Crimson Ties

The night air hung heavy as Vince's boots scuffed along cracked pavement, faint echoes swallowed by the distant hum of city life. A deep breath escaped, dragging frustration along with it. Everything about this damn case felt… off. Not in a way that screamed conspiracy, but like staring at a puzzle where the pieces almost fit, only for their edges to refuse alignment.

Connecting recent events, something wasn't adding up. The vagrant's murder—brutal, sloppy, and yet strangely purposeful—was the first thread. It led to Bog Bay City Harbor, to that rotting cesspool of blood and broken dreams. And Dante. The Wolf. Could he trust a man like that? Hardly. A thug, plain and simple, yet one who seemed to sit too comfortably amidst chaos. He didn't command respect; he earned fear, and there was always a difference. But still, Dante knew something. The way he hinted, skirted around details—it all reeked of someone holding cards close to their chest.

But trusting him? Hell no. What kind of detective would he be, taking a common criminal at his word? Yet, the thought lingered like a bad aftertaste. If this was just about Dante, maybe things would be simpler. But it wasn't.

The gangs. Jesus, the gangs. Black Marlins on one side, Iron Fangs on the other. It was only a matter of time before that powder keg blew sky-high. The streets had started to hum with the same tension he'd felt two years ago—before the nightmare. Blood slicking the harbor, smoke filling the air, cries that haunted even the hardest souls. Was this how it started then too? A slow boil that no one noticed until the whole damn pot overflowed?

It wasn't just about territory anymore. This was bigger. Different. The kind of chaos you couldn't walk away from without getting burned.

The bargain between Zach and Vince before. He had walked away the moment that clown finished his deal, not out of politeness, but to resist the urge to deck him in the face. The guy was too damn dramatic—every word, every gesture dripping with flair, like he was auditioning for some half-rate theater production. Vince wasn't built for that kind of bullshit. His patience had limits, and Zach had been tap-dancing on the edge of them.

Still, agreeing to his deal and actually going through with it were two very different beasts. Sometimes you had to make concessions to keep the wheels turning—no pain, no gain, and all that. This time, the gamble wasn't just in the task itself; it was in the person. Vince didn't know who—or what—he was dealing with. None of it was clear, and that uncertainty was a bitter pill to swallow. But the thing about gambles was, sometimes you had to jump in blind and hope the cards didn't cut too deep.

The question is. What the hell was Zach, really?

At first glance, he looked like any other small-timer—running his mouth, playing rogue with a devil-may-care grin. Was Zach a friend? An enemy? A damn opportunist waiting for the perfect moment to strike? But something about him didn't sit right. He didn't feel… normal. Sure, Vince had met plenty of low-lives who acted bigger than they were, puffing their chests out to look tough. Zach wasn't that. He had this strange weight about him, a subtle shift in the air when he spoke, like the universe itself gave him just a little more space than most people.

Was it the way he spoke, every word dripping with calculated ease? The way his theatrics felt almost too practiced, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin? Or was it the glint in his eyes—that infuriating, knowing spark that hinted he was always three steps ahead? Like he was playing chess, while everyone else fumbled with checkers.

And then there was this nagging itch at the back of his skull, this creeping sensation that everything was connected. The vagrant, the gangs, the harbor, Dante, Zach—strings crossing and knotting, tangling in ways that didn't make sense. Yet, they also didn't feel entirely random. Like someone—or something—was pulling strings just out of reach. A big hand stirring the pot, letting everything teeter on the edge before it all came crashing down.

But was that paranoia, or just the weight of the job?

"Fuck if I know," he muttered under his breath, kicking at a stray can on the sidewalk. It clattered uselessly, spinning into the gutter.

The thought lingered, gnawed at him. If everything was connected, then why couldn't he see the whole picture? Why did every lead only muddy the waters further? And if nothing was connected—if this was all just a chaotic mess of coincidence—then what the hell was he even chasing?

The car came into view, its battered frame resting under the flickering orange hue of a solitary streetlight. Beyond it, the harbor sprawled out, a dark expanse of silhouettes—cranes frozen mid-lift, shipping containers stacked like forgotten memories. The faint scent of salt and rust clung to the air, mixing with the faint hum of distant machinery. Shadows stretched long and thin across the cracked asphalt, the occasional creak of a swaying chain breaking the stillness.

He reached for the car door, his hand hovering over the handle, when his eyes caught the glass.

In the reflection, it was him—but at the same time...not him. The twisted grin stretched far too wide, baring unnaturally sharp teeth. And those eyes… faintly glowing red, simmering like embers.

The reflection was silent at first, just staring, almost expectant. Then it leaned in slightly, the creepy grin never faltering.

"Are you sure?" it finally asked, the eerie voice calm, almost amused, but carrying a sinister weight that made Vince's chest tighten.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he muttered, his voice rough and low, as if trying not to wake something that had already stirred.

The distorted figure tilted its head, still grinning. "You already know the answer," it replied, its tone dripping with mockery. "You're just lying to yourself... About Simon."

The words dug deep. His mind flickered to Captain Simon Burke, the strange expression when Vince first reported the kidnapping case. The keycard to the evidence room that shouldn't have been where it was. It all sat in the back of his mind, pieces waiting to be connected. Yet his consciousness, stubborn and resistant, had kept Simon out of the picture.

Maybe it wasn't what it seemed. Maybe the captain had a reason. Or maybe it was just his emotions clouding the truth. In this line of work, he knew better. You couldn't trust feelings. You had to see, hear, piece everything together. Patch the dots until they formed the whole picture. He knew that. But…

His grip on the handle tightened, the cold metal biting into his palm, almost as if it wanted to root him in place. The faint hum of machinery in the distance faded, replaced by a silence that pressed against his ears, thick and oppressive.

The air around him shifted, growing sharper, colder, as though winter itself had breathed over the harbor. The faint glow of the streetlight above dimmed just slightly, its flickering bulb casting uneven shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally across the cracked pavement.

"It's the same, isn't it?" the reflection pressed, leaning closer now, the glow of its eyes seeming brighter. "Just like the old days. The backstab. The screams of the victims you...We " The figure paused, its gaze burning into him. Then it grinned wider, the voice dropping to a slow, deliberate whisper. "... cut down ourselves."

Vince's chest tightened further, his breath short and labored.

"Was it exciting?" it asked, the grin turning into a grotesque, zealous display. "Was it so good that you..." The sentence hung for a second, before it continued with biting glee. "SMILED?"

He stumbled back slightly, a chill running through his body. His hand rose to his face, trembling. Slowly, he traced his lips—and froze.

They were curling upward, stretching wider and wider.

"No," he whispered, voice shaking as he clenched his jaw tight, forcing the grin to fade. His eyes shut, his face twisting into a grimace, his entire body tensing to fight the surge within. That feeling. That damned feeling that he tried to bury a long time ago, along the memory of her.

When he opened his eyes again, the reflection was gone. The glass now reflected only his pale, shaken face. But there, etched faintly in the fog of his own breath, was a single word:

WE.

The world around him shifted back. The harbor lights flickered faintly, the distant hum of machinery returning to fill the void. The cold wind swept over him again, no longer biting, but merely there.