The dawn broke gently over Krakenport, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose, the sun's first rays piercing the sea's mist like arrows of light. Rabocse Olbap stood on the balcony of his building, the highest in the city, overlooking the sprawling port below.
The air carried the sharp tang of salt and the faint musk of wet stone, the morning fog thick enough to veil the horizon yet clear enough to reveal the restless waves of the South Blue. In his hand, a steaming mug of coffee with milk warmed his fingers, its sweet aroma grounding him as he gazed at the view he never tired of—look unchanged by time, a constant in a world of chaos.
The sea's rhythm, the distant creak of ships, and the cries of gulls wove a tapestry of calm, signaling the start of a new day. Yet beneath Olbap's composed exterior, his mind churned with plans, his amethyst eyes sharp with resolve.
A week had passed since the deaths of Rabocse Kael and Rabocse Toro, their loss a wound still raw in the Rabocse Family's heart. Olbap had expected retaliation from Silco, but no move came—no threats, no attacks, no sabotage. His network of informants, spread across Brackmor like a spider's web, reported nothing. It was as if Silco hadn't noticed Rane's death or suspected Olbap's role in it. Olbap sipped his coffee, the bitter heat burning his tongue, and considered the possibility that he had overestimated Silco's intelligence.
But underestimating an enemy was a fool's mistake. He planned for both scenarios—a cunning strategist or a reckless brute—his mind mapping every outcome like a chessboard, each piece meticulously placed.
Below, Popeye and Liro patrolled the building's perimeter, their regular clothes glow with the sun as the new day start. Popeye's double-headed hammer rested on his shoulder, while Liro's cutlass hung at his hip, his eyes scanning the streets. Their self-imposed guard duty allowed Olbap to focus, knowing his brothers had his back.
But he wasn't idle. His goal was clear: dismantle the Red Tide, rebuild it under the Rabocse Family's banner, and control its lucrative drug trade. The Red Tide's crimson powder, addictive and powerful, was the key to wealth and influence. Olbap envisioned a new empire, one where his family—not Silco's organization—held the reins, distributing the drug with precision and reaping the profits.
To achieve this, Olbap needed to outmaneuver Silco without crippling the Red Tide's infrastructure. His mind, a labyrinth of strategies, had already devised a plan. During a visit to a distant island, a place blending modern bustle with ancient charm, he had stumbled upon a peculiar shop selling Den Den Mushi. Skeptical but intrigued, he bought their entire stock—a costly gamble that proved its worth.
Among them was a rare black Den Den Mushi, unremarkable at first glance, its shell gleaming like polished obsidian. Testing it revealed its true power: it could intercept communications, a tool from his past life, reminiscent of devices used by law enforcement—DEA, FBI, police—who tapped frequencies to eavesdrop, record conversations, and swarm targets within minutes. In that world, such surveillance was a jail sentence, evidence to rot you in a cell. Here, in the South Blue, it was gold in Olbap's hands and instead of jail it would be death.
Silco rarely met in person, preferring the anonymity of Den Den Mushi calls, a habit Olbap could exploit. If he found Silco's frequency, he could listen to every word, anticipate every move. The challenge was cracking the code. Each Den Den Mushi had a unique frequency, like a phone number, and guessing it was like finding a needle in a storm.
But Olbap had an ally: Aria, Kael's widow, who had moved to the building days ago, seeking distance from the cabin that haunted her with memories of her husband. Her emerald hair and amber eyes carried a quiet strength, and her persistence wore down Olbap's reluctance to involve her. She insisted on helping, driven by gratitude for his support and a desire to be a role model for Elin, her daughter. Olbap agreed, but only if she stayed clear of the Red Tide's deeper dealings. Aria nodded, her resolve firm, her hands steady as she joined the task.
By night, while Krakenport slept, Olbap and Aria worked in a small room lit by a single lantern, its flame casting flickering shadows on the walls. The black Den Den Mushi sat between them, its eyes closed, as they tested frequencies, the air thick with the scent of ink and parchment. Each Den Den Mushi in a region shared a prefix, like the 305 code from Olbap's old life in Miami. Using Brackmor's prefix as a guide, they cycled through combinations, the snail's silence mocking their efforts. Hours bled into days, their eyes heavy with fatigue, but Olbap's determination never wavered. He barely slept, his mind racing, fueled by coffee and the weight of his mission.
Now, as the sun climbed higher, Olbap sat on the balcony, the black Den Den Mushi on the table beside his coffee. A pipe rested in his hand, its tobacco scent mingling with the sea air, a rare indulgence to calm his nerves. He adjusted the snail's frequency, his fingers precise, when its eyes snapped open, and a familiar voice crackled through—Silco's, sharp and commanding. Olbap's lips curled into a faint smile, his heart quickening.
"Marlon, you know what's happening here with Olbap's betrayal," Silco said, his voice cold. "Check your ships for infiltrators. He might have his people everywhere."
Olbap's smile widened. Silco knew he had killed Rane and was playing defense, wary of a traitor he couldn't pinpoint. Marlon's response came, gruff and loyal. "Don't worry, boss. I'll find any rats. I'll watch Vex and Graves, too, if needed."
