The sun bled into the horizon, casting a crimson, glittering path across the sea that led directly to the docks.
At the water's edge stood a warehouse, its industrial shell repurposed into a sprawling bar for dock workers to wash away the grime of the day.
*Crak!* *Crak!* *Crak!*
The gritty, deliberate report of boots on concrete announced a young woman striding with the unshakeable confidence of a predator.
She moved toward the wide doors, her form a silhouette against the dying light.
Gracing her athletic form was a pair of black jeans and a turtleneck beneath a flapping leather coat, and emblazoned on its back was the white design of a growling wolf's head.
Her belt buckle was a silver triple set of jagged claw marks, and little white skulls adorned the sides of her black boots.
Before the bar, men in garish beach shirts struggled to hang a lopsided birthday banner.
"Hey! Shift it to the left!" a gang captain yelled in a commanding tone, then glanced over his shoulder. All of a sudden, his bluster evaporated, replaced by a hesitant, awkward smile.
"Madam Cake. Wel-welcome! W-what brings you here?"
Cake flicked her long, wavy black hair, not breaking stride. Then she glanced at him with a raised, questioning brow, her caramel skin absorbing the last of the sunset's glow.
"Shut the fuck up, Owen. Is your Boss inside?"
A scowl momentarily flashed across his features, one swiftly smothered into a fawning obedience.
"Ahem! Y-you're in luck, madam. He just arrived."
She stopped beside him, the air growing cold.
"Luck?" She squinted, her voice threateningly low.
"If he weren't here, I would have had you drag him out of whatever hole he was in. He's the lucky one here."
Without another glance, she marched up the steps and into the shady bar within.
Owen scowled at her retreating back.
"That bitc—"
*Whoosh!* *Bam!*
A rifle instantly flew out the door, its stock slamming into the back of his skull with a sickening crack.
"Hey! That was my gun!" a gangster yelled, running out to retrieve his weapon.
Owen carefully touched the back of his head, and his fingers came away slick with blood. All he could do was grit his teeth, letting out a long, close-mouthed groan of pure, seething frustration.
Inside, Cake rolled her eyes at him before turning to survey her surroundings.
Sunlight streamed through towering dockside windows, illuminating a space where rugged history and forced refinement clashed. Polished wooden floors lay underfoot, and weathered plank walls whispered of salt and sea.
Overhead, steel beams framed a vast open space now awkwardly softened by potted greenery and sea-themed art.
To the right, a long bar stretched, its back wall a kaleidoscope of liquor bottles under the glow of small, colorful bulbs.
On the far end of the bar, facing the entrance, an elevated platform served as a stage.
There, a man in his late forties sat enthroned in a large ostentatious chair, laughing boisterously with the gangsters flanking him.
"Hahaha! You boys do know how to please me! This is quite the chair! Very good!" His voice boomed through the hall.
The gangsters offered uneasy, sycophantic laughs.
"Ah, Boss. This was supposed to be a surprise for tonight. The decorations aren't even up yet."
He slapped his thigh with a calloused palm.
"Hahaha! Don't make me laugh! I am surprised. I've been in a good mood ever since you boys blew those GBGs to bits! That'll teach them not to encroach on our turf!"
Just then, Cake approached, her expression one of profound annoyance.
"Festus!"
She barked his name, and the sound cut through the bar's noise like a whip-crack, silencing every gangster present.
Who dares call the Boss of the Docks by his real name??
The unspoken question hung in the air, thick with trepidation.
Instantly, the jovial aura around Festus vanished, replaced by a demonic pressure that bore down on everyone in the room.
"The balls of—"
He turned, neck grinding, teeth bared at the fool challenging him in his own territory.
But when his eyes landed on her, the malicious aura dissipated, replaced by a fawning, calculated smile.
"Ah! Ramona, dear." The shift was unnervingly smooth. "I wasn't expecting you. How is your grandfather?"
Ramona's eyes twitched. She despised it when just anyone used her real name, and he knew it. This was his petty retaliation for her disrespect.
However, she filed the slight away and let it pass, considering that, at least, he was growing a spine incomparison to when they first met.
She came to a stop, glaring daggers at him.
"My issue with you today has nothing to do with my grandfather!" she yelled, folding her arms in a gesture of supreme disappointment.
"You attacked a major criminal organization without my clan's permission. My sources say they have declared war! Do you intend to drag La Manada Sombria into your mess!?"
Festus placed a hand on his chest in feigned surprise.
"Now, why would you think that? We never intended any such thing. We were simply protecting our interests in the Corinthian Cross. Unfortunately, the GBGs thought themselves sharks and bit off more than they could chew—eventually biting into our hook." He confessed, a slow, pleased grin spreading across his face.
Ramona's frown hardened. "And what do you intend to do when they counter-attack?"
Festus laughed like she'd told the best joke of the day.
"Attack? Attack, Ramona? We've shaved the teeth from the shark! They won't have bite even if they came at me with everything they have left in this city!"
He leaned forward, his smirk darkening.
"Even if they charge in here tomorrow, they would be instantly crushed! These docks will be their grave. And once I've fully broken them, I will launch a full assault and reclaim everything their grubby hands have already stolen!"
His eyes blazed with fury for a moment before his expression softened back into that disingenuous smile.
"So worry not, young one. Our business with your clan will not be affected."
Ramona squinted, her dubious gaze holding his for a long moment. Then, her frown eased, morphing into a smile of predatory interest.
"So that's why you bought all that dynamite from us. For this little war of yours."
With a heavy, theatrical sigh, she turned on her heels and glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze promising violence.
"You better not mess this up, Festus. Otherwise, I'll personally rip your head from your shoulders. Remember—I'll be watching."
With that, she strode away, eventually marching out the door.
The moment she was gone, Festus flew into a rage. He surged to his feet.
"That brat! If it weren't for our business and their accursed clan, I would have—!"
He grabbed the heavy, decorated chair, his muscles bulging as he prepared to hurl it from the stage. But he was quickly swarmed by his men, all trying to restrain him.
"Boss! Boss, please calm down!"
"Yeah, Boss, we paid two thousand bucks for that chair!"
As they struggled within, Ramona descended the steps outside. She heard the ruckus back inside but dismissed it with a scornful scoff.
However, as she passed two gangsters whispering by a stack of crates, a fragment of their conversation gave her pause.
"...Timi, the only one who made it back from the GBG hit, was raving. Swore he saw a golden-eyed zombie that came back to life and attacked them!"
The other gasped.
"A zombie? In this city? I thought they were all contained in Ashenvale overseas?!" Then he shook his head, doubt overriding his fear. "Nah, I don't buy it. If there was a zombie outbreak here, hell would've broken loose already."
The first gangster seemed to consider this, then nodded in agreement. "You're right. Timi probably just drank too much before the raid. It's a miracle he even survived. Damn, we lost twenty of our best guys. Only one came back."
"True. I heard they went up against the GBG's OG killers. Even in an ambush, they got chewed up. Crazy."
"Yeah."
Ramona glanced back at them, an odd, calculating expression on her face.
Zombies? Golden-eyed zombies? Perhaps we should stop selling these amateurs the hard stuff.
She scoffed, then vanished around a corner, leaving the scent of leather and danger in her wake.