Crimson Ties

'Thud!' The thug's head cracked against the gritty brick wall, dust crumbling loose as Vince yanked him back by the collar, his knuckles white with tension.

"WHERE ARE THEY?" Vince growled, his voice a raw snarl that echoed in the narrow alley like a beast let loose. Before the thug could stammer a word, Vince's fist slammed into his face with brutal precision.

Blood sprayed, spattering against the wall as the thug's nose crunched audibly under the blow. His head snapped to the side, and he let out a guttural groan, stumbling, but Vince didn't let up.

"WHERE. ARE. THEY?" Vince barked, each syllable dripping with fury. His grip on the thug's collar tightened, jerking him upright like a ragdoll.

The thug blinked, his vision swimming, his lips trembling as blood poured from his busted nose. His front tooth, barely hanging on by a thread of flesh, gave way, tumbling down his chin along with a stream of saliva and crimson.

"I-I don't—"

'Thud!' Another fist hammered into his cheek, the force reverberating through Vince's arm. The thug's head bounced off the brick, leaving a dark smear of blood as he coughed and sputtered. His face was a swollen mess now—his left eye beginning to puff shut, lips split wide, teeth stained red.

"Your leader's pack!" Vince roared, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. "You think you can just slink away and hide? Tell me where you sacks of shit crawled off to!"

The thug whimpered, his knees starting to buckle, but Vince slammed him against the wall again, pinning him there like an insect under a thumb.

"I swear—I swear, I don't know!" the thug choked out, spitting blood onto the concrete. "I-I'm just a runner! I don't know where they moved—"

Vince's teeth bared in a snarl, his breath hot and ragged. His fist hovered, shaking, ready to strike again, but this time, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"Wrong answer."

The thug flinched, his bloodied face twisting in desperation. "Wait! Wait!. Th-the Rusted Shipyard, south pier! There's an old freighter—they're holed up there! But you need the passcode to get in!"

Vince leaned in, his eyes cold and sharp. "What is it?"

'Shattered scales bleed red,'" he gasped out, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's what you tell the guard."

Vince held his gaze a moment longer, then shoved the thug to the ground. He crumpled like a broken puppet, groaning. "If you're lying, you'll be begging for this beating when I find you again," Vince hissed, his voice laced with menace.

Without another word, Vince turned, wiped away a wicked smile on his face, his boots crunching against the gravel as he stalked into the shadows, heading south toward the shipyard. Behind him, the thug lay gasping, blood pooling beneath him. The faint clang of metal and the distant calls of seagulls carried on the night breeze as the predator closed in on his prey.

The Rusted Shipyard

This place stretched out like a forgotten wasteland, where the skeletons of ships lay scattered in a chaotic grave. Decaying vessels leaned haphazardly against one another, their hulls eaten through by time and sea salt, exposing jagged ribs of corroded steel. The ground was a patchwork of cracked asphalt and warped wooden planks, slick with oil slicks that shimmered under faint, flickering floodlights mounted on leaning poles.

The air was thick and acrid, heavy with the mingling stench of rotting seaweed, rust, and grease. Old machinery lay in disarray—cranes frozen mid-motion with cables snarled like metallic cobwebs, winches seized and coated in grime, and stacks of shipping containers riddled with dents and graffiti. Pools of stagnant water reflected the pale moonlight, their surfaces disturbed only by the occasional ripple of a rat scurrying through the refuse.

At the heart of the shipyard, a massive drydock gaped like a scar, its depths strewn with debris and half-disassembled ship parts. A gutted freighter loomed above, its deck serving as a crude base for Dante and his crew, with makeshift barricades of scrap metal and barrels ringing its perimeter. The once-pristine ship's nameplate was barely legible, worn down to a faint imprint under layers of grime.

The faint sound of waves lapping against the corroded docks mingled with the groaning of shifting metal in the wind. Overhead, the occasional spark flew from a faulty power line, illuminating the shipyard in brief, ghostly flashes. The place felt alive, as if it could swallow anyone whole who dared to step too close.

Inside the gutted remains of a ship's bridge, Dante "Wolf" Reyes lounged at a makeshift table cobbled together from crates and steel plates. The Iron Fangs' leader was a broad, imposing figure, his sheer bulk barely contained by his black sleeveless hoodie. His shaved head gleamed under the flickering light of a single, dangling bulb, and a thick scar ran diagonally across his face, cutting through a patchy beard. Tattoos of snarling wolves and jagged teeth covered his forearms, but it was his eyes—sharp, gray, and piercing—that demanded respect.

He took a bite of his food: a greasy burger wrapped in wax paper, its juices dripping onto the table. Beside it sat a dented thermos of lukewarm coffee and a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. Dante chewed slowly, savoring the bite as his free hand idly tapped a knife against the table, the metallic clinks breaking the stillness.

The door creaked open, and a lanky thug shuffled in, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Boss, uh… we got a problem."

