Multicolored lights pulsed like crazy, the pounding bass so loud it echoed through the door, vibrating in your chest. The two bored Mox girls guarding the entrance, staring at the empty street, were growing more and more restless.
"Hey, Rita—look!"
Her partner, chewing a cigarette out of boredom, tapped her. Rita turned—and froze.
"Whoa—where'd this bodybuilding champion come from?"
Bat perched on her shoulder, Rita had been guessing the value of the parked cars, but this man made her eyes widen.
Arnold's body was all bulging muscle, sharply defined. His chest was thick as a slab of steel, his shoulders round as tires. Like a small mountain, he cast a shadow over the two punk girls.
"You here for fun? Or here to make trouble?"
But that didn't scare the Mox girl one bit. Rita leaned on her baseball bat, raised an eyebrow, and asked.
"I'm here to get some clothes." Arnold said this with the same cold, stone-faced expression.
The scene went quiet for one second—then the two punk girls burst out laughing. Clearly, they thought Arnold was just joking.
Still, they let him in, giving him the usual nightlife rules before he left—one of them even slid her hand teasingly down his pecs to his abs.
"Next time you need clothes, come to me. I know a great place." The purple-haired punk girl threw him a flirtatious wink.
Passing through the sequined curtain, Arnold entered Lizzie's Bar.
Dim lights, swirling color globes, bass loud enough to rupture eardrums—bars were always the same. Onstage, people were twisting their bodies to the beat, the air thick with chokingly cheap perfume.
Jackie watched the people going wild on the dance floor, his own head bobbing uncontrollably to the heavy rhythm.
"Damn, V, see? I told you this place was great!" Jackie lifted the whiskey on the table and downed it. "Hah—sweet. Live fast, die young, old bastard whiskey."
Jackie and V sat in their booth, the dance floor raging just to their left.
"I don't see anything special," V muttered, face still gloomy, sipping whiskey without interest.
"Hey, stop thinking about Misty's tarot crap from earlier." Jackie leaned in and whispered. "Tell you a secret: I don't believe that stuff either. But—don't tell Misty."
"Relax, Jackie. It's not that." V forced a smile and refilled her glass. "It'll take more than a few prophecies to scare me."
"Then what is it?" Jackie scratched his head, puzzled.
"Not biz. Not the tarot…"
"Is it the lover thing you mentioned earlier?" Jackie guessed. Even he wasn't sure he believed it—but V suddenly went quiet.
"…Holy shit, it is." Jackie's eyes went wide.
"No way—V! You should've said so! I didn't think you'd actually get hung up over someone." Jackie burst out laughing.
"Heh… yeah." V rolled her eyes.
"Hey, don't be down. I can't help you with everything, but with this? I got you!" Jackie thumped his chest proudly, like some Sixth Street big shot.
"You don't even know who—"
"Berry, right?"
PFFFF!!
V spit her drink everywhere.
"Cough—w-wait—how do you—?" Her deepest secret exposed—her pupils trembled. She pointed at Jackie, speechless.
"See? Told you I could help." Jackie spread his hands, looking unbearably smug.
"How did you know?" V finally got her words straight, still shocked.
This was more shocking than a street stranger calling out your name and home address.
"You didn't just guess, did you?" V desperately looked for excuses. She couldn't believe something she'd hidden so well could be seen through by Jackie.
"Heh. Who knows?" Jack whistled, enjoying her frustration.
"Jackie!"
"Fine, fine." Seeing V serious, he stopped messing around and surrendered.
"I only suspected it. Your reaction just confirmed it."
V froze.
So she basically confessed without saying a word.
"Remember that time we delivered the package in Pacifica?" Jackie opened another bottle of whiskey and poured for them both.
"Berry was wearing that cropped tank top, right? Stomach all out." Jackie gestured a curve.
"And V, you have no idea—the way you were staring at her waist? You practically wanted to devour her."
"Because of that?" V looked stunned. She never imagined her horny stare would give her away.
"Hell yes." Jackie leaned in, lowering his voice.
"That's the look of a hunter eyeing prey. Never wrong."
V sighed helplessly, slumping back with her glass raised.
"Fine. Congrats. You've uncovered a big secret."
"Yeah… I like Berry."
Saying it aloud felt like lifting a weight off her chest.
Jackie stayed quiet, letting her speak.
"Shit, Jackie—you don't get it. She's been with me six years. Nothing ever happened. But lately—damn…" V rubbed her forehead, frustrated.
"Her face, her arms, her waist—everything's driving me insane. And she sleeps right next to me every night. Christ, I'm losing it."
Like a true drunk, V rambled on about her desire, frustration, and turmoil.
"V, why don't you just tell her how you feel?" Jackie almost burst laughing—the always-composed V was acting like some lovesick teenager.
"Can I, though?" V's voice sped up.
"What if she doesn't feel the same? I'd ruin everything."
"Six years together, day and night… I'm pretty sure she just sees me as a big sister…"
She downed another huge gulp, half-closing her eyes—clearly drunk.
