Crimson Ties

The air inside the freighter's hold, now the Fangs' hideout, hung heavy with sweat, saltwater, and the faint tang of rust. The entrance area was dimly lit by a flickering bulb, throwing erratic shadows on the corroded walls. The bulkhead door, dented and scarred from years of use, stood half-open, revealing a narrow corridor lined with crates. These crates, marked with shipping codes and faint logos, bore the remnants of straw packing and scratches, evidence of hurried handling.

Two thugs loitered near the door, their faces illuminated by the occasional spark as one of them lit a cigarette. The first, a wiry man with a shaved head and a jagged scar down his cheek, was known as "Needles"—a nickname earned from his thin, spindly appearance and penchant for stabbing more than talking. The second, a bulkier brute with perpetually squinted eyes and a short temper, went by "Tank." He had a fang tattoo crawling up his forearm, and his heavy boots thudded dully against the metal floor as he leaned against the wall.

Needles flicked his cigarette ash to the floor, his scar twitching as he smirked. "Man, you hear about that shit last week at the harbor? Marlins came in swingin', left us lookin' like damn amateurs."

Tank's eyes narrowed, his expression sour and heavy with disdain. "Don't remind me. Boss ain't stopped yellin' since. Told us to keep it quiet, but... shit." He shook his head, leaning in as if the weight of his words needed extra secrecy. His voice dropped to a near whisper, rough and full of unease. "You hear what happened to Mikey?"

Needles' smirk froze, faltered, then twisted into a grimace as he let out a low whistle. "Yeah... poor bastard." He rubbed at his jaw absentmindedly, as though the thought itself stung. "Didn't think Boss'd actually do it, though. Just grabbed Mikey like he was some... some fuckin' sandbag, y'know? Held him up like a goddamn shield and let him take the hits. And then—" He let out a bitter laugh, more hollow than anything. "Then he bolted. Tossed Mikey in the dirt like trash, left him there to bleed out while he got his ass outta dodge. What the fuck is that, huh? What kinda man does that?"

Tank's face hardened, the dim light accentuating the tightness in his jaw as his lips pressed into a thin, angry line. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the tension running through his thick frame palpable. "That's Boss for you," he muttered, voice low but brimming with contempt. "You screw up, you're expendable. Hell, even if you don't screw up, you're expendable. Ain't no loyalty with him. He don't give a shit about anyone but himself."

Needles shifted uneasily, his thin frame leaning heavier against the crate behind him. His voice dropped even further, wary of unseen ears. "Man, it ain't just Mikey. You see how he looks at us? Like we're just tools—no, worse. Like we're tools that he's waitin' to toss the second we stop bein' useful. I swear, one day, it's gonna be one of us, Tank. We're just a fuckin' meat grinder to him."

Tank grunted, the sound low and bitter. "Yeah, no shit. But you say that too loud, and you'll end up like Mikey—or Jules. Hell, remember him? Spoke outta turn, and now he's... well, who the hell knows? Might as well be sleeping with the fish right now" He spat to the side, the motion sharp with frustration. "Boss don't care about no one but himself. If it comes down to him or us, we both know what he'll pick every goddamn time."

Needles looked around cautiously, his voice dropping even lower. "Keep your voice down, man. You know what happened to Jules after he ran his mouth about Boss? Ain't no one seen him since, and I sure as hell ain't tryin' to be next."

Tank nodded stiffly, his eyes darting nervously down the corridor. "Yeah... yeah, you're right. Forget I said anything."

There was a tense silence between them for a moment before Needles leaned against a crate and muttered, "Anyway, you think the Marlins knew about the shipment? Or was it just dumb luck?"

Tank grunted. "Feels like they knew. We were down at the harbor, dealin' out of those containers, right? Boss had just brought in a haul—knives, machetes, axes, all kinds of shit. Figured we could start musclin' in on the Marlins' weapon trade. Then those bastards show up outta nowhere, all pissy 'cause we're takin' their slice."

Needles tapped the crate next to him, his bony fingers drumming nervously. "I heard they don't even use guns, man. Came at us like fuckin' lunatics with bats, chains, even broken pipes. It was a bloodbath. And us? We weren't ready for that. Half the crew didn't even get their hands on a blade before they were gettin' stomped."

Tank snorted bitterly. "Yeah, no shit. We had numbers, but it didn't matter. They came in waves, like they knew exactly where we'd be. Hell, they even blocked off the exits with some of those containers. Felt like a goddamn trap."

Needles frowned, his scar twitching. "Makes you wonder... you think someone tipped 'em off?"

