The room pulsed with neon blue light, casting sharp shadows across expensive furniture and harder faces. Behind a massive glass desk sat a man who commanded attention without speaking.
Jarvis Rokce had the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or wanted posters, depending on who was looking. Sharp, angular features carved from stone, with a jaw that could cut glass and cheekbones that cast their own shadows. His eyes glowed a vivid, unnatural red in the blue light, giving him an almost demonic appearance. Jet black hair swept back from his face in deliberately styled chaos, the kind of look that suggested dangerous confidence.
He was dressed impeccably. Dark tailored suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, layered over a black vest and shirt. A deep red tie provided the only splash of color, vivid as blood against the muted tones. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, carrying himself with the casual authority of someone who'd killed people and slept fine afterward.
Jarvis took a slow sip from the glass of amber liquid in one hand, then drew on the cigarette in the other. Smoke curled up toward the ceiling as he regarded the scene before him with cold, analytical interest.
Five others occupied the room. Two women and three men, all dressed sharply, all standing with the disciplined posture of people who knew their place in the hierarchy. They watched their commander with careful attention, waiting for instructions, for permission to act.
The sound of desperate panting broke the tense silence.
On the floor, clutching his stomach and sweating profusely despite the cool air, was the brute Eric had fought. His face was already swelling from earlier impacts, blood trickling from his nose and split lip. His eyes darted between Jarvis and the five others, wild with fear.
"Boss," the brute gasped, his voice breaking. "Boss, please, give me another chance. I can fix this. I can make it right. Please—"
Thwack.
One of the men, a lean fighter with cold eyes, delivered a vicious kick to the brute's face. The impact echoed through the room. The brute's head snapped back, more blood spraying.
"Please!" the brute sobbed, curling tighter around his damaged ribs. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
Jarvis raised one hand lazily, a small gesture that carried absolute authority.
The kicking stopped immediately.
Silence fell again, broken only by the brute's ragged breathing and the quiet hum of the neon lights.
Jarvis took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the moment stretch. When he finally spoke, his voice was commanding, measured, each word delivered with deliberate weight that made everyone in the room tense.
"Do you know," Jarvis said, his tone conversational despite the violence that had just occurred, "what I find most... disappointing about this situation?"
The brute opened his mouth, but Jarvis continued before he could speak.
"It's not that you lost a fight." Jarvis examined his cigarette with mild interest. "Everyone loses fights eventually. It's the nature of violence. Someone faster, someone stronger, someone luckier. These things happen."
He took another sip of his drink, letting the silence build.
"It's not even that you tried to force yourself on a working girl," Jarvis continued. "Distasteful, certainly. Bad for business when it gets reported. But again, these things happen. Men have impulses. Impulses lead to poor decisions."
The brute dared to look hopeful, like maybe this was heading toward mercy.
Jarvis's red eyes fixed on him, and that hope died.
"What disappoints me," Jarvis said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous, "is that you failed our unit. You failed the Shadow Fang. You failed the Obsidian Fang name. And most importantly, you failed me."
"Boss, I—"
"Quiet." The single word carried such authority that the brute's mouth snapped shut. "I'm not finished."
Jarvis stood slowly, each movement controlled and deliberate. He walked around the desk with predatory grace, his polished shoes clicking against the floor.
"You let some nobody," Jarvis continued, his voice taking on an edge, "some random civilian who happened to walk by, beat you unconscious in an alley. Do you understand how that looks? Do you comprehend what message that sends?"
"I didn't mean—"
"It says," Jarvis spoke over him, "that the Obsidian Fang is weak. That our members are incompetent. That anyone with enough courage can take us on and win." His red eyes blazed brighter in the blue light. "It says that I, as Third Vice Commander, can't control my own unit."
He made another subtle gesture. The same lean fighter who'd kicked before stepped forward, delivering a brutal punch to the brute's already damaged stomach.
The brute doubled over, vomiting blood and bile onto the expensive floor.
More punches followed. Systematic, efficient, targeting ribs and kidneys and places that would hurt without killing. The other unit members watched impassively as their comrade delivered the beating, none of them flinching at the sounds of impact or the brute's agonized grunts.
Jarvis returned to his desk, sitting back down, sipping his drink while watching the violence with detached interest. He let it continue for exactly two minutes by his watch, then raised his hand again.
The beating stopped.
The brute lay curled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, his breathing shallow and ragged. Tears mixed with blood on his face.
"Please," he managed to whisper. "Another chance. Let me redeem the third command's reputation. Please, boss."
Jarvis set down his glass with deliberate care. He stood again, and this time his hand went to his waist. When it emerged, it held a sleek black handgun that gleamed in the neon light.
Everyone in the room tensed except Jarvis and the brute, who was too injured to do anything but stare.
Jarvis walked slowly toward the broken man, his footsteps measured, each one a countdown. He crouched beside the brute, the gun held casually, almost carelessly.
"You want another chance," Jarvis said quietly, pressing the gun barrel against the brute's forehead. The metal must have been cold because the man flinched. "You want to redeem yourself. Restore my reputation that you damaged with your incompetence."
"Yes," the brute gasped. "Yes, please, I'll do anything—"
"Why," Jarvis interrupted, his voice still quiet but carrying undertones of death, "would I give a useless limb a second chance?"
The gun pressed harder.
"A limb that's infected doesn't get treated," Jarvis continued. "It gets cut off. Disposed of. Before the infection spreads to the rest of the body." His red eyes bored into the brute's terrified ones. "You're an infection. And I should cut you off right now."
"Boss, no, please—"
"Give me one good reason," Jarvis said, "why I shouldn't pull this trigger and save myself future disappointment."
The brute's mouth worked soundlessly, no words coming. What could he say? What argument could possibly work against a man holding a gun to your head?
Jarvis waited, the moment stretching into eternity.
Then, slowly, he smiled. It was a terrible expression, full of dangerous amusement.
"However," Jarvis said, pulling the gun back and standing, "I'm told I'm a merciful person. Generous, even. So I'll give you what you're begging for."
Hope flickered in the brute's eyes again.
"One week," Jarvis said, returning to his desk and setting the gun down carefully. "You have one week to bring me the man who beat you. The nobody who humiliated you in that alley. The one who made me look weak."
"I'll find him," the brute gasped. "I swear, I'll find him and bring him here—"
"Alive," Jarvis interrupted. "I want him alive and conscious. I want to meet this person who thinks he can interfere with Obsidian Fang business and walk away."
"Yes, boss. Alive. I understand."
"One week," Jarvis repeated, his voice hardening. "Seven days. If you fail, if you don't bring him to me by next Monday at this exact time, then I'll finish what I started tonight. And it won't be quick."
The brute struggled to his knees, then his feet, swaying dangerously but managing to stay upright through sheer desperation. "Thank you, boss. Thank you, Third Vice Commander Jarvis. I won't fail. I swear on my life—"
"Your life is already forfeit," Jarvis said dismissively. "You're just buying time. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind."
The brute bowed deeply, pain making the gesture clumsy, then turned and stumbled toward the door. He barely made it, his hand leaving bloody prints on the frame as he pulled himself through.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Jarvis lit a fresh cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling.
"Clean up the blood," he said to one of the women. "And someone find out everything about this mystery fighter. Height, build, anything that idiot can remember through his concussion."
"Yes, sir," the woman replied, already moving to obey.
Jarvis took another sip of his drink, his red eyes reflecting the neon blue light. A small smile played at his lips, dangerous and anticipating.
"I have a feeling," he said to no one in particular, his voice carrying that charming, lethal quality that made even his own unit members nervous, "that this part of Stardale is about to get very interesting."