Case closed: V had all lust and no courage.
"Hey, V—love doesn't work if you're scared of everything."
Having cracked her secret, Jackie lounged back confidently.
"Don't worry. I'll help. Back in Heywood, there wasn't a girl I couldn't charm."
"Then tell me your big plan." V slumped over the table, cheeks flushed.
"Listen, you gotta strike like a beast—don't just sit around—"
Jack straightened up and launched into his lifetime of pickup wisdom.
The night grew wilder; alcohol tore down inhibitions. Bodies twisted in the dark haze.
Spilled drinks, empty bottles—all lost in this choking, frenzied pleasure.
"Hey handsome, need a drink? My treat."
"Looking for fun? I can make your whole night."
In Lizzie's, Arnold's bodybuilder-like physique caused a small commotion—especially since he was half-naked.
This wasn't a church. The appreciation wasn't just visual. Hands kept sneaking in to grab his chest and abs; some even waved cash at him.
None of it fazed Arnold. He moved through the crowd with a cold expression—Berry didn't feel physical touch through him anyway, so whatever.
Berry steered Arnold aimlessly around the bar, bored.
Nothing special—pretty much like the dive bar at Totentanz.
The only difference was that the bouncers here were punk girls in wild outfits. People were either dancing or tripping on BD, chasing fake orgasms.
No exciting impart scenes like she imagined.
Bored, she wanted to hurry up and find the thugs who escaped earlier. After several sweeps, she finally spotted the "familiar faces."
By a pool table against the wall, the bruised punks were nervously reporting to a burly man holding a cue.
Arnold recognized them—those same punks he beat up earlier. So they ran here to tattle to their boss. Looks like they hadn't learned their lesson. Arnold walked toward them.
"Boss, that's him! He's the one who beat us!"
One punk spotted Arnold approaching and screamed—only to get punched aside by his own boss.
"Useless trash. Getting your asses kicked and still crying about it."
The big guy stood, glaring at Arnold.
"So you're the one who messed with my boys."
He was almost as tall as Arnold, muscles swelling under his leather jacket.
Leather jacket, leather pants, high boots, cigar in mouth—he looked way more intimidating than half-naked Arnold.
"Who you run with? Who's your boss?" he sneered, blowing smoke.
"I want your jacket, your shirt, your jeans, and your boots." Arnold said, cold and emotionless.
The big man laughed darkly.
He crushed his lit cigar into Arnold's bare chest.
"Say it again, tough guy."
The burning tip hissed against flesh—people around gasped.
"…Huh?"
No scream. The big man stared. Arnold didn't even twitch.
He pressed harder—nothing.
"Aaaagh!!"
The scream did come—but from the big guy.
With a crack, Arnold twisted his hand like a wet towel. The man collapsed backward, howling.
"You bastard!"
One of the punks stabbed at Arnold's stomach with a switchblade—but the blade couldn't pierce his steel-hard skin.
Before the punk could react, Arnold punched him, sending him crashing into the table and scattering balls and junk everywhere.
Chaos exploded. People fled screaming—especially the punks who'd already been beaten earlier. They ran like hell.
One last punk tried to sneak-attack with a cue—Arnold turned his head, cold eyes freezing the guy in place. The cue clattered to the floor.
"I'll kill you!"
The big guy, leaning on the pool table, trembling from the pain, managed to pull a gun with his remaining hand.
Arnold kicked the gun away easily.
He stepped forward and punched the man in the face—blood and teeth flew.
"…Fine! Fine! The clothes are yours!"
The man begged, terrified, using one hand to start stripping, praying Arnold really only wanted the clothes.
Across the bar, Jackie and V watched the chaos.
"Holy shit, V, you seeing this?" Jackie whistled.
"That guy took out a whole crew like nothing."
"I'm not blind. Of course I saw." V crossed her arms. "Damn brute. Doesn't he realize this is Mox territory? He's dead later."
"Wait—hold up—" Jackie's words were cut short by his ringing internal comm.
"Yeah? …What? Shit—got it. Thanks, man!"
He hung up, face instantly furious.
"V—fuck—the Sixth Street bastards who jumped us last time? They found them."
"What?!"
V went from confused to blood-red instant rage.
"Where? We're gonna end them!"
Months ago, they'd clashed with a Sixth Street crew; V even lost a tooth. They'd been waiting to settle that score.
"You got your gear? We can't let them get away!"
"All in the trunk. Let's go!" V marched out, fists clenched.
Arnold saw them storming out. Berry wanted Arnold to go say hi—but their hurried pace seemed suspicious, so she decided to follow.
"Hey—here."
The big thug—now stripped naked—timidly offered Arnold the neatly folded clothes.
Thirty seconds later, Arnold walked to the front door wearing a black leather jacket, black shirt, black leather pants, and high boots.
"You think you can tear up our place and just walk out?"
Apparently, not everyone agreed to let him leave.
At the door, a whole group of Mox punk girls stood ready with guns, bats, and blades.