A Few Hours Ago—
Inside Angel's Garden—
Amidst the rubble strewn across the ruined club room, the air thick with the acrid stench of scorched electronics and sulfur, Karan stood motionless, his crimson eyes blazing like twin embers in the dimness, locked on something beyond human perception, invisible to normal eyes. A translucent red string shimmered faintly, extending from the crown of the creature—Lucien Carver—suspended midair by shadowy tendrils that writhed like living smoke, their edges whispering against the debris with a soft hiss. The creature's grotesque form, half-human, half-monstrosity, dangled limply, its ragged breaths rattling like dry leaves, the air heavy with the coppery tang of blood and the faint ozone of supernatural energy.
Within that red string, like a reel of memories, all the events Lucien Carver had lived through played before Karan's eyes like a flickering silent film, each scene sharp and vivid: whispered deals in shadowed rooms, hands exchanging briefcases under flickering streetlights, and screams muffled by the desert's vast silence. Scanning Lucien's life through crimson eyes, Karan searched for clues to unravel the chaos that birthed this creature, his senses assaulted by the creature's residual fear, its sour stench clinging to the air like damp rot.
Amidst the cluster of jumbled memories, one fragmented echo seized his attention: Lucien Carver in a private meeting with an aged man, the same meeting room now a wreckage, its velvet curtains tattered mess, the glass table shattered, the air thick with the scent of fear and blood. The aged man was none other than Mr. Gold, his white fedora tilted, his cane tapping rhythmically on the polished floor, its gold head glinting under a dim glow, the scent of his tobacco-citrus cologne cutting through the room's musty stillness.
"I have managed to almost secure the deal. Now, all that is left is to decide who will be replicating and doing the further distribution," Carver initiated, his voice oily, fingers drumming on the table, the clink of his gold watch echoing faintly.
"You don't need to worry about that. All the big players have already filtered themselves beforehand. And the final selection will be done on the day of the 'deal'," Mr. Gold declared, his gravelly voice steady, his eyes narrowing under the fedora's brim, the cane's tap punctuating his words like a gavel.
"Hey, are you sure you don't want to make more profit for yourself? Apparently, the Russians are willing to dig out their bones to get their hands on this drug," Lucien pressed, his greed dripping like venom, his fingers twitching toward an unlit cigar, the scent of tobacco lingering on his breath.
"Lucien," Mr. Gold said in a chilling tone, the room's temperature seeming to drop, the air growing heavy with menace, "Do not let your greed blind your reasoning. It is already decided by everyone that they'll do everything in their power to keep the production within domestic territory. Even the government is involved in this, so don't think that you'll remain unscathed after doing something foolish, like you always did." His warning was stern, the cane's tap sharper, the warm light casting long shadows across his lined face.
"Tsk! You are as obdurate as ever. That's why you are never able to step outside of your little, golden playhouse," Lucien spat, his displeasure souring the air, his chair creaking as he leaned back, the leather squeaking under his weight.
Ignoring his rant, Mr. Gold slid a hand into his black, long coat, the fabric rustling softly, and produced a metallic card, its surface gleaming like polished obsidian under the light. It was the Wild Gold VVIP pass, black with gold engravings, the cryptic symbol pulsing faintly, its edges cool and sharp to the touch, the same card Karan had found in Carver's leather wallet, its faint leather scent still clinging to his fingers.
"Here, a visiting card for that very golden playhouse," Mr. Gold offered, his eyes locking onto Carver's, as if peering through him to something—or someone—beyond, the air crackling with unspoken intent. "He'll be waiting for you."
A strange chill ran down Lucien's spine, his fingers trembling slightly as he took the card, its weight heavier than it should be, the gold engravings glinting like eyes. "Y-yeah, yeah, sure. I'll be there after successfully acquiring the goods," he responded hastily, strain tightening his voice, his breath quickening, the room's shadows seeming to deepen around him.
