My name is Thomas Allan Wilson, and I'm pretty sure I'm about to die.

I'm standing in a filthy, graffiti-scarred hallway, flanked on either side by T-bone and Cutter, two of the toughest and not to mention most violent members of my gang, the Purple Dragons.

Now don't get me wrong, when I saw "my gang" that just means I'm a member. I don't own it. In fact, if anything, it owns me. Something that has become painfully obvious in the past ten minutes.

My heart is going a mile a minute thanks to adrenalin and a healthy dose of fear. I consider making a break for it. I'm a pretty good martial artist. I made black belt before Dad died and my life began a gradual downward spiral into the toilet. Add that natural skill to all the street fighting experience I've picked up running with the Dragons these past three months, and I might have a chance.

I scope out my chaperones casually.

T-bone, naturally, is built like a slab of meat. He's like one of those body-building guys I'd see on ESPN, back when Mom and I could afford cable TV. I swear he's got no neck and biceps bigger than my head. Thing is, though, he's about as smart as a piece of steak and not very quick.

It might be the adrenalin talking, but I could probably take him.

Cutter, on the other hand, is another story.

The guy creeps me out. The nickname comes from his skill with knives, something I've had the unfortunate experience of observing on the few occasions he's been assigned to us by the Big Boss. I've seen him hit a target dead center with a throwing knife from 50 feet away.

But that's not the part that scares me. It's the look in his eyes when he has a blade out. Sort of a cross between a surgeon's clinical observation and a psycho's unrestrained glee. I saw the aftermath of some of his up close and personal work and I couldn't eat for almost two days.

He's quick, he's cunning, and he's armed.

If it was just him and me, I'd be willing to give it a go. Cutter's a real bad guy and he deserves a beating, especially after what he did to that prostitute last week.

But he's not alone, and that makes all the difference.

Adrenalin or no, I can't take on both of them at the same time, especially with 20 other Purple Dragons in the same building. For about the thousandth time, I wonder how it came to this. I don't consider myself a bad person. I never wanted to be a gangbanger, and the Purple Dragons have the biggest bang of all the gangs on the East Side of New York.

But life doesn't work out for some people and you do the best you can. Too bad it looks like my best won't be nearly enough.

Unable to just stand here anymore, I finally speak out.

"What's this all about, Cutter? Did I do something wrong?"

Of course, I know I did. At least as far as the Dragons are concerned.

"Shut up, Tommy," Cutter replies.

I look to T-bone for some assistance, but his face might as well be made of stone. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he didn't get this high in the Dragons by sticking his neck out.

Especially for relative newbies like me who don't do what they're told.

I look back down towards my feet, trying not to focus on the vast variety of disgusting items that litter the dirty concrete floor.

I wonder if my mom's okay. Is she waiting up for me or has she decided to go to sleep, confident that I'll be returning from my "night job" in a few hours? I hate lying to her, but I had to explain the money to her somehow. They were going to evict us, and she was already working two and a half jobs to keep us afloat.

And then she got sick.

I'd see the Dragons here and there when I went to school. Being a good kid, I'd avoid them like the plague. I was a junior, and had a decent GPA at school. I wasn't going to be valedictorian or anything, but I was in the top five to ten percent. Ivy League was a dream, but a halfway decent scholarship to a CUNY or SUNY school was a distinct possibility.

At least it was until that cold day in March.

I came across some Dragonsne harassing one of the freshmen girls on the way home. I can't stand treating women badly. It's something my Dad taught me. "Never treat a woman with disrespect, Tommy," he used to tell me, "They are all someone's mother, sister, wife, or daughter."

There were three of them. One of them had grabbed her from behind, while another was starting to rip off her shirt. The last one was a lookout, and he quickly told me to vacate the premises, using far more direct and colorful language.

I'm not sure exactly how it happened. All I remember is the look in that girl's eyes. The helplessness and the fear. Next thing I know, two of the Dragons are on the ground and I'm beating the crap out of a third. He got a couple good licks in, but a solid kick to the face ended it.

After I walked the girl home (funny thing is, I never really asked her name), realization washed over me. I just humiliated members of the most powerful street gang on the East Side. I was a dead man.

Sure enough, a couple days later, a dozen Purple Dragons were lounging on the steps to my apartment building, all of them armed and ready to beat the living shit out of me. I was able to take down five before a baseball bat to the head made me see stars and I hit the ground hard.

I'm not too sure what happened next, except that I woke up tied to a chair in some basement somewhere surrounded by a bunch of gang members. One of their leaders made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He told me that they could use a guy like me, a good fighter. He told me that they knew my mom was sick and that money was a problem. He told me that in exchange for my loyalty, they'd take care of our money issues.

He also told me that if I declined, both my mother and me would be dead by dawn.

Some choice.

I'm brought out of my trip down memory lane by the sound of a door opening. Not just any door. The door.

The Big Boss's door.

I could feel both T-bone and Cutter tense up. They both put a hand on my shoulder, almost as if they were going to use me as a shield.

This was bad.

The Big Boss was a bit of a legend to the Purple Dragons. I'd never seen him, but several others had.

Hun was the glue that kept the gang together.

No one dared to stand up to him, and those that were suicidal enough to try quickly disappeared.

And he had sent for me.

"Send him in, Cutter," a deep voice called from the doorway. I didn't think anyone could have a deeper voice than T-bone, but I was obviously wrong.

Two hands practically pushed me forward.

Faster than I would have thought, I was an office that had seen far better days.

As the door closed with a sense of finality, I quickly realized why everyone called him the Big Boss. Even from fifteen feet away, he towered over me. He was as tall as Shaq, but as wide as one of these sumo wrestlers I saw in an Austin Powers movie.

Only there didn't appear to be any fat on this guy.

