Broken(DC)

I never thought I'd find myself in a situation like this. My hands were cuffed to the table, and a heavyset man loomed over me, reeking of alcohol and who knows what else. He had been trying to rile me up for hours, using every irritating tactic he could muster. Across from me sat another man, a dark-skinned guy playing the role of mediator between the shouting lunatic and me. I could tell this was just a strategy to extract information. People lose control under emotional pressure and end up revealing things they'd rather keep hidden.

"Listen, Bryan, do you really want to disappoint your family? They definitely wouldn't approve of what you're doing," said the dark-skinned man—Jack, his name was. It wasn't the first time he tried to guilt-trip me, bringing up my family, a topic I'd rather not discuss.

"Believe me, you're going away for a long time. The charges against you will bury you in the darkest corners of the prison system. Guys in there love young ones like you," spat the brute—Simon, as I'd learned his name was—spraying spit as he shouted.

"Simon, let's not scare our guest. I'm sure he'll see the value in cooperating. It's in his best interest," Jack said calmly.

"The only thing holding us back is a thin line before we start twisting your arms," Simon added before finally stepping away. The air felt noticeably cleaner without him hovering over me.

"We also know that the laptop we found belongs to you. Our specialists are close to fully recovering the data. That alone is enough to lock you up for a long time. All those shady operations and tax evasion? Serious crimes that'll land you more than ten years," Jack said, his tone sharp. I wasn't entirely convinced they had everything they needed. Usually, they don't waste time chatting with detainees—they just press charges and push for trial. That's when they try to squeeze more out of you, and most suspects comply just to reduce their sentence.

"You must be mistaken. It's not mine," I replied.

"Don't think we're idiots, moron. We checked the stores, and the same model was sold to you," Simon growled, invading the clean air once more. Jack pulled out a piece of paper and slid it across the table toward me. It was a receipt from the store, showing the purchase of a laptop with a specific serial number.

I never thought they'd release customer information like that. Looks like I should never buy new electronics from stores again.

"Everything is against you, so your only option is to help yourself. You're still young—do you really want to ruin your life and throw it all away? You wanted to become a doctor, to help people. This is your chance to make things right," Jack said. It seemed they had already dug up everything about me.

"I need a lawyer," I said.

"We're not the police. We can play much rougher," Jack replied.

"Lawyer," I repeated. Only one could help me get out of this mess.

"You want a lawyer? Fine, you'll get one. But know this—even if he's a magician, he won't get you out of prison," Simon said, slamming his fist on the table. I could argue with that—he really was a magician, and a remarkable one at that.

They left me alone in the room for several hours. I used the time wisely, trying to figure out what had given me away. I couldn't find anything significant beyond the possibility that they had tracked me online. From there, it was just basic surveillance and narrowing down the pool of suspects.

After a few more hours, the door finally opened, and Saul Goodman walked in.

"Whoa, kid, I didn't know you were not just a scrapper but also a hardened killer," he said as he entered.

"Glad to see you," I replied.

"Let's see what we're dealing with," Saul said, flipping open a folder that seemed to contain my case. His eyes darted quickly over the text and the evidence laid out. "Well, I've got good news for you: all they've got are circumstantial pieces. If we spin this right, the jury won't even consider it, and you'll walk free. That laptop they found—you sold it, right?" Saul asked, winking slightly.

"Yeah, I sold it just recently," I confirmed.

"See? You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. You're a law-abiding citizen who just wants to start a business, right?" Saul said, spreading his hands theatrically.

"Right," I nodded.

"Then the case is closed. This won't even go to trial. The judge will throw out the charges—they're baseless and have no grounds. Which means your detention here is illegal," Saul Goodman declared, standing up and opening the door. "So, hurry up and release my client from these barbaric restraints. You've got the wrong guy."

Jack and Simon, who were standing outside, were visibly unhappy. They clearly didn't want to let me go, but it seemed they didn't have much of a choice. Saul was right—they had nothing on me.

After they removed the cuffs, I still couldn't walk on my own, so I asked them to return my confiscated cane.

"It's evidence," Simon said.

"Evidence? You took the only thing a poor disabled man has to walk with. I thought the FBI was staffed by respectable people, not people like you," Saul Goodman retorted.

"Give him back the cane," Jack ordered.

Simon's entire demeanor screamed reluctance, but he eventually left the room. A few minutes later, he returned, holding the cane. Finally having my possession back, I managed to stand up on my own.

