave nonsense again."

The estate's usual symphony filtered through their eighth-floor windows – sirens in the distance, some kid's scooter buzzing like an angry wasp, the constant hum of a city that never learned to shut up. Twenty-four hours had burned down to about three, and both brothers could feel each minute ticking away like a bomb in their guts.

"Fancy a takeaway?" Cory pushed himself up, joints cracking like he was twice his age. "Could murder a proper kebab."

"Yeah, go on then. But none of that manky stuff from Best Kebab. Still ain't right from last time."

Cory grabbed his jacket – vintage Adidas, picked up from that dodgy shop in Brick Lane. "Might try that new Turkish spot by the betting shop."

"Safe," Jamaal had already collapsed into the sofa's sacred dent, remote in hand. "Get us some chili sauce, yeah?"

The lift was broken again – no surprise there – so Cory took the stairs, trainers echoing in the concrete stairwell like distant gunshots. Each step down was another nail in what he was about to do, but sometimes, choices aren't choices at all.

Outside, the estate loomed above him like a concrete judge. The sodium lights painted everything in shades of guilt while a group of year tens passed around something that definitely wasn't a Marlboro Light.

Cory walked until he hit the shadow of Tower Block C, where the cameras had convenient blind spots, and the streetlights had given up years ago. His phone felt heavy as a brick in his pocket.

The number was still there, saved under 'Business Opportunity'.

Three rings, then that posh voice answered, smooth as expensive poison: "Ah, Mr. Kensingont. I trust you've had time to reconsider our discussion?"

Cory clenched his jaw. Above him, he could see the window of their flat and picture Jamaal waiting for food that wasn't coming, not yet anyway. "Yeah," he said, the taste of copper filling his mouth. Send a car. Let's get this sorted."

Cory ended the call, staring at his reflection in the black screen. The face that looked back was harder than it had been yesterday, older somehow. The estate's lights flickered once, like even they didn't want to witness what was coming next.