"Could be," Tank replied with a shrug. "Or maybe they just don't like us steppin' on their toes. Either way, boss is pissed, and someone's gonna pay for it."

"Shit," Needles muttered, his voice tense. "Pissed is an understatement. He's been stormin' around, makin' examples outta anyone who looks at him funny. You saw what he did to Ray the other day?"

Tank winced, his gaze hardening. "Yeah. That ain't somethin' you forget. Look, just keep your head down, alright? And don't fuck up, or we'll end up like Mikey—or worse."

Needles nodded grimly, falling silent as the freighter creaked underfoot. Their boss was terrifying, but so was the thought of another Marlin raid.

The two thugs lounged lazily by the freighter's hold, their conversation tapering into silence as the heavy harbor air settled around them. Tank exhaled loudly, resting his elbow against the rusted metal door, while Needles absentmindedly flipped his knife between his fingers, the faint metallic click echoing in the stillness.

The night was eerily quiet, the distant hum of waves against the dock barely audible. It was enough to put both men on edge. Tank's scowl deepened as he glanced toward the black expanse of the harbor. "Damn quiet tonight. Too quiet. Makes my skin crawl."

Needles snorted, trying to mask his unease. "Don't go all spooky on me, man. Last thing I need is you freakin' out over nothin'." He twirled his blade once more before sheathing it.

But then, the sound came. A knock—sharp, deliberate, and far too confident.

Both men stiffened. Tank's eyes darted toward the freighter's hold, his posture immediately tense. "The fuck was that?"

Needles furrowed his brow, leaning forward to listen. "You hearin' shit?"

Another knock, louder this time, reverberated through the freighter's metal walls like a heartbeat.

Tank muttered a curse under his breath, straightening up. "That ain't no stray noise. Last checkpoint was an hour ago. Who the hell's knockin' now?"

Needles' hand instinctively moved to his knife again. "Don't just stand there. Check it out."

Tank shot him a glare but didn't argue. With a grunt, he approached the freighter's hold, every step weighted with suspicion. He placed a thick hand on the edge of the door and hesitated, glancing back at Needles, who gave him a "just open it already" motion. Slowly, Tank pulled the door open just a crack, the hinges groaning in protest.

Outside, under the dim flicker of a streetlamp, stood a lone figure. The man didn't move, his stance relaxed, almost casual. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and cloaked in shadows, but his face was just visible enough to reveal a calm, piercing gaze.

Tank frowned, suspicion curling in his gut. "Who the hell are you?"

The man tilted his head slightly, his voice smooth and disarmingly even. "Joe."

Tank blinked, confused. "Joe who?"

The stranger's lips curled into a faint, mocking smirk. "Joe Mama."

For a moment, Tank just stared, his brain catching up to the insult. "The fu—"

Before he could finish, the stranger moved. With a sharp, deliberate kick, his boot slammed into the freighter's hold. The door flew forward with a deafening clang, crashing into Tank's face. The big man toppled backward with a grunt of pain, hitting the ground hard. Blood trickled from his nose as he lay there, out cold.

Needles bolted upright, his eyes widening as the shock of the moment sunk in. "Tank?" He glanced down at his unconscious partner, then back up at the stranger standing just outside the freighter's hold. His face twisted with rage. "Oh, you're dead now, asshole!"

Without hesitation, Needles yanked his knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the faint light. He stepped forward, his movements sharp, fueled by anger and adrenaline. "You got any idea who you're messin' with?!"

The man didn't flinch. He stepped into the light, revealing more of his face—a cold, unyielding expression etched with experience and danger. He raised his hand slowly, holding up something metallic.

The knife froze mid-lunge as Needles' eyes darted to the object. A badge.

"Stand down," the stranger said, his voice low and deadly, carrying an authority that cut through Needles' anger like a blade of its own.

Needles faltered, his grip on the knife tightening, but his movements stilled. His breathing was ragged, his eyes flicking between the badge and the man holding it.

"Who the hell are you?" Needles hissed, his voice shaky now, his earlier bravado cracking under the weight of the stranger's calm dominance.

The man stepped closer, his tone turning sharper, colder. "Go tell your boss..." He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto Needles like a predator staring down prey. "...Vince and him have a conversation to make."

Needles hesitated, his anger now replaced with unease. The knife in his hand felt heavier. Vince's presence loomed over him, suffocating. Slowly, he lowered the blade, his chest rising and falling as the tension hung thick in the air.

Vince straightened, his eyes never leaving Needles, before stepping back into the shadows. His message had been delivered.