Remy took a long pull from his glass, the amber liquid swirling as he set it down. His gaze was distant, and when he spoke, his Southern Louisiana accent came through thick, each word laced with a drawl that painted his words with the colors of his past.

“Well now, lemme spin ya a yarn ‘bout what came after all that mess with my ma,” Remy began, his voice rolling like a slow river. “See, when they locked her up, things just went to hell, and folks ‘round me, they all said she was touched, crazy as a loon. But they didn’t know what I saw, what she was seein’. She’d scream at shadows and talk ‘bout things that weren’t supposed to be real.”

He shook his head, a rueful grin curling at the edges of his lips. “My old man, he turned to drinkin’ real quick. Left me to fend for myself, and I reckon I had to figure out how to deal with all that pain. So, I took to fightin’. I reckon a kid shouldn’t have a punch that could lay out a grown man, but I did. It was like a curse or a blessin’—I don’t rightly know which. But it was my way of escapin’, y’know?”

Remy leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath as he continued. “I started winnin’ fights left and right, and before long, a cartel boss took notice. My daddy, he was just a drunk by then, livin’ off the money I was bringin’ in. The cartel offered me more than I ever could make on my own, so I jumped right in, became an enforcer for ‘em. It wasn’t no picnic, but it gave me somethin’ to do with all that anger and hurt.”

He paused, a far-off look in his eyes. “But of course, nothin’ lasts forever. Things went sideways one day, and next thing I knew, I was in deep with federal charges. By the grace of the Good Lord—though I reckon it was more of a curse than a blessing at the time—I ended up with an eight-year sentence. And that’s where the real change happened.”

Remy’s voice softened, the twang of his accent mellowing as he spoke of his redemption. “In prison, I found the gospel. It was like a light in the dark, and I became an ordained minister. When I got out, I was set on a new path, tryin’ to spread the word and make somethin’ good out of all the bad. And that’s how I ended up in this mess with the feds, fightin’ a whole different kind of evil.”

He took another sip from his glass, the whiskey burning a path down his throat.

**memories **

**Diners and dives**

**1 week Ago Mustang, Tx**

Remy pushed open the door to the diner, the bell above jingling softly. His boots scuffed against the worn linoleum floor as he entered, each step heavy with the ache of thirty miles on foot. He was a sight: disheveled, hair slicked to his forehead from sweat, and his shirt clinging to him in a way that suggested the dust of the road had become his second skin. The neon lights outside had bathed him in a sickly red hue, but inside, the diner was different. Clean. Too clean, almost.

The place had that strange, timeless quality small-town diners always seem to have. Like it had been sitting in this exact state for decades, waiting for someone to walk through the door. The few patrons barely glanced up from their meals. A couple sat at a table, heads down, lost in conversation. In the back, three men in dark suits—feds, Remy could tell right off—were huddled over a booth. One of them was pale, his eyes hollow, like he’d been running from something in his head for far too long.

Remy’s eyes tracked to the bathroom door. He needed to freshen up, get his head straight before the weight of the miles caught up with him. Inside, the mirror over the sink was cracked in one corner, like it had taken one too many punches. Remy splashed water over his face, watching the murky streams trickle down his neck. His reflection stared back at him, haunted, but he’d long stopped caring about that.

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The door creaked open, and in stumbled the pale agent from the booth outside. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loose, and his face—white as a sheet. His breath was shallow, labored like he’d been running, but it wasn’t just exhaustion. It was something deeper, something gnawing at him from the inside.

“Impossible dates… Innsmouth… can’t be real,” the agent mumbled, his words tumbling out like they were escaping from somewhere he didn’t want to revisit. His eyes darted to Remy, but didn’t seem to focus. “They said it wasn’t real.”

Remy raised an eyebrow, giving a dry chuckle. “Well now, partner, I’m pretty sure if we started worryin’ ‘bout every spook story we hear, we’d all be locked up somewhere, rattlin’ cages.” He washed his hands, the water running pink from a cut on his knuckles.

The agent blinked, as if only now realizing Remy was there. For a second, the room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the diner beyond the door. The agent rubbed his temples, trying to pull himself together, and Remy slipped past him without another word, heading back into the diner.

He took a seat in the far corner, his back to the wall, eyes on the room like always. It was a habit. Something about the place was too serene, too calm, like a lull before the storm. Remy didn’t like it. His instincts hummed, telling him something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

The waitress, a tired-looking woman with dark bags under her eyes, approached and took his order. “Two eggs, double order of bacon, toast,” he grunted, flashing a weary smile. “And coffee, black.”

When she returned with the coffee, he slipped his flask from his jacket, pouring a healthy splash of whiskey into the steaming cup. The warmth and burn of it settled his nerves a little, but that nagging sense of dread still lingered in the back of his mind. He sipped, letting his eyes wander, his thoughts sliding back to his recent misstep with the sheriff’s wife in Paris, Texas. He should’ve known better—hell, he did know better. But that hadn’t stopped him.

He caught the faint scent of bacon sizzling in the kitchen, the kind of homey smell that reminded him of simpler times. But it was ruined by the rising tension in his gut. His senses weren’t quieting down like they usually did. There was something in the air, something just out of reach, hovering, biting at the edges.

And then he saw it: a tiny red speck, dancing like a firefly against the window near the agents' booth.

His mind snapped into focus, years of instinct and survival kicking in. The bullet traveled faster than sound, his body reacting just before the air cracked with the shot. One of the agents, the one sitting closest to the window, jerked violently. His chest exploded outward, a geyser of blood spraying across the table and splattering the other two.

The scene slowed in Remy’s mind. He could see the agent’s mouth fall open, no sound escaping as his life drained out of him in thick, pulsing streams. The round had ripped clean through his chest, tearing apart bone and flesh, and leaving a ruin where his heart had been. The man’s eyes went wide with shock, and then they were dead, glassy, staring at nothing as he slumped forward onto the table. His blood spread across the white diner napkins, soaking through to the floor in a slow, creeping pool.

Remy didn’t hesitate. He hit the floor before the others even realized what had happened, flipping the table on its side to use as cover. His hand moved instinctively to his Glock, the familiar weight a small comfort in the chaos. His mind raced as he assessed the room. The diner, once peaceful, was now a frenzy of screams and panic, patrons scrambling to get out, dishes crashing to the floor. But Remy wasn’t thinking about them—he was already calculating, tracking where the shot had come from, where the sniper might be.

Outside. Had to be. Somewhere with a clear line of sight through the window. Remy’s eyes flicked toward the cars parked out front. He spotted it then—a glint of light off a scope, barely visible behind a car parked across the street.

Time slowed again as Remy rolled to the side, keeping low, his gun steady in his hand. He lined up his shot, waiting for the smallest hint of movement, waiting for his moment to strike.

And then, just like that, it was over. Remy sat back in the booth, back in the bar now, staring down at his empty glass. His voice broke the silence. “You’re buyin’ the next round, right?”

The man beside him looked at Remy, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He glanced down, noticing the red specks on Remy’s collar and the dried blood on his cuff. His hands were dirty too, like he'd clawed his way through hell and come out the other side.

And for Remy, that wasn’t far from the truth.