Chapter 1: Stone Fist Falls

Derek Lane is a cop.

A tough-as-nails cop.

There are three big-time ruthless figures in the southern part of Maple Heights, and the most notorious among them is Mason “Stone Fist” Mayfield.

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Mason Mayfield grew up running with the Ironclad Crew and once punched out a bull at the county fair. Folks say his fists are harder than granite.

Everyone in Maple Heights still remembers that wild July afternoon at the county fair, the scent of fried dough and hay thick in the air. Mason, barely seventeen, swaggered into the ring and dropped a bull with a single punch—half the crowd roared, the other half called animal control. After that, Mason’s legend was set in stone.

Mason’s got his hands in every racket in town—nine trades, thirteen unions, all muscled out of someone else’s grip. Play along, and he “borrows” with cash; refuse, and he collects with his fists.

He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t even blink when the city council tries to push back. Local contractors, the sanitation union, even the high school football boosters—if Mason wants in, he gets in, and you’re lucky if you walk away with an envelope instead of a busted jaw.

Didn’t take him long to get filthy rich—hell, in Maple Heights, money sticks to knuckles like his.

He cruises town in a cherry-red Mustang from out west, calls the old governor’s mansion home, and keeps the most famous singer from Savannah’s Blue Orchid Lounge on his arm. His daily spending could feed a struggling family for a decade.

Neighbors whisper about Mason’s late-night parties—neon spilling through stained glass, blues riffs and laughter drifting down Oak Street. Everyone knows the Mustang’s engine, and more than one kid’s dared each other to sneak a peek at the legendary singer lounging by the pool.

But good times don’t last, because Derek Lane came knocking.

Derek is tall and broad-shouldered, skin tanned like old leather, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. He stands at Mason’s front gate.

His uniform is crisp, badge glinting in the southern sun. Sweat beads on his brow but his jaw is set. The way he stands—arms crossed, feet planted—says he’s here for business, the kind you can’t buy off.

The doormen who tried to show guests out are already sprawled on the lawn like roadkill. Mason’s place sits smack in the busiest part of town, and soon a crowd gathers, watching from behind a rusty mailbox and the shade of an old oak.

Kids on bikes, old men in lawn chairs, and moms with grocery bags all pause to watch. In Maple Heights, you don’t miss a showdown like this—you text your cousin, lean in, and whisper bets about who’ll come out on top.

Someone’s phone camera is already out, live-streaming to the town Facebook group.

Everyone’s dying to see just how bad it’ll get for someone dumb enough to cross Mason Mayfield.

A couple of teenage boys place quiet bets, nudging each other. Nobody wants to be caught staring, but nobody can look away either. The tension is thick enough to taste, like storm air before a tornado.

Mason storms out, face like thunder. He’s a head taller than Derek. In his experience, a punk like this wouldn’t last one punch.

He cracks his knuckles—those infamous hands that broke more than a few noses in backroom bars. His boots crunch across the gravel driveway, each step daring Derek to back down. But Derek doesn’t flinch.

So he throws a punch—his fist whistles through the air and slams into Derek’s chest. Until now, nobody’s ever taken a blow from him and stayed standing.

The punch lands with a sickening thud, sending a jolt up Derek’s spine, but he just breathes out slow—like he’s bored.

The crack of the hit echoes through the yard. You can hear someone in the crowd let out a gasp. A stray dog takes off down the sidewalk. But Derek stands there, unmoved, arms still crossed.

Derek doesn’t dodge, but he doesn’t fall either.

The impact sounds like a brick on steel. Derek’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t even take a step back. It’s the kind of moment that slows time—everyone watching knows something’s changed.

“I hear your fists are hard as stone?” Derek asks.

His voice is calm, almost lazy, but there’s a razor edge to it. The crowd leans in closer, silent now. Mason hesitates, sweat breaking at his temples.

Cold sweat breaks out on Mason’s brow. Even though he landed the punch, it feels like his own knuckles are about to shatter. That punch was like hitting a steel plate.

He flexes his fingers, wincing at the pain. The crowd notices; a few whispers ripple through the onlookers. Mason’s legend takes its first real dent.

“I’ve never punched stone before. Always wondered what kind of idiot would try to break a rock with his bare hand.” As Derek finishes, he suddenly lands a punch in Mason’s gut—a punch that doesn’t look all that hard, but Mason doubles over, clutching his stomach, and drops to his knees.

You can practically hear the air leaving Mason’s lungs. He crashes to the grass, face twisted in pain, all that bravado gone in an instant. Someone in the crowd snickers, another mutters, “He had it coming.”

Not just on his knees—snot and tears stream down his face from the pain. People who haven’t been beaten in a long time look even more pitiful than those who are used to it.

The sight is almost pitiful, if he hadn’t terrorized half the town. Kids will tell this story at school for years. A couple of old timers nod in satisfaction—maybe justice isn’t dead in Maple Heights after all.

Derek pulls out the warrant, and Mason signs the warrant right there, blood smearing across his signature. Derek drags him off to the station like a sack of potatoes.

There’s a ripple of applause from the crowd. As Derek hauls Mason away, the crowd parted—nobody wanted to miss what came next. Justice, for once, was loud.

Someone shouts, “Way to go, Lane!” The old governor’s mansion never looked so small as it does behind Mason’s slumped shoulders.