Crimson Ties

"You cocky son of a bitch, Cox! Look at this!" He swept an arm around at the wreckage of the warehouse. "Bodies everywhere, my men, your men—this is on you, you limey bastard!" His face twisted with fury, spit flying as he shouted. Alex Peterson's voice slicing through the smoke-filled air like a knife, the scene crackled with tension, 

Turner Cox stood opposite him, his arms crossed, posture calm but menacing, his thick accent dripping with sarcasm. "On me? Oh, sod off, Peterson. This was bound to happen. Your boys couldn't stay in their lane—too many greedy hands reaching for scraps that ain't yours." He gestured lazily at the carnage, smirking. "You're not fooling anyone with your righteous bullshit."

The warehouse was a suffocating tomb. Smoke hung low, mixing with the acrid stench of burning wood, spilled chemicals, and charred flesh. Crates lay in splintered heaps, some still smoldering, their contents—improvised explosives, gunpowder—adding to the ruin. Corpses littered the floor, sprawled in grotesque angles. Some were crushed by falling debris, others riddled with stab wounds or burned beyond recognition. Pools of dark blood gleamed in the flickering light of the fires still licking at the edges of the destruction.

Alex stepped over a corpse, glaring at Turner with murderous intent. "You think this started because of me? Bullshit. We both know why this is happening—too many damn members, too little space! You couldn't keep your scumbags from sniffing around our turf, and now here we are!" He jabbed a finger at Turner. "You wanted this war, didn't you? Needed to thin out your herd, huh?"

Turner's smirk faded, replaced by a cold sneer. "Oh, don't act like you're innocent, Peterson. Your boys have been crammed into that shithole south side of the harbor for years, stewing in their own filth. You lot were always gonna push north, and you bloody well knew we wouldn't take it lying down." He pointed toward the charred remains of The Iron Fangs insignia on the wall. "This isn't about turf—it's about control, power. You couldn't stomach sharing it anymore, could you?"

Peterson's fists clenched, his voice rising. "Don't give me that crap, Cox! We had a system—south was ours, north was yours. But you couldn't stick to it! You let your boys spill over, pick fights, push boundaries. You poked the bear, and now you're crying because it bit back?"

Turner took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "You really wanna play the victim here? You've been recruiting like a bloody madman, cramming every lowlife in the city into your ranks. What the hell did you expect? Two gangs, too many mouths to feed, too many pricks looking for a fight—it was always gonna come to this, mate."

The tension between them was as thick as the smoke choking the warehouse. Every word was a spark, threatening to ignite another explosion. Around them, the destruction stood as a testament to their mutual hatred—shattered crates, the twisted remains of a forklift, and the ever-present stench of death.

Peterson's face twisted in rage, his voice low and venomous. "You wanna blame us for this shitstorm? Fine. But don't think for a second that you're walking away from this clean, Turner. This war—you started it. But I'll be damned if I let you finish it."

Turner's eyes narrowed, his smirk returning. "Big talk for a man standing knee-deep in his own boys' blood. Let's see how long you last, Alex. This isn't over—not by a bloody long shot."

Alex Peterson stood hunched, his left arm hanging limply at his side, blood dripping steadily from a gash on his forehead. His leather jacket was torn and smeared with soot, exposing raw, burned flesh beneath. Each ragged breath rattled his chest, pain etched into every twitch of his face. His right hand gripped a jagged piece of metal, a makeshift weapon born of desperation, knuckles white as he glared at Turner Cox.

Turner wasn't faring much better. His signature coat was scorched, the edges curling and blackened. Blood seeped from a deep cut running across his temple, staining his cheek and beard. He clutched his side where a broken rib stabbed at his lungs with every shallow inhale. His left leg dragged as he shifted his weight, favoring it to keep upright, but his cold, mocking grin never left his face.

The fight erupted with the ferocity of caged beasts unleashed, their mutual hatred igniting into a storm of blood and violence. Alex swung his jagged piece of metal like a man possessed, slamming it into Turner Cox's makeshift club, a broken length of pipe. Sparks flew with each collision, the clang of metal on metal echoing through the ruined warehouse. Blood dripped steadily from both men, their injuries screaming for mercy, but neither gave an inch.

Cox grinned savagely, his teeth stained red as he forced Alex back step by step. "Come on, Peterson! You're all bark, no bite!" His pipe lashed out, striking Alex's ribs with a sickening crunch. Alex growled in pain but retaliated immediately, slamming the jagged edge of his weapon across Cox's shoulder, slicing through fabric and flesh.

"Shut your goddamn mouth!" Alex spat, his voice hoarse, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue. He surged forward, driving his knee into Cox's stomach, but Cox barely flinched, grinning wider through the blood streaming down his face.