A fresh wave of adrenalin washed over me.

I'm gonna die.

"You, uh, you wanted to see me, Sir?" I stammered.

"Yes," he closed with me. Two strides and he was within a yard, "Tommy, is it?"

"Yes, sir." Geeze, he's HUGE!

"I'm heard a lot about you, Tommy."

I instantly believe that's a very bad thing.

I thought I had been careful. Sabotaging the Dragons subtly whenever I thought I could get away with it, going along reluctantly when I had no other choice.

It must have been that Casey Jones thing that tipped them off.

It was over two weeks ago now, but the memory stayed fresh in my mind. Casey Jones was a hockey mask-wearing lunatic that stuck his nose into Dragon business whenever he could.

Strong son-of-a-bitch and good with weapons, even though he had an odd arsenal, primarily sports equipment. But a golf club can cave in a skull just as well as a lead pipe, I suppose.

Apparently, a few years back, the gang had killed Jones' father, and he'd been fighting and generally messing with them ever since. So when a bunch of us had him cornered by the waterfront, it was a big deal.

I had to admit the guy was a great fighter, although brawler was probably a better word. He was plowing through guys left and right. Haymakers and boot stomping everywhere.

I was lucky.

He didn't expect any of the Dragons to be a decent martial artist. I was able to land a few good strikes to slow him down. Sheer numbers took care of the rest.

Still, when the dust settled, only me and a guy named Digger were left. Digger didn't waste anytime. He pulled out a gun and put it to the back of Casey's head, execution style.

Now I knew I was in a rough place, but I wasn't about to let him kill somebody in cold blood. So I snuck up behind Digger and knocked him out. Then I tried to wake up Jones, but the guy decked me before I could explain the situation.

I woke up just as the cops were arriving and got the hell out of Dodge.

Digger and the rest weren't so lucky.

I know they finally got out of jail a few days ago.

And now Hun tells me he's heard things about me.

I'm so dead.

"I'm just doing what they tell me to do, Sir."

Hun nods.

"How's your mother, Tommy?"

An icy feeling coats the pit of my stomach.

"She's doing a lot better, Sir. She recently went back to work."

"Any problems with the landlord?"

"Uh, no sir. Rent's back up to date, thanks to the Dragons." And some behind the scenes intimidation I really don't want to know about.

"Good, that's good." Hun smiles.

That only makes him look scarier.

He turns from me and walks back to a window. He stares out of it for a few minutes, hands clasped casually behind his back, and I wonder if they'll ever find my body.

"Tell me, Tommy, are you happy working for the Purple Dragons?"

That's a loaded question and I think furiously for the proper response. But part of me rebels. My Dad would already be disappointed with my choices, but a lot of what he tried to instill in me still resonates within the fiber of my being. If I'm going to die, I should try to do it with some honor.

So I remind silent.

Hun looks at me over one massive shoulder.

"I thought so."

Suddenly he charges at me.

I have no idea how someone so big can move so fast, but I barely dive out of the way as a fist the size of basketball nearly takes my head off.

I roll to my feet and throw a punch at his midsection.

It's like hitting a wall.

He swats at me like I'm some kind of bug.

I attempt to block it, but am knocked off my feet and slam into a filing cabinet, denting it in the process.

Hun straightens up and cracks his knuckles.

"That all you got, Tommy? They told me you had some moves."

I try a flying kick, but he knocks it aside.

I follow through with a leg sweep.

It's like trying to chop down a tree with your foot.

He throws a punch, clearly bored.

I grab it, shift my weight, and use his momentum. I actually topple him, but he expertly follows through and ends up standing almost as soon as I am.

"That's a little better."

"What do you want from me?" I scream. I realize he can kill me anytime he wants to and he knows it.

He doesn't reply, attacking again.

This time, he's all business. The punches are quick and to the point. I avoid a few and then take one to the gut. I lose all my breath and most of my lunch. But I don't go down. He's trying to box me in a corner, and if he does it will be over even quicker.

I kick him in the face, trying to put some space behind myself and him. Surprisingly, it connects. It's a solid blow and I think maybe his head snaps back an inch.

Then one massive hand closes around my leg before I can withdraw it and I'm tossed across the room like a rag doll. I collide with the window and nearly go through it. As it is, it cracks crazily and I slide down the wall.

"Not bad, Tommy. Not bad."

I want to stay down.

I should stay down.

But my Mom's waiting for me to come home and I'll be damned if I don't do everything I can to stay alive.

I stand up, wobbily.

The copper taste of blood fills my mouth.

I spit it out and assume a defensive stance.

This would be so much easier if the room would stand still.

Hun laughs, clearly pleased.

"You got guts, kid, I'll give you that."

I am so confused.

"And your fighting skills aren't half bad."

Hun walked up to me and points a sausage-sized finger at my head.

"And according to the boys, you've got half a brain."

I take a step back and start to relax as I realize that maybe, just maybe, I'm not going to die. At least not tonight.

Hun nods and snaps his fingers.

Suddenly, there are four more people in the office with us. I'm not quite sure if they were already there or if they just appeared. I thought I caught I glimpse of one of them dropping from a skylight, but I'm so quickly distracted by their garb that my brain drops the issue.

Ninjas.

Holy crap. Real-life ninjas.

Head-to-toe covered, katana-wielding, shadow-sneaking ninjas!

I look from the ninjas to Hun and back.

"I don't understand," I admit.

"It's really quite simply, Tommy," Hun replies, clasping me by the shoulder. His hand feels like it weights 20 pounds.

"You're being promoted."

The words register in my mind, but they don't make any sense.

"Welcome to the Foot Clan."

Realization dawns, and I begin to wonder if there truly are things worse than death.

Something tells me that I'm going to find out.