But Karan knew, with a certainty that burned in his crimson gaze, that Mr. Gold's final message wasn't for Carver—it was for him, the words echoing like a summons through the red string's visions, the air humming with a predatory stillness.
Back to the Present—
Inside the Wild Gold Casino—
In the heart of the fourth floor, the room buzzed with whispers and stares, the air thick with the scent of aged brandy, polished leather, and the faint metallic tang of high-stakes anticipation. All eyes fixated on a single poker table that commanded the room like a throne, its green felt smooth under the soft glow of a low-hanging chandelier, crystals tinkling faintly in the draft, casting fractured light across the players' faces. Surrounded by stoic men in black suits, their polished shoes gleaming, their starched shirts carrying a faint whiff of gun oil, five players occupied the table, seated in plush leather chairs that creaked softly under their weight, excluding the dealer whose gloved hands shuffled cards with a rhythmic snap.
Among them, two individuals stood out amidst the sea of anticipation and curiosity, their presence electrifying the room like a storm brewing.
With an air of elegance and grace, sat one of the underworld's most enigmatic figures, about whom even masters of intelligence knew little. Vlad Dracul, his presence commanding and almost ethereal, his black suit with wine-red accents hugging his frame, the silk fabric whispering with each movement a hum of elegance, his amber eyes glinting like embers under the chandelier, his cologne a subtle spice cutting through the brandy's warmth. His well-groomed hair gleamed, each strand catching the light, his smile playful yet laced with danger, like a panther lounging before a pounce.
Across from him sat Karan, exuding a refined, gentlemanly aura, his all-black suit tailored to perfection, the fabric cool against his skin, a luxurious analog watch ticking on his wrist, its faint clicks audible in the table's brief silences. His chocolate-brown eyes, sharp as obsidian, scanned the room with predatory calm, his slicked-back hair glistening under the lights, the black suitcase in his grip heavy with unspoken purpose, its cool metalic sheen mingling with the room's opulence. His arrival stirred the pot of intrigue, the crowd's whispers rising like a tide, the air crackling with speculation.
The casino's atmosphere pulsed with a variety of wild speculations: "What's happening today? One figure was personally accompanied by Mr. Gold, and the other who just entered has the super-rare V.V.I.P pass of Wild Gold," a woman whispered, her diamond earrings tinkling, her perfume a heady jasmine.
"I have never seen any of them before, and the dignified and sophisticated aura they exude is just suffocating," a man muttered, sipping a bourbon that burned his throat, its oak notes lingering.
"Just who are they?" another asked, fanning herself, her silk dress rustling.
"Don't know, but it might be good to form a relationship with both for the future," a businessman noted, his gold cufflinks clinking.
"Right. I might as well work hard to get on their good sides," his companion agreed, adjusting his tie.
"Don't tell me! Are they some Mafia Dons who have some beef with each other?! Are they going to start a gang war here?!" a young gambler gasped, clutching his drink, the ice clinking nervously.
"Oh, don't be stupid. This is Wild Gold, not just any casino," an older woman scoffed, her pearls clicking softly.
Vlad's ears caught these murmurs, the wild theories ranging from mafia dons to secret society members, the crowd's voices buzzing like bees, their perfumes and colognes blending into a heady cloud. He couldn't resist addressing Karan, his voice teasing, "Your presence is causing quite a commotion in the house," more leg-pulling than ice-breaker, his amber eyes twinkling with mischief, his wine-red tie catching the light like spilled blood.
Karan's response was as cold as his demeanor, his voice low, cutting through the murmurs like a blade, "As if you're one to talk about causing commotion," his eyes narrowing, the suitcase's surface glinting faintly in his grip.
A smirk curled Vlad's lips at Karan's icy retort, unfazed by the aloofness. "It can't be helped when God made me this handsome," he quipped, leaning back, the leather chair creaking, his cologne wafting with a spicy kick, the crowd's giggles rippling like champagne bubbles.