"That all you got?" Cox snarled, his eyes wild with madness. He brought the pipe down like a hammer, forcing Alex to block with his weapon. The impact jarred Alex's arms, sending a shockwave of pain through his battered body.

They traded blows with reckless abandon, blood for blood, wound for wound. Cox slammed his forehead into Alex's, splitting the skin above his brow, but Alex retaliated with a brutal kick to Cox's knee, forcing him to stumble. Neither man hesitated, their movements primal, each willing to endure hellish pain if it meant making the other suffer more.

"Fucking die already!" Cox bellowed, his voice raw as he drove his pipe into Alex's side, earning a choked gasp of pain. Alex retaliated by swinging his jagged weapon into Cox's thigh, carving a deep gash that sent blood spraying onto the already stained floor.

Their weapons clashed again, inches from their faces, their breaths ragged and labored. Blood trickled into Alex's eye as he locked gazes with Cox, whose twisted grin never faltered. "Face it, Peterson," Cox growled, pressing forward with sheer brute strength. "You were never cut out for this."

Alex's eyes darted toward the entrance—and there he was. Dante. Slowly stepping into the chaos, his face pale and trembling. Relief flooded Alex's face, a desperate grin breaking through the blood and grime. "Dante!" he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of hope and urgency. "Do something! Move your ass!"

But Dante stood frozen, his wide eyes darting between the two men locked in mortal combat. His trembling hands clenched at his sides, but his feet refused to move. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his fear written plainly on his face.

"Fucking coward!" Alex roared, his hope turning to fury as he struggled against Cox's overwhelming strength. "You useless piece of shit! Do something!"

Distracted by his outburst, Alex didn't see Cox's knee until it slammed into his gut. The wind rushed from his lungs as he doubled over, leaving him wide open. Cox seized the moment, his grin turning feral as he drove his pipe into Alex's chest with all his weight.

Alex's weapon clattered to the floor as he staggered back, his hands clutching the fatal wound. Blood poured from his mouth as he locked eyes with Cox, who loomed over him like a beast savoring its kill. Alex's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, his gaze shifting one last time to Dante.

"You..." Alex whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. "Fucking coward..."

Cox sneered and spat on Alex's lifeless body. "One down," he muttered, his grin widening, his chest rising and falling heavily with each labored breath. He stood tall amidst the carnage, blood dripping from his battered hands, the jagged pipe in his grip gleaming red under the dim light of the ruined warehouse. His eyes darted to Dante, who stood frozen, his face pale as a ghost, and Cox chuckled darkly.

"Look at you," Cox taunted, his voice laced with venom. He took a staggering step toward Dante, the blood pooling around his boots. "Your boss is dead, his men are scattered, and you're standing there like an idiot. What now, huh? Gonna piss yourself and beg me to let you live?"

Dante's lips trembled, but he said nothing. He was rooted to the spot, his chest heaving, his eyes flicking from Alex's lifeless corpse to the bloodied figure of Cox.

Cox laughed, a wild, deranged sound, and threw his pipe onto the ground with a metallic clatter. "No fight left in you, huh? Pathetic. You Fangs are all the same—weak little rats scurrying in the dark, thinking you're something big. Newsflash, asshole: the Marlins own this harbor now."

Cox turned his back on Dante, his focus shifting to the chaos surrounding him. "Hey!" he barked to the few remaining Marlins, his voice raw and commanding. "Round up the stragglers! I want this place cleaned out before—"

His words cut off abruptly as he froze mid-step, his body jerking violently. A sharp, wet gasp escaped his throat as his hands flew to the back of his neck. His fingers clawed at something small protruding from his flesh—a needle, slender and deadly.

Cox staggered, his knees buckling as his legs gave out beneath him. He turned slightly, his face contorted in shock and confusion, his mouth opening as if to say something. Blood began trickling from the corner of his lips.

He collapsed to his knees, his grip loosening, his hands falling limply to his sides. His eyes flickered toward Dante one last time, the fire in them dimming as his body toppled forward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by the faint hiss of the flames still licking at the edges of the wrecked warehouse. Dante stared at Cox's corpse, his mouth agape, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

Then came the sound—a soft whisper of air slicing through the chaos. From the shadows, a figure shifted, barely visible in the haze of smoke and destruction. The glint of a blowpipe caught the faint light before disappearing into the darkness.

The voice came low and cold, barely audible over the distant crackling of flames. "Too predictable," it muttered, the words carrying a chilling finality before the presence vanished entirely.

Dante's trembling knees gave way, and he slumped against a broken crate, his wide eyes fixed on the two corpses before him—one his leader, the other his enemy. The acrid stench of blood and explosives filled his lungs as his mind raced, haunted by the cold precision of what had just unfolded.