It was 1977. The city was alive with neon lights, smoky air, and the beat of funk that echoed from every street corner. The kind of place where the future met the past in a haze of electric colors and broken dreams. The kind of place where you either got ahead, or you got out.

And if you didn’t know J. Cat, you didn’t know nothing.

He didn’t play by the rules of society, or the rules of the street. J. Cat was more than just a man; he was an institution, a myth that crept up in every conversation in the penthouses, the underground clubs, the backroom casinos, and the lavish hotel suites. In a city of cash, cocaine, and chaos, he was a slick operator—a smooth talker with a dangerous streak, and his reputation spread faster than a fire in dry grass.

It wasn't about being the biggest player. No, J. Cat knew the real game was about being the smartest one. And his game was simple: manipulate, control, and walk away clean.