All Chapters of The Night Boss: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

The Loan of LifeKroos had always believed he was untouchable.The streets had whispered his name like a hymn of fear, the underworld had crowned him long before he earned his scars, and even the city officials—those polished men in suits—used to bow their heads slightly when his shadow passed by.But now, running through the filth-choked alleys of the city, Kroos felt the weight of a truth he had ignored all his life: every sin is borrowed, every crime a loan. One day, you must pay it back.The night was damp, the metallic bite of rain-soaked steel. Neon signs flickered, their dying light reflecting on puddles that stretched like black mirrors. Kroos clutched his chest, not out of weakness but out of instinct; the world suddenly felt tighter, the walls closer, the footsteps behind him louder.He wasn’t running from enemies he didn’t know. He was running from his own legacy.Kroos had chosen his men carefully over the years. Each one was tested—through blood, loyalty, and silence. Ye

The Murmurs of a CityThe city had long lived under whispers—names spoken in alleyways, stories told in half-truths. Kroos. Marquez. The Boss. For years, they were myths and shadows, a tangle of fear and fascination. But now, with the news of Kroos’s arrest, whispers erupted into a roar.By dawn, every corner of the city was alive with speculation. Radios carried it first, the voices of early-morning presenters rushing to break the story.> “Confirmed reports from the central precinct,” one voice declared, clipped and electric. “The notorious Kroos has been taken into custody. Details remain scarce, but sources suggest the arrest was carried out after a confrontation late last night.”Across kitchens and cafes, people froze with coffee mugs in their hands. Taxi drivers turned up the volume. Vendors stopped arranging their stalls. Students on their way to school slowed their steps to catch every word.Some cheered. Others frowned, distrust on their tongues. Kroos had always been large

The Boss’s GambitThe arrest of Kroos rippled through the city like a storm wave crashing against concrete walls. Crowds still lined the courthouse steps, reporters still shouted questions no one wanted to answer, and politicians clutched their phones as though salvation could be texted in fragments of promises. But for The Boss, the arrest was nothing more than an anticipated move in a long chess game.He sat in his office that night, a lamp burning amber, shadows curling over the walls. His drink sat untouched on the desk, the ice melted into weak swirls. The Boss rarely allowed himself drink before he thought through the consequences, and tonight demanded clarity.Kroos had fallen, spectacularly. Marquez was still in hiding, too frightened of the tightening net to breathe too loudly. But The Boss—he had not been touched. His name was not dragged across radio stations, nor whispered in cafes with bitter coffee steam. Instead, he was the phantom. The untouchable one.That was by desi

Marquez had now believed that his greatest weapon was not the gun, nor the money, but the loyalty of those who surrounded him. He thought he knew every man’s price, every woman’s weakness, every politician’s hunger. He had fed them all, fattened them on his favors and his threats, until they were his. At least, that was the story he told himself when he pressed his head against the window of his hideout and listened to the city breathing outside like some restless animal.But loyalty, he was learning too late, was nothing more than a currency. And currencies always collapse.The man who had betrayed Kroos, the trusted one who led the police to that fateful hiding place, had not stopped his games. He was a snake with two heads, slithering through the cracks of the underworld, biting whoever dared to step close. No one had ever seen the ghost take sides for long. He worked for Kroos, then Marquez, and then sometimes against them both. What he truly sought was survival—the kind of surviv

The Boss’s InvitationThe city had not yet recovered from the spectacle of Marquez’s downfall when another ripple of rumor spread like fire through the veins of the underworld: The Boss has finally made his move.Unlike Kroos, whose arrogance betrayed him, or Marquez, whose paranoia led him into traps, the Boss carried himself with the gravity of a chess master. For weeks he had watched the city convulse—first at Kroos’s arrest, then at Marquez’s capture. He had listened to the radios humming with ridicule, watched television panels dissect the corruption of the old regime, read the columns of bold young journalists who dared to write that the empire of fear was finally collapsing. And while the public celebrated, the Boss remained in silence.But silence was not absence, silence was strategy.On a hot evening, under the cover of a rainstorm that painted the streets with silver, the Boss began making calls. Not to small-time officers or greedy councilmen who had sold themselves cheap