Eaverstead, 2004

The rain drummed against the silent streets of an abandoned block in Brimstone, its rhythm broken only by the muffled footsteps of a man in a dark blue suit. A revolver rested in his right hand, his finger curled around the trigger, while his left held an umbrella, shielding him from the heavy downpour.

His name was Carter.

Carter narrowed his eyes, scanning the road ahead as he strode through an alley toward an abandoned slum tower. He pinched his nose against the foul stench of decay and human waste—a smell even the rain couldn’t wash away.

At the entrance, he glanced up at a building nearby, at a window, one that overlooked the rooftop of the tower he was planning to get into. Then, a red laser flickered in response—brief, but enough to highlight the edges of his mustache.

Carter smirked, shaking his head as he stepped inside.

The rooftop was dark and empty, save for a single flickering bulb attached to the side wall. Its erratic glow hummed weakly, threatening to die at any moment.

In the center, four black folding chairs stood in a straight line. Carter dragged one forward, turning it to face the others before taking a seat, his umbrella still open. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette.

As he raised the lighter to his lips...

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps echoed from the stairwell, growing louder.

Then, three men emerged, holding Tommy guns and a suitcase. They wore matching denim jackets, a black dragon resting over a crimson hand, the red ink dripping like blood.

They didn’t speak a word as they sat in their respective chairs. Then, they pushed the suitcase toward Carter. It slid across the wet floor, coming to a stop near his feet, but he didn’t take it—he didn’t even look down.

"Your activities are getting out of control," Carter said, his voice firm as he locked eyes with the youngest of the group, known as Moro. "Double the price or no deal."

Moro smirked, picking up his phone. He tapped a message and sent it. "Robert told me you might say something like that," he said. "I might be sharper than most, but I’m a lowly member nevertheless." A hollow laugh followed, but no one shared the amusement—not Carter, nor his partners.

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They sat in silence as the rain stopped and the sky cleared, making way for the moon to cast its pale light.

Then, more footsteps.

This time, they revealed a tall, bald man with a dragon tattoo inked across his skull. Unlike the others, he wore a dark suit, his presence commanding.

"Good evening, Mr. Carter," he said.

"I assume Robert told you everything?" Carter replied, his expression neutral.

"That’s right. I’m afraid the best they can offer is 5% more."

Carter scoffed, leaning forward. "Even rats have a sense of humor, huh?"

A stiff, unnatural chuckle escaped them.

Carter turned his gaze upward, locking eyes with Robert. Unlike the others, Robert glared back, his lips pressed into a thin line.

The weight of their silent stare intensified with each heartbeat, pressing down on their chests. Carter’s jaw tightened, and his fingers fidgeted at his sides. This is bad. I need to remind them who’s in control.

He raised his arm slowly, glancing up at the window, signaling for the snipers to attack.

Robert rushed to pick up his phone, his fingers twitching—aiming for a press.

In an instant, red dots painted the window.

And then—boom.

It was too late.

A blinding flash of red and orange lit up the night, swallowing the darkness. Instead of bullets, the blast sent debris flying, raining down over the empty roads.

Carter’s breath caught. His heart quickened as he scrambled for his revolver.

But he was too slow.

Robert swung a punch, landing squarely on his left eye, and then a kick to the stomach followed—launching him to the ground. His gun slipped out of his hand, just out of reach.

Except for Moro, the other Redhand members joined in, kicking, stomping, and spitting on his face.

"Acting all high and mighty just 'cause you're a cop, huh?"

"Rotten pig."

Carter curled in on himself, hands raised weakly. "Please..." His voice cracked. "Please, don’t—"

Robert lifted a hand, and the others stopped.

He crouched beside Carter, his voice calm. "You overestimated yourself."

Carter’s lips trembled, his bloodied face swollen and shaking as the three men stepped forward.

Moro smirked, gun aimed.

"Say hello to Satan for me."

Gunfire echoed as they unloaded their magazines at him.