Saul Goodman and I left the office together, and I got into his car. As soon as we sat down, Saul began patting down my clothes.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Checking for bugs. They just love planting those things everywhere," he replied. After patting me down from head to toe, he grabbed my cane and, with one swift motion, broke it in half. Inside the cane was a hollow compartment with some kind of device attached.

"See what I mean? They can't play fair. Bye-bye," Saul said, tossing the device out the window. Rolling the window back up, he turned to me with a serious expression. "Kid, you're turning out to be way more interesting than I initially thought. Already dabbling in crime—money laundering, no less. Color me impressed."

"I'm not involved in anything like that," I protested.

"Ha! You know, I'm not just any lawyer who defends criminals. I've been in this game a long time and know a lot. And the fact that the FBI is watching you is all the confirmation I need that something's up," Saul Goodman said, finally starting the car.

"What now? Are you going to turn me in?" I asked.

"Turn you in? What do you take me for? You're my client. I do my job and get paid for it. By the way, your money-laundering website? Pretty clever. I like it," Saul said with a smirk.

"You seem to know a lot," I said cautiously.

"About you? Not much. But about the business you're in—quite a lot. I've been wondering who's been hiding money so skillfully. Turns out, it's you. Small world, huh?" Saul said.

"How did the FBI track me down?" I asked.

"Most likely, you slipped up somewhere. They don't even have much on you yet. Let me give you some advice: be more careful with your finances. Too much money for someone as young as you raises eyebrows," Saul Goodman said.

"But I haven't spent any large sums," I replied.

"Do you have an official job or a legitimate business?" Saul asked.

"No," I admitted.

Now it was clear: pretending to earn money freelancing wasn't enough. It looked like I'd need to start a legal business.

"That's your answer. You know, you can always come to me. I can help with a lot of things—for a price, of course," Saul Goodman said.

"I'll keep that in mind," I replied.

Finally, I made it back to my house. There was a lot to think about and decisions to make.

"And one last thing: you'd better walk away while you still can. Crossing the line of the law won't bring you any joy," Saul Goodman said.

Standing on the doorstep, I watched as the lawyer's car disappeared into the distance. I turned toward the house. The short walk to the door felt like a long one. Lately, I'd been replacing my canes far too often. I'd need to order a few spares.

Now that I'd almost been caught in illegal activity, I had to cut ties with crime. Even though I didn't believe I was doing anything unlawful, I wasn't willing to risk my fledgling business. The scrutiny was inevitable, and they'd keep checking until they were convinced I was clean. Even then, they'd probably check on me from time to time. Once you're on their radar, it's for life—or until your first mistake.

The only person I could trust and who was perfect for this situation was Elizabeth. Even though she earned nearly half a million dollars a year, if everything worked out, the company would bring in much more.

In one of the rooms, FBI agents Simon and Jack were brainstorming how to catch their suspect.

"I admit, we acted too hastily this time. We shouldn't have revealed ourselves. I shouldn't have listened to you," Jack said, rubbing his temples.

"Hey, let's not pin this all on me. We acted according to the plan. Yeah, we screwed up big time, but the suspect isn't going anywhere," Simon retorted.

"Forget about him. We've got nothing on him, and digging further without solid evidence won't fly with the higher-ups. We've got enough problems as it is. Our priority is figuring out who's moving all these weapons out of Gotham," Jack said firmly.

"So we're just dropping it? All that surveillance and tailing for nothing? Damn it," Simon said, clearly frustrated.

"It doesn't matter. Even if he is involved in crime, he's small-time. Let the police handle it. We'll pass on everything we've got. It's not our problem anymore," Jack replied, closing the discussion.

"Fine, got it," Simon said. His phone vibrated in the inner pocket of his jacket. "Damn it, it's my mother-in-law again. She's always calling, and I've got a splitting headache because of her."

"It's fine, I get it. Take the call. It'll give you a distraction. We'll discuss the rest later. A break won't hurt," Jack said.

Nodding in gratitude, Simon quickly left the office and headed to a secluded spot. He carefully checked to make sure no one was around and cautiously pulled out his phone. Putting on a serious expression, he returned the call.

"You didn't pick up," said a deep voice.

"Apologies, but I'm at work. I can't risk exposing myself," Simon replied as politely as possible, a stark contrast to how he usually interacted with others.

"I'll forgive you this time, but I won't tolerate it again. That's Hector Salamanca's word," the voice declared.

"I understand, I understand," Simon said, sweating slightly. The threat wasn't lost on him.