"…" Karan met the jest with silence, his chocolate-brown eyes unyielding, though a flicker of amusement passed through them, barely noticeable.
'I AM handsome though!' Vlad thought, confidence simmering at Karan's stoic response.
"But, being so serious for no reason," Vlad sighed, mock helplessness in his tone, his fingers drumming the table, the faint tap echoing in the room's charged hushes and murmurs.
The dealer shuffled the cards with renewed vigor, the crisp snap of each flip heightening the tension, the glossy cards fanning out like a peacock's tail, their ink scent sharp in the air. The players settled into their seats, faces masked with concentration and intrigue, the chandelier's light casting long shadows across their features, the room's anticipation palpable, like a held breath.
"I see that you two seem to know each other, Mr. Vlad?" The man in the olive suit, Mr. Mills, speculated, suspicion creasing his wrinkled face, his cigar's ash tapping into a crystal ashtray, the smoke curling like a gray serpent.
"Hm? Oh no, Mr. Mills. I was just complimenting his handsomeness that's becoming the hot topic of the night amongst the people," Vlad replied, his reason delivered with a playful grin, his amber eyes glinting.
"Hm, I agree with you, Sir Vlad. It is rare to come across someone who could match a beauty such as yourself, Mr. Vlad," Mr. Mills said, after his flattery, his voice turning stern, "But it's not good to be so haughty, young man. You'll injure yourself if you're not careful enough." His warning aimed at Karan's casual demeanor, his cigar puffing smoke, the air growing heavier.
Karan met Mills' stern gaze, his chocolate-brown eyes unyielding, "…Who are you again?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious, cutting through the tension like a knife.
Pfft! Vlad failed to stifle his laughter, the sound bursting like a firecracker in the serious atmosphere, though he quickly corrected his demeanor, his lips trembling with a mocking smile, his chair creaking as he leaned forward.
A vein bulged on Mills' forehead, his effort to stay calm visible as he fixed his collar with a cough, the fabric rustling. "I think I'll stop by Lucien's turf to have a proper chat since it's been so long," he said, then introduced himself to Karan, "It is strange that you don't know me despite daring to sit amongst us. Regardless, I am Robert Mills, and my company, Conch, controls more than seventy-six percent of USA's oil and power distribution," his voice gravelly, the ashtray's ash piling like a small dune.
"That explains why your voice is so greasy," Karan scoffed, his words sharp, the crowd's murmurs spiking with stifled giggles, the air crackling with amusement.
"Young man, be cautious of what comes out from that loose mouth of yours, for it is always the destiny of a fool to die because of their lousy mouth," Mills warned, his tone icy, the air around him shifting, heavy with menace, his cigar's ember glowing like a warning.
But did it concern Karan? Not at all! Matching Mills' intense gaze, Karan stared into his eyes, the silence so thick each second felt like minutes racing by, the chandelier's crystals tinkling faintly, the room's air growing colder, the scent of brandy sharper.
After a tense staredown, Karan broke the deadening silence, "Wise words indeed," a faint crimson glimmer crossing his eyes, barely visible, like a spark in the dark, his voice calm but laced with an unspoken threat.
A faint smile curled Vlad's lips, revealing an abnormally elongated, sharp canine glinting with malice, for he alone caught the supernatural edge in Karan's gaze, his own eyes narrowing with intrigue, the air between them humming with unspoken understanding.
Mills, trying to assert dominance, continued to lock eyes with Karan, his cigar's ember glowing like a defiant spark, but what he saw in those chocolate-brown irises—now flickering with a crimson spark like blood catching fire—swallowed his bravado whole. The casino's opulent hum faded, the chandelier's tinkling crystals and brandy's warm scent dissolving into an oppressive void. A low, guttural hum vibrated through the air, like the pulse of a dying star, as Karan's gaze opened a dark, crimson abyss, a world where souls wailed in anguished cacophony, their cries echoing like shattered glass across a desolate plain. Blood danced in slow, viscous spirals, pooling in rivers that shimmered with an unnatural sheen, their metallic tang stinging Mills' nostrils, mingling with the acrid burn of sulfur and decay that clawed at his throat.
