Crimson Ties

He tapped the screen, drawing a connecting line from the three dead thugs to another image—a photograph of a coded paper he had taken the night of the warehouse raid. The crisp, letter-sized sheet sat in the center of the screen, its text seemingly unremarkable at first glance.

The document had been laser-printed in a standard, nondescript font, but he had picked up on irregularities. Certain letters leaned just a fraction too far, almost as though they were out of sync with the rest. Line breaks occurred in places that made no grammatical or structural sense, splitting sentences where no pause should exist.

He zoomed in further, focusing on the faint, glossy strip of text that ran along the very bottom of the page. Under direct light, the characters blurred into tiny, irregular hexagonal shapes, resisting normal reading. He tilted the image on his phone screen, revealing subtle differences in ink density.

"A second message," he muttered, his brow furrowing. "Hidden in plain sight?"

He studied the spacing, the slight misalignments in the text, and the interruptions that were just odd enough to raise suspicion. Every subtle inconsistency pointed to something carefully encoded, something deliberately placed to mask its true intent.

Yet its purpose, like so many things in this case, remained just out of reach.

The next picture was of BBPD's main entrance. His fingers hovered for a moment before dragging a red line from the BBPD picture down to another image—Bog Bay City Harbor.

The harbor photo was dark and grainy, taken at night, with rusting shipping containers lined up along the docks. Next to the image, a small note he had written earlier was pinned:

The Black Marlins and The Iron Fangs gangs. Could be related to them.

He frowned slightly, swiping over to another section of the board where two more images were connected to the harbor photo. One was the symbol of the Iron Fangs gang—a set of three claw marks slashed across the back of a dilapidated brick house, the paint worn and faded but still visible.

He traced the connection back to the harbor. "Iron Fangs," he muttered to himself, his mind turning over the implications. "If they're involved, why?"

His eyes moved to the other line branching out from the harbor. It connected to a picture of the Black Marlins' gang sign. The Black Marlins weren't subtle—He had seen their tag spray-painted in various parts of Bog Bay City. Their symbol was simple but distinct: a stylized black fish with sharp, angular fins, drawn to look as though it were leaping out of a small wave.

"They're rivals," Vince murmured, tapping the two gang symbols on the board. "Always have been. But if they're both tied to the harbor, maybe it's not rivalry this time. Maybe it's business. Or…" He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Maybe something bigger brought them against each other, again."

He zoomed back out, taking in the broader connections on the board. Lines crisscrossed the screen, linking BBPD, Bog Bay Harbor, and now Simon. Simon's picture was still unconnected, sitting off to the side like an island waiting for the right bridge.

Vince's fingers hovered over Simon's image, then swiped back to the harbor. The keycard, the blood evidence, the snake tattooed man—what's the connection? He couldn't shake the feeling that Simon was tied to the gangs too, but he didn't have enough evidence to draw the line. Not yet.

His thumb brushed over the screen again, focusing on the Iron Fangs and Black Marlins symbols. He made a deal with Dante 'Wolf,' the leader of the Iron Fangs, to create a distraction at the Black Marlins. The gangs were notorious, each known for their own brand of violence, but this wasn't random street crime. Everything about the evidence pointed to organization, precision, and intent.

"Gangs or not…" he muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with determination as his eyes lingered on the paused screen of his phone. "…someone's pulling the strings here. So it's time to head into Black Marlins territory."He stood up, moving toward the bedroom with deliberate steps. He crouched by his bed, pulling open the first drawer beneath it—a drawer he rarely opened unless the situation called for it.

Inside, his tools lay in neatly arranged compartments, each piece resting in its designated slot. His fingers hovered over them for a moment, what he might need for the trip into gang territory?

The first item he grabbed was his set of lock-picking tools, slim and sturdy. These had seen years of use, their polished metal tips catching the faint light as he checked them briefly before sliding them into a pouch. Locked doors wouldn't slow him down—not tonight.

Next, he picked up a small tactical flashlight, its compact design perfect for slipping into a jacket pocket. Lightweight but powerful, it was capable of cutting through the murk of the docks or the dingy corners of the Marlins' hideouts.

A coiled rope with a hook attached to one end came next. He knew better than to assume the path into or out of gang territory would be straightforward, and the rope had proven its worth in countless tight situations.

Then, a pair of compact binoculars. They weren't fancy, but they were sharp and reliable, good enough to give him a clear view from a safe distance. These went into his tool bag alongside a camera—a square-bodied Instex Compact SQ6. The lightweight device printed physical photos instantly, which he had a plan for.

Finally, his fingers brushed over the cool surface of his sidearm—a Glock 27. Its dark polymer frame and compact design made it discreet but effective, a reliable tool in situations where words failed and force became necessary. He slid it into his shoulder holster, the weight familiar and steady, a grim reassurance.

With his gear packed and his tools checked, Vince stood and adjusted his toolbelt. His eyes scanned the room one last time, his mind already working through scenarios he might face once he reached the Bog Bay City Harbor again.

The drawer clicked shut behind him, with steady steps he pushed toward the door.

Bog Bay City Harbor

The salty tang of the ocean breeze passed through when he stepped onto the cracked pavement near outside. The faint hum of cargo ships in the distance blended with the occasional squawk of seagulls, but the harbor's usual bustle was muted here. This part of the docks was quiet—too quiet.

Ahead of him, nestled between a cluster of abandoned warehouses and rusting shipping containers, was the Black Marlins' hideout: The Devil's Tide.

The bar stood like a crooked sentinel, its weathered exterior painted in peeling black and gray, giving it a foreboding, uninviting air. The neon sign above the entrance flickered sporadically, the words "Devil's Tide" glowing blood red against the darkened street. A crude depiction of a grinning, skeletal fish leaping from jagged waves was painted on the door, its sharp teeth and empty eyes daring anyone to enter. The building itself leaned slightly, as if years of abuse had left it on the verge of collapse.

A line of mismatched bikes and a few old cars were parked haphazardly out front, the vehicles as beaten and rough as the people inside. The windows were dark, streaked with grime, and barred from the inside, making it impossible to see what was going on within. The muffled sounds of music and drunken laughter spilled out. Vince approached, the bass heavy and distorted, vibrating faintly through the dusty concrete beneath his feet.

Inside the bar, the dim light barely pushed through the haze of smoke, casting everything in a yellowish-gray tint. The smell of spilled beer and stale smoke lingered even denser, mixed with a faint metallic odor that he instinctively recognized—blood.

Vince's eyes were drawn to the far corner of the bar, where something out of place caught his attention. There, a very old woman sat in a creaking rocking chair, moving back and forth in slow, wanton motions. Her skin was weathered and deeply wrinkled, like dried parchment, her sunken eyes closed as though she were deep in sleep. She wore a bizarre combination of clothes—an oversized, tattered leather jacket that hung off her frail frame, a bright pink scarf tied loosely around her neck, and a pair of leopard-print leggings that clashed violently with her thick black combat boots. On her head sat a straw hat decorated with faded, wilting plastic flowers.

On the bar table next to her, a half-empty beer bottle sat beside an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. A small stack of gold xent coins gleamed in the dim light, their shine tempting to anyone who got too close.

That temptation was proving too much for two scrawny boys nearby. Bare-chested and covered in poorly-done tattoos, the boys glanced nervously at one another before inching closer to the table.