The Scarlet Lounge pulsed with a heavy beat, red lights crawling like veins across the cracked marble floor. Cigarette smoke curled lazily under the low ceilings. The crowd was a cocktail of danger — men in sharp suits, women draped in silk and diamonds, and shadows that spoke louder than words.
Fred's boots hit the floor with a quiet authority. Beside him, Amelia moved with a dancer's grace, her wine-colored coat dripping rain onto the marble, her cold gaze slicing through the crowd. No one dared block their path. The storm was walking among them.
From a velvet booth tucked in the corner, Troy, a lean man with sun-browned skin and jet-black hair slicked back neatly, watched Fred's approach with narrowed eyes. Troy was thirty-five, a second-tier enforcer of the Crimson Order, and tonight he wore a dark gray suit, the crimson pin at his collar glinting like fresh blood.
Across the lounge, leaning casually against the bar, Elena— the shy girl Fred once knew— was here too. But she wasn't the same either. Her once timid brown eyes were sharp now, framed by smoky eyeliner, her honey-blonde hair cascading in loose waves over a fitted black leather jacket. She nursed a drink, tension hidden beneath a playful smile.
Fred saw her. She saw him.
Their eyes locked for half a second. A flicker of the past passed between them, and then it was gone, swallowed by the chaos of the present.
At a table by the dance floor, Max—Fred's old friend— sat with a group of rough-looking men. His messy dark hair was still the same, but the laughter was gone. His eyes were tired, heavy. Betrayal and regret hung around him like a broken halo.
Fred moved past them without a word. He would deal with loyalty and betrayal in due time.
Tonight, there was only one target.
At the center of the lounge, under a glowing crimson chandelier shaped like a thorned crown, sat Victor — the rising star of the Crimson Order. Victor was young, maybe twenty-four, with pale skin like untouched snow, sharp cheekbones, and silver eyes that gleamed with mockery. He wore a tailored burgundy suit, a gold watch glinting on his wrist.
He leaned back lazily, swirling a glass of black wine, as Fred approached.
"Fred," Victor said, his voice smooth like poisoned honey. "I must admit, you have a flair for the dramatic."
Fred didn't smile. He slid into the chair opposite Victor, uninvited, dripping rain onto the velvet. Amelia stood behind him, silent and watchful.
Victor chuckled, sipping his drink. "And what do you want, Forgotten Prince?"
Fred's voice was calm, cold. "I want you to tell your masters..."
He leaned forward, the scarlet light sharpening the edges of his face.
"...that the boy they mocked is dead. Only the reckoning remains."
Victor's smile faltered. A whisper ran through the room — invisible yet deafening.
The dance floor slowed. Conversations died. All eyes turned, sensing the crackle in the air. Even the thumping bass seemed to fade.
Victor's silver eyes narrowed. "Big words for someone so alone."
Fred reached into his coat again, and the sight of the Black Diamond Card flashing under the crimson lights drew a collective gasp. A symbol forbidden. A legend walking.
Fred slid it slowly across the table. It caught the chandelier's glow and refracted a thousand bloody stars across the floor.
"I am never alone," Fred said, voice low, dangerous.
From the shadows near the entrance, Tielen — the silent executioner — emerged. Dressed in simple black, his skin dark as night, his frame tall and terrifying. His eyes, calm and deadly, scanned the room like a wolf among sheep.
At the bar, Jeff — slick, confident, with his dark navy suit and gold cufflinks — raised his glass lazily, his smirk a warning to anyone thinking of intervening.
From a booth near the dance floor, Linet — elegant and sharp in a forest-green dress, her rich chocolate skin glowing under the lights — casually crossed one leg over the other, pulling out a sleek phone.
Near the lounge entrance, Wendy— radiant in a crimson dress that matched the lights, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders — smiled sweetly at a guard, who promptly dropped his gun at her feet without even realizing.
Fred had called the shadows.
And they had answered.
Victor's face drained of color. He swallowed hard, setting his glass down with a trembling hand.
"This... this is treason," he whispered.
Fred stood, slipping the Black Diamond Card back into his coat. "No. This is the beginning."
Outside, the rain turned into a downpour, the sound like a thousand drumbeats announcing the fall of an empire.
Fred turned without another word, Amelia at his side, his shadows following silently. Every step he took cracked the foundations of the old world a little more.
Behind him, Victor crumbled against his chair, cold sweat drenching his perfect suit. He understood now. It was not Fred who should be afraid.
It was the world.
---
Far across the city, under the pale flicker of broken streetlights, a black van screeched to a halt outside an abandoned warehouse. Heavy boots hit the puddled pavement, and masked men— Crimsons — poured out, weapons gleaming under the sickly light.
At the edge of the shadows, unseen, Fred's other forces, hidden allies groomed from the old days, watched silently. Joseph, Nick, Paul, and Gloria — each carrying a secret, a loyalty, and a weapon sharpened by betrayal.
The next battle wasn't tomorrow.
It was tonight.
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