In that hellscape, embers floated like dying fireflies, their orange glow casting fleeting shadows on grotesque forms writhing in the distance, their limbs twisting unnaturally, bones cracking with wet snaps. The ground beneath felt soft and pulsing, like stepping on living flesh, its warmth seeping through Mills' shoes, each step squelching as if treading through coagulated blood. A cold sweat beaded on his brow, the air so heavy it pressed against his chest, each breath a labor, tasting of ash and despair. At the abyss's heart knelt a figure drenched in crimson, its silhouette hauntingly familiar.
Mills squinted, his heart pounding like a war drum, the vision sharpening: it was his own form, hollow-eyed, blood streaming from abyssal sockets, ears, nose, and mouth, pooling in a grotesque halo around his knees. The lamenting Mills raised its head and turned towards the real Mills, the corners of his mouth rising to a twisted smile that exposed his malformed teeth. Raising it's grotesque, blood painted finger, he pointed towards the real Mills and let out a deafening wail, a banshee's scream that tore through the void, a piercing, guttural shriek that vibrated in Mills' bones, promising eternal torment.
The real Mills' breath hitched, his cigar slipping from trembling fingers, its ember sizzling out on the green felt with a faint hiss, ash scattering across the felt, the casino's reality snapping back like a whip. "Uwaaaagh!" His body recoiled instinctively, chair scraping back with a shrill groan, nearly toppling as his knees buckled, his face pale as moonlight, sweat dripping like wax, the sour stench of his fear cutting through the room's brandy-laced air.
The dealer, mid-shuffle, flinched at the scream, his practiced hands faltering—cards flew like startled birds, fluttering and slapping across the table, a few drifting to the floor with soft thuds, his flustered scramble to gather them drawing stifled giggles from the crowd.
"Did he drop the whole deck?" a woman whispered, her pearls clicking, the murmurs rippling like champagne bubbles.
"Oye! Are you alright?!" Mr. Blane, the man in the black suit, grabbed Mills, steadying him, his rings clinking, his voice urgent, "Hey! Robert! What happened!" With no immediate response, Blane glared at Karan, his tone cutting, "What did you do to him?" the accusation sharp, the crowd's whispers swelling like a storm.
Karan's eyes flicked to Blane, cool and unyielding, "What did I do? Are you blind? I didn't even move an inch, much less touch a strand of his hair. How can you blame me, Esteemed Sir?" His ridicule dripped with mockery, his voice cool, the chair's leather creaking as he leaned back, the watch's ticks loud in the silence.
As Blane prepared to retort, Mills pulled him back, gripping the table's edge, knuckles whitening, his pride as an underworld titan anchoring him to the seat, refusing to let him flee despite the terror gnawing at his gut.
With a shaky voice, "I'm okay. I-I just forgot to take my pills. I-it's fine." He reassured Blane as his eyes darted to Karan, wary but unbowed, "You've got a hell of a stare, kid." He forced a smirk, adjusting his olive suit, the fabric rustling, his hands trembling with unspoken fear.
Looking at the shaking Mills who was sweating profusely, Blane leaned in, his voice a low hush, "What the hell was that, Robert? Is everything really alright?"
Mills' eyes narrowed as he whispered urgently, "Jeremy, t-that young m-man… He, he is not someone simple… We need to be careful." his breath ragged, the cigar's ember dying on the table.
Listening to Mills frightful warning, Blane glanced at Karan, aloof in his chair, a majestic presence commanding reverence, an almost uncontrollable urge to bow before him stirring in the onlookers, the air heavy with his aura, the chandelier's light casting his shadow long and sharp. Then Blane shifted to Vlad, whose playful smile hid mischiefs and mysteries, his presence equally commanding, the room's tension a tightrope between them.