Chapter 37: Harlem Paradise
That night.
Harlem — Harlem's Heartbeat.
Harlem Paradise, the iconic nightclub owned by Cornell "Cottonmouth" Stokes, pulsed with music and menace. As one of the most influential strongholds in Harlem's underworld, its velvet-covered corners and vintage chandeliers masked the blood money that funded it.
"Yo, Dante."
"Shamik."
After a brief exchange of hand signs and a firm handshake, Dante—bartender and silent observer of Harlem's chaos noticed the conflicted expression on Shamik's face.
"You good, man? You look like someone pulled a Misty Knight on your pride."
Shamik shook his head, the memory of the earlier encounter in Pop's Barbershop, Luke Cage's unofficial sanctuary clinging like smoke in his mind. He'd faltered in front of some local cleaners and bailed instead of standing his ground. Shame crept into his voice.
"Forget it," he muttered. His pride wounded, he shifted topics fast. "Pour me something strong, Dante. And tell me, any fine ladies around tonight?"
Dante raised an eyebrow. "You got the cash, Shamik?"
"Please, man. You think I'd shortchange someone in Cottonmouth's club? I ain't suicidal." Shamik pulled a crumpled bill from his jeans and gestured toward the second floor. "Not unless I'm tryna end up like Tone did."
Dante chuckled lightly, referencing the infamous enforcer thrown off the balcony by Stokes himself. He poured the drink with a slow hand. "I'm just saying. We all walk on thin ice when it comes to Cottonmouth. Even Shades keeps his shades on tighter these days."
"Work's work," Shamik grumbled, downing half the glass with a wince. His mind drifted back to the incident at Pop's. "All I did was hesitate in front of a damn cleaner. And some pint-sized dude with attitude felt like being in a Danny Rand hallucination."
He threw back the rest of his drink in a sharp gulp. Harlem didn't wait for cowards to grow a spine.
"Have you heard?" Dante asked, polishing a glass beneath the soft lighting. "Martin and his crew got rocked earlier. Came back limping. Word is, some dude took them all down—solo. Rattlesnake was losing his mind about it just now."
"Martin?" Shamik's tone turned sour. He never got along with that bunch especially after they started running under Willis Stryker, a.k.a. Diamondback. Their cocky demeanor had always rubbed him raw.
"Someone beat them?" Shamik scoffed. "Didn't think anyone short of Cage could pull that off."
"All I know is what I heard," Dante said. "One guy. Took them out clean. The kind of thing that makes Turk Barrett disappear for a week."
Shamik leaned back, eyebrow arched. "One guy, huh?" He finished the rest of his drink in one swig and stood up. "Gotta take a walk."
—
How the hell had it come to this?
Inside a small Chinese restaurant in Harlem, Li Ran, now dressed in a beige waiter's uniform, moved through the tables with a rag in hand and a lost expression on his face.
He had come to Harlem to stir waves, maybe even run into Luke Cage and earn some recognition. Instead, he found himself bussing tables under Mrs. Connie, the iron-willed owner of this little eatery.
"Waiter! Wipe this table, would you?"
"Coming," Li Ran replied, forcing a smile. As he worked, his thoughts drifted bitterly.
Once upon a time, he'd called himself the Huoyun Evil God, and it was enough to get a respectful nod from the likes of Madame Gao herself, one of The Hand's top operatives. But fame in Harlem didn't transfer from Chinatown. Not when guys like Luke Cage walked the streets. Not when Harlem had seen gang wars between Cottonmouth, Diamondback, and even the Devil of Hell's Kitchen himself.
"Work hard, Ah Xing."
Mrs. Connie's voice cut into his thoughts. "Henry recommended you. But slack off, and you're out. Fame don't pay for broken plates."
"Yes, ma'am."
Li Ran watched her disappear into the kitchen and sighed. How had he gone from seeking the legendary status of a street-level superhero to wiping sauce off plastic menus?
Still, he had a goal. His system displayed 500 legends collected enough to open a [Black Iron Treasure Chest], and maybe earn powers that would finally let him rival Harlem's elite.
A week. He gave himself a week. If Harlem didn't pay out the recognition he needed, he'd shift targets. Maybe head to Hell's Kitchen and test Daredevil. Or even step into Queens to poke the Spider's web.
"Waiter! Over here!"
"Right away."
He snapped back to his role, embodying the name Ah Xing as he dove into his reluctant job.
—
Huffing, Shamik stepped out of the bathroom, wiping his hands. He was supposed to return to Dante at the bar but something tugged at him. He glanced back over his shoulder at the staircase leading to the second floor.
That's where he was. Cornell Stokes. Cottonmouth. The snake in the suit. Harlem Paradise might've been his stage, but upstairs was the throne room.
Shamik had passed those stairs a hundred times, never daring to climb. Stories of men who did and didn't return ran rampant.
"Forget it. I ain't ready to die yet. Pissing off Cottonmouth ain't how I wanna go."
Still, he lingered. His feet moved a few steps, then stopped. He turned back again, unable to shake the feeling. That's when he saw the familiar face, a blur of movement at the top of the stairs.
"Martin?"
There was no mistaking it. Despite the bruises and busted lip, Martin was on the second floor, laughing with someone near Cottonmouth's private lounge.
Shamik's blood ran hot. The words from Dante echoed. Beaten down? Looked like Martin was just fine now. Too fine.
His fists clenched. Teeth gritted.
"Shit. Just die then," he muttered and started climbing the stairs.
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