"Good. Don't fail me, Marlon," Silco said, ending the call.
Olbap leaned back, exhaling smoke, his mind alight. Silco's suspicion was confirmed, but he'd never find Odoho, Olbap's spy embedded among Marlon's crew, invisible as a shadow. The intercepted call was the breakthrough he needed, proof Silco was on guard but unaware of the full extent of Olbap's plans.
Over the next few days, Olbap listened to every call, mapping Silco's moves—meetings, shipments, defenses—each word a piece in his growing strategy. He stayed calm, his balcony a sanctuary where he sipped coffee, smoked his pipe, and planned, the sea's rhythm a steady pulse beneath his thoughts.
Then, one night, a call came that shifted everything. The black Den Den Mushi stirred, its eyes opening to a new voice, smooth and dangerous. "Good evening, Barrakuda Silco. A pleasure to finally speak with you. You've created something intriguing," the man said.
"The pleasure's mine, knowing the Bartolo Family is interested in my project," Silco replied, his tone measured but eager.
Olbap's blood ran cold. The Bartolo Family, one of the five ruling families of the West Blue's underworld, was a name that carried weight even in the South Blue. Known for drugs and smuggling, their interest in Red Tide was a threat Olbap hadn't anticipated. The man continued, "We've heard about your product. Tell us about it, and we'll see how much it interests us."
"It's called Red Tide," Silco said. "A drug like no other. Words don't do it justice. I'd rather show you in person, deliver it myself. What do you say?"
The man laughed, a sound like velvet over steel. "You're so confident, Silco, you'd come to the West Blue to show me? I'm convinced. I'll send men to pick you up near the Red Line. They'll bring you to us."
"I'm fine with that, but are your men trustworthy? I'm dealing with a rat, and I need maximum security," Silco said, his voice tight.
"A rat in your den? Don't worry. While you're with my men, that rat's my enemy, too. If your drug impresses me, I'll handle him for you. Deal?"
"Sounds perfect, Mr. Bartolo. I think we'll get along well," Silco said, a smile in his voice.
"I think so, too. I'll call soon with the meeting point. Be ready, Silco," Bartolo said, ending the call.
The Den Den Mushi's eyes closed, and Olbap set his empty coffee mug down, his mind racing. He grabbed a smaller Den Den Mushi, its shell a soft beige, and called Popeye and Liro. They arrived swiftly, their boots echoing in the quiet office, their faces alert. Popeye's red pocket square gleamed, Liro's eyes sharp despite the late hour.
"What's up, Olbap? News on Silco?" Liro asked, leaning against the desk.
"Not just news—a dangerous report. Sit down. I need your thoughts," Olbap said, gesturing to the chairs. They sat, their attention fixed on him.
"Spill it," Popeye said, his hammer propped against the wall.
"Silco's found a buyer—the Bartolo Family from the West Blue, one of the five underworld families. They're interested in Red Tide. If they join forces, we're finished. We can't let them meet," Olbap said, his voice low, his eyes burning with intensity.
Liro's jaw tightened. "If they're that powerful, we're screwed if they team up."
"Agreed," Popeye said, his voice grim. "What's the plan?"
"I'm waiting for Bartolo to give Silco the meeting point. It'll likely be near the Red Line. We move there, find Silco's ship, and stop him," Olbap said.
"West, obviously," Popeye said, earning a dumb look from Liro.
"Popeye, are you dumb you stating the obvious?" Liro asked, half-smirking.
"What? It's logical, right, Olbap?" Popeye said, frowning.
Olbap shook his head, a faint smile breaking through. "We know it's west, Popeye. Read a book sometime—clear out those muscles in your head. But yes, we head west. Our horses can reach it in a day. You two handle Jerry, Tom, and Mot. I'll take Silco alive. We need the Red Tide formula. After that, he's expendable."
"What if he doesn't talk?" Liro asked, his hand on his cutlass.
"I'll offer him his life for the formula. If he takes it, he walks—briefly. If not, we'll persuade him," Olbap said, his smile cold.
"You always keep your word, Olbap. If you promise him to leave alive, we can't kill him," Popeye said, concern in his voice.
"Exactly," Liro added. "You've said your word's unbreakable."
"My word is iron," Olbap said, his eyes glinting. "I won't kill him. But I'll only promise I won't. You two? That's another story. As long as he doesn't specify you're included, you handle him. Clear?"
Popeye grinned. "Clever. Keeps your honor, gets the job done."
"I'm in. I'll make him pay for Kael and Toro," Liro said, his voice hard, his eyes blazing.
"Get supplies. We leave now. I'll meet you downstairs," Olbap said, rising. They nodded, moving swiftly to prepare, their footsteps fading down the hall.
Olbap stood alone, his hands tingling with anticipation, the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt and possibility. If this worked, the Red Tide would fall, and the Rabocse Family would rise, the sole masters of the crimson drug, as it should have been from the start.
End of the chapter.