In the heart of the fortress, a Boss lounges like a predator in a gilded cage. His right arm drapes over the chair, fingers tapping a rhythmic, impatient beat. A crimson shirt hangs loose from his shoulders like a shroud soaked in old blood.

  The Scorpion gang, a rootless group, in the Centre City's bosom.

  Five masked men stand before him, their faces obscured by red cloths damp with sweat. Their synchronized breathing is the only sound in the sweltering silence.

  To his right, his personal guard stands ready. One grips a long-barreled rifle, her eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. Behind her, another guard carries a heavy blade, radiating a quiet menace that chills the air.

  "Salion," the Boss rumbles.

  The guard steps forward, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Yes, Boss."

  "Where is my agent? The one I sent to the Keep?"

  "Still on mission. She is not back yet," she replies, her accent thick and clipping the words short.

  The Boss’s voice drops into a low growl. "She’s taking too damn long!" He snaps his fingers. He points to a messenger by the door. "Go. Find out what is holding her. Be quick."

  The Boss’s gaze shifts, settling on a scrawny advisor standing to his left. "Tell Fatty we meet this afternoon. It’s urgent."

  The advisor hesitates. His eyes drift like dust motes. He takes a cautious step forward. "Boss... Fatty is dead."

  The Boss’s eyebrow arches like a knife’s edge. "When? Where?"

  "Latvilo Casino. A few days ago."

  The air in the room thickens. The Boss leans forward, eyes blazing. "How the hell do you know this and I don't?"

  "I... I heard rumors. I thought—"

  "You thought?" The Boss’s words are a cold promise of violence. "One more failure... and I will take your head myself."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The messenger bursts back into the room. "Boss! News from the front."

  "Talk."

  "Mission failed. The agent ran into a crew trying to steal the Chuppah. The relic shattered... the Keep's men swarmed the room, and the crew fled."

  The Boss’s jaw sets like granite. "The Golden Chuppah... broke?"

  "It was a fake," the messenger says, the words tumbling out. "A lure for a trap. Nightshade Keep rigged it with a siren."

  The Boss exhales a slow hiss. "The prince is just a kid, and he's already playing games. I’ll crush him. Stand the agent down. This time, I want total victory." He turns to his advisor. "Bring me Jessie. She’ll take over the hunt."

  "Jessie is unavailable, sir," the advisor whispers. "She's already hunting the man who wiped out Fatty’s crew. She insisted on handling it herself."

  A slow, predatory smile spreads across the Boss’s face. "Interesting. If he survives Jessie, I want him. Lose one pawn, gain a knight. Salion! Fetch the giant."

  She nods. Moments later, a dark presence enters—a seven-foot muscular woman known only as Satan’s Soul.

  "Nightshade Keep," the Boss commands. "Kill anyone in your way, but bring me the real Chuppah. Take your team and vanish."

  "Understood," the giant says, her voice heavy. "Consider it done!."

  VANILLA'S STREET-CENTRE CITY.

  Blocks away, the midday heat shimmers off the asphalt.

  An average-height woman with long black hair and sharp brown eyes has searched nineteen bars… Nineteen rooms smelling of stale beer and sun-baked dust.

  The twentieth bar spills raucous laughter into the street. She follows the sound inside.

  She steps to the counter, voice low, controlled, dangerous. "I need information. Ever heard of a man who wiped out a famous gang at Latvilo's casino?" she asks, furrowing her brow.

  The bartender eyes her, narrowing, sensing she isn’t just another lost traveler. Wiping a glass in a shaft of sunlight, he hesitates. "I’m not a spy, lady."

  Coins clink onto the counter. She leans closer, every movement measured.

  Her practicality shows: she doesn’t waste words or threats; she backs them with payment.

  "Talk," she says.

  His eyes flicker to the coin. He leans in, voice cautious. "There’s a woman who knows his history… ex-fiancée’s best friend. Small road to the left. Four-foot wooden door. Ask for Cynthia. Tell her the bartender sent you. Payment on desk."

  She nods, already moving, every step deliberate. Flash Night Jessie. The city seems to hold its breath for her.

  She follows the trail through the scorching labyrinth of the city. She finds the door, knocks, and is led through back alleys to a secluded house.

  The door opens to reveal a woman, posture tense, eyes wary. "Come in," she whispers. Locks click behind them. Jessie steps inside, measuring the space.

  ”What do you want?"

  "I’m hunting the man who wiped out the Red Carpet," Jessie says, standing tall in the gloom.

  The woman narrows. "Why?"

  "The bartender sent me, says payment on desk."

  The woman chuckles, a dry, hollow sound. Her lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. "Oh, that man... he’s built quite the reputation."

  She leans in, her eyes reflecting the dim light. "That’s Johnny."