Dante didn't look up immediately, swallowing his bite with deliberate ease. "You interrupted my meal, so this better be good," he said, his voice gravelly, with a slow menace that made the thug's knees lock.

"Vince," the thug stammered. "That pig—he's outside, causing a scene. Beating on our guys. He's sniffing around, boss."

At this, Dante leaned back in his chair, finally meeting the thug's gaze. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. "If the Black Marlins hadn't hit us last week," he muttered, his tone dark, "we wouldn't be holed up in this rust bucket to begin with." He flicked his knife, spinning it deftly between his fingers. "Half our force gutted, shipments delayed, and now this cop thinks he can waltz in here and play the hero."

The thug shifted nervously, unsure whether to respond, but Dante waved him off dismissively. "Let him come," he said with a smirk, setting the knife down with a sharp clink. "We'll see if he's still standing by the time he reaches me."

He picked up his burger and took another bite, his teeth sinking into the greasy mess as though it were Vince himself. "Now get out of my sight," Dante growled, his voice muffled slightly as he chewed. The thug didn't need telling twice, scrambling out of the room as the door slammed shut behind him.

The sky was thickening into twilight as Vince made his way through the crumbling streets near the southern pier. The rusted shipyard had to be close. He could feel it, the pulsing undercurrent of danger that seemed to saturate the air. It wasn't long before he slowed his steps, his ears catching snippets of conversation from a group of local dwellers gathered around an old, half-fallen streetlamp.

One of the men—a burly, thick-necked guy with tattoos of anchors crawling up his arms—spat on the ground as he leaned in toward the others. "You hear 'bout that big brawl last week? Down by the docks?"

Another, a scraggly woman with a crooked smile and a cigarette hanging from her lips, took a drag and chuckled low. "Oh, yeah. You mean the day the Black Marlins kicked the shit outta the Fangs, right? Real show of power. Those fuckin' Marlins thought they could raid the Fangs' turf, muscle in on some shady shit they were doin'—and it worked. Took 'em out quick."

Vince froze in his tracks, sidling closer to the group, his eyes narrowing as he strained to hear.

The man with the anchor tattoos shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Heard the Fangs were doin' some kinda weapons deal with dirty cops, or maybe some Russian assholes. Smuggling guns in, under the cover of seafood shipments, all clean and neat. Real fucking slick, until the Marlins caught wind of it and decided to shut it down."

"Right," the woman chimed in, flicking her ash into the gutter. "The Black Marlins got the jump on 'em, came in hard like they owned the place. Fangs thought they could handle it, but the Marlins outmanned 'em. Ended up with the whole thing turned in their favor. They cleaned house, made sure the Fangs knew they weren't gonna play second fiddle no more."

The burly guy chuckled. "Fangs didn't see that comin'. Marlins hit 'em where it hurt, and when the dust settled, it was the Marlins standing tall, Fangs runnin' with their tails between their legs. A couple of the Fangs got left behind, scrambling like rats trying to get away. It was a total wipeout for 'em."

"Yeah, I heard Calder didn't even show his face after that. His crew got their asses handed to 'em." The woman laughed, showing off her yellow teeth. "Bet he's hiding out, waiting for the next round. They don't like losing."

The burly guy shook his head, grumbling. "The Marlins may have won this one, but this whole harbor's a damn powder keg now. Ain't no peace around here. Every time those two gangs fight, they wreck shit for everyone else. Can't even step out the door without hearin' gunshots or explosions."

Vince leaned in closer, his eyes scanning the faces in the fading light. He could almost taste the bitterness in their voices. These people had lived with the constant war between the gangs, and now the Black Marlins were on top—but for how long?

The woman's voice softened, the humor draining from her face. "It's been goin' on for a while now. Fangs were small-time at first, pushin' drugs, runnin' the numbers, the usual. But then they started fightin' for territory. Fangs wanted the east side, Marlins wanted the whole damn harbor. Shit got real nasty when they started knockin' heads over that."

"Right," the old man cut in, his voice sour. "Hell, BBPD and the MED? They've had to start teamin' up just to keep these assholes from blowin' up half the harbor. Used to be, they wouldn't even touch the gangs with a ten-foot pole. Now? They're fightin' each other just to keep the whole damn place from going up in flames."

"Shit's gone sideways, alright," the burly guy added with a shrug. "Doesn't matter who's strongest. Ain't nobody gonna win this mess. Fangs or Marlins. All they're doin' is burnin' up their own. Next thing you know, it'll be the cops or the MED, cleaning up after their wreckage." He spat again, his eyes flicking over to Vince before he quickly turned away, almost as if he realized he might be talking too loudly for the wrong ears.

Vince stood straight, piecing together the scattered details of the conversation. A raid, a war between rival gangs, shady deals, and a loss for the Fangs. Yes of course he remembered, he was there after all. The Black Marlins might have emerged victorious in the short-term, but the Fangs weren't done yet. And wherever the Fangs had retreated to, it wouldn't be a safe haven for long.