"Good. Did you find the person I need?" Hector asked.

"Yes, he's a 20-year-old kid," Simon replied.

"Good job. That means he'll be easy to control. Send all the information to us, and don't let anyone near him, got it? He's mine now," Hector said.

"I got it," Simon repeated, gritting his teeth slightly. He regretted taking the money back then; now he had to bow down to this old man.

"Excellent. You've done well," Hector said in farewell before hanging up.

Standing against the wall, pressing his head to it, Simon repeated in his mind: "It's all for them, all for them." After composing himself, he headed back to the planning room to process the documents, ensuring the police wouldn't investigate the matter in any way.

But Hector Salamanca had already added him to his blacklist

*******************

This will be a separate piece.

From this point, the story takes a turn into a "Breaking Bad"-style plot, focusing on the rise of the criminal kingpin known as "The Lame." 

********************

Deviation

And that's how I ended up on the cartel's hook. A corrupt federal agent sold all my information. The rest of the story isn't much of a mystery: a blow to the head when you least expect it, waking up tied to a chair in a dark basement with a gun to your head.

The choices were few, and I had no option but to do what I didn't want to. Saul's advice was good but came too late. It's true—escaping this side of life is hard. The lure of easy money clouded my judgment, and life's hardships—fights and the ticking clock—led me to make the wrong choice.

If I could do it all over again, I'd do things differently. Sure, it might've taken me years to get stronger, but I wouldn't have been tied to crime.

Well, as long as I'm alive, I can still change everything. That was my motto, the one that helped me get through this journey.

At the age of nineteen, I became a criminal. Instead of pursuing a career as a doctor and becoming a respected member of society, I turned into a stain on it. Escaping this life was nearly impossible, and in the end, there was only one way out—death.

Over the next two years, I mastered the art of turning illegal income into fully legitimate money. It all boiled down to a simple rule: you need a business that deals in small cash transactions and operates in a loosely regulated industry. Taxis, car washes, laundromats, bars—any of these would work. Another method involved fake auctions, lottery wins facilitated by shell companies, and the like.

On the streets, they called me "The Cripple" for obvious reasons. I saw every facet of life outside the law and grew completely disillusioned with the world I lived in. Yes, I was one of those making it worse, but I was just a tiny fraction of this side of humanity. In Gotham, it was clear who was bad and who was merely pretending to be good. Gangs roamed freely, acting like kings. In Star City, things were different. Here, everyone lived in the shadows, never giving a hint that the person next to you might be a hardened criminal. While there were corrupt cops here too, they were in the minority. Most of them diligently fulfilled their duty, as dictated by the letter of the law.

I didn't waste this time idly; I was already actively devising a plan to change the criminal underworld of Star City. There were many options, from the banal—like hiring assassins to eliminate the leaders—to turning them over to the authorities. But I knew that removing the current bosses would only make room for new ones, perpetuating the cycle.

That's where my legitimate business came in. Though calling it "mine" was a stretch—I handed it over to Elizabeth as soon as the first problems with the cartel began. My business grew and thrived, generating significant profits, and because the money was legal, I could use it as I pleased. A private security agency became my solution. Huge amounts—nearly fifty percent of the profits—went toward creating a force capable of ending crime. To achieve this, I had to collaborate with another criminal kingpin—the Penguin.

The Penguin, the greatest criminal mastermind, was a brilliant trader. In Gotham, he was a king, and hiding there was unnecessary since practically everything belonged to him. However, selling weapons across state lines was much more challenging. That's when he came up with a specific encryption system that changed every month. Using the cipher, a client could input the weapons they needed.

The goods would then be delivered in crates marked as perishable food. These shipments used a "green corridor" and were subject to less scrutiny. The client received their order, and the government remained oblivious to what and where it had passed through.

The encryption was unique for each client, making it easy to identify any rat leaking shipment details. To obtain the code, one had to access the dark web and contact Penguin's network or meet him personally at his club.

Finding people for the security agency turned out to be much easier than I expected. There were too many retired soldiers living on meager government benefits. Many were also ex-cops dismissed under dubious circumstances. This way, my agency began to attract professionals who knew their craft. Elizabeth helped me immensely in all of this. Without her, things wouldn't have gone so smoothly.

When I told her everything, at first, she wanted to leave it all behind and flee the city so I wouldn't have to work for the cartels. I managed to calm her down, explaining that my plan was the only way to do things right. Leaving the cartels wasn't so simple.