The coin wasn't worth much. Just twenty-five cents. Scratched. Dirty. Almost forgotten by the world.

Three men swaggered into the diner. They weren't wearing suits. They wore heavy leather jackets, their knuckles scarred, their eyes filled with casual cruelty. These were Thorne's men—the street-level enforcers used to terrorize property owners into signing over their deeds.

The leader, a massive man with a jagged scar across his jaw, walked right up to the counter, entirely ignoring Sam, who stood quietly in the shadows near the entrance.

"Time's up, old man," the thug sneered, slamming a crumpled legal document onto the counter. "Mr. Thorne is tired of playing nice. You sign the deed over today for the asking price, or accidents start happening. Fires break out. Gas lines rupture. You know how it is in this neighborhood."

Arthur didn't flinch. He slowly folded his rag and placed it on the counter. He looked the thug dead in the eye. "I told Thorne yesterday, and I'll tell you today. I'm not selling. This place feeds thirty kids a day who have nowhere else to go. You tell Thorne to go to hell."

The thug laughed, a dry, ugly sound. "You're a stupid old man."

He reached across the counter, grabbing Arthur roughly by the collar of his apron, pulling him forward. "You're going to sign it right now, or I'm going to break your jaw."

Sam didn't think. The polished veneer of the billionaire CEO vanished in a microsecond, replaced entirely by the vicious, survival-driven instincts of a street kid.

Sam dropped his umbrella. He closed the distance in three silent, explosive strides.

He grabbed the thug’s wrist—the one holding Arthur—and applied a brutal, agonizing joint lock he had learned in the group homes. The thug screamed as his wrist bent backward at a sickening angle, his grip releasing instantly. Sam didn't stop. He pivoted, driving a devastating elbow directly into the man's face, shattering his nose and sending him crashing into a table of napkin dispensers.

The other two enforcers froze in shock, staring at the man in the bespoke suit who had just dismantled their leader in three seconds.

"Get out," Sam said, his voice a low, lethal whisper. "If I ever see your faces in this establishment again, I will ensure you spend the rest of your miserable lives drinking through a straw. Leave."

The thugs scrambled backward, hauling their bleeding leader off the floor. They stumbled out the door, the bell chiming violently behind them.

Sam stood breathing heavily, straightening the cuffs of his expensive suit. He turned to look at Arthur.