The setting sun hung low over the Los Santos skyline, bleeding orange and violet across the glass towers as Jax drove into the heart of the downtown luxury district. He parked the "borrowed" sedan near an alleyway that hummed with the vibration of heavy bass and the chatter of the city's elite.
Following a vague sense of familiarity from a life he once lived through a screen, he approached the entrance of an exclusive tavern.
"Sorry, sir. We're at capacity for... your kind," a voice boomed.
Jax looked up. A mountain of a man in a tailored suit, standing nearly seven feet tall, stepped into his path. The bouncer's face held a flick of practiced, casual disdain. He'd spent years watching men of Jax's background bow their heads and retreat.
When Jax didn't move, the man's eyes flashed with a "noble" white rage. Without a word of warning, he lunged forward, slamming a massive palm against Jax's chest to shove him back into the street.
"Oh, look," a passerby snickered. "Terry's found another monkey to play with."
But the expected stumble didn't happen. Jax didn't even sway. He looked down at the hand on his shirt, then back up at the bouncer, his expression shifting from confusion to cold disgust.
"Fuck you, kid," Terry hissed, pulling back a fist like a sledgehammer and swinging for Jax's jaw.
Slap.
The sound of the impact was sharp, but it wasn't the sound of bone hitting flesh. Jax had caught the fist in his palm. With the Brute Force ability humming in his veins, his grip was like a hydraulic vice.
Creeeeak.
The sound of Terry's metacarpals grinding together made the nearby onlookers wince. Jax stepped forward, slamming the giant against the stone wall. No matter how much the bouncer thrashed, he was pinned by a strength that felt supernatural.
"I asked a question," Jax said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Why can't I go in?"
"You... you damn yellow freak," Terry gasped, his face twisting in agony. "My people... they'll find you. Your family is dead. You're—"
"I think our security owes you an apology, sir."
The voice was smooth, like a vintage Cabernet with a hint of a sharp finish. Jax turned his head. Standing there was a blonde woman in a distressed brown leather jacket and sky-blue jeans that traced a figure the city's plastic surgeons could only dream of mimicking. A faint, knowing smile played on her lips.
"Terry," she said, her tone light but iron-cold. "Apologize. Properly."
Terry's knees buckled. He didn't understand why his boss, a woman who usually shared his prejudices, was suddenly playing diplomat. "I'm sorry..."
"Louder," she commanded.
"I'M SORRY!"
Jax released his grip. He watched with a trace of pity as the giant collapsed to the pavement, cradling a hand that was now a distorted mess of swollen flesh. He turned to leave; he'd lost his appetite for the place.
"Wait," the woman said, stepping into his path. "Everything you consume tonight is on my tab. Call it a peace offering. My name is Zona."
Jax paused. He looked at her—really looked at her—and a flicker of recognition crossed his mind. The yacht. The explosion. This was the girl who had watched them flee. He nodded, curious to see where this rabbit hole led.
"Please, follow me."
Inside, the club was a sensory assault. Neon lights bled into the fog of expensive cigarettes, and the dance floor was a writhing mass of bodies. Zona led him past the crowds and up a private elevator to a VIP suite. The moment the doors slid shut, the roar of the club vanished, replaced by an expensive, muffled silence.
The room featured a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the chaos below. Zona moved to the bar, her jasmine-scented perfume drifting toward Jax.
"You haven't been in Los Santos long, have you?" she asked, pressing a hidden red button to summon a private bartender.
A woman with a high ponytail and a revealing outfit entered, serving them drinks that were far stronger than anything found on the main floor. Jax took a sip of the amber liquid, his brow furrowing at the medicinal burn.
"Too strong?" Zona asked, leaning in. Her eyes searched his face, looking for a crack in his composure.
"A little," Jax admitted, draining the glass in one gulp out of a misplaced sense of etiquette.
They sat there for hours, the conversation flowing as easily as the expensive bourbon. Zona pointed out the international students on the floor below, laughing at their clumsy attempts to buy the city's affection. By 2 AM, the room began to tilt.
"I think... I've had enough, Zona," Jax slurred, standing up on unsteady legs. "Bathroom. I need... a minute."
Zona watched him with a look of quiet triumph. She signaled the bartender to leave. "I'll take you, Jax. Don't want you getting lost."
She guided him not to a restroom, but through a second private elevator into a room bathed in a deep, sultry purple light. If Jax were sober, he would have noticed the specialized tools and heavy leather restraints arranged with mathematical precision.
"Bathroom's right there," she whispered.
When Jax emerged, his vision was a blur of purple and gold. He collapsed onto the oversized bed, the world spinning. Then, he felt a sudden weight on his chest—a designer heel pressing into his sternum.
He struggled to open his eyes. Zona was standing over him, her jacket gone, looking down at him like he was a specimen under a microscope.
"I've been waiting for a man like you," she murmured, her voice full of a dark, predatory confidence. "Someone with that fire in their eyes... and that strength in their hands."
Jax's brow furrowed. He felt his wrists being cinched by cold, heavy ropes. A wicked fire surged in his gut—not of fear, but of a primal, drunken reflex.
Zona smiled, certain she had the lamb exactly where she wanted it. She hadn't even considered the risk. To her, men were toys to be broken and reassembled.
She didn't notice the faint creak of the bedframe. She didn't see the way the heavy hemp ropes began to fray and snap as Jax's hands instinctively clenched, his Brute Force reacting to the perceived threat.
Before she could lean down to claim her prize, a large, calloused hand shot out, catching her ankle with the force of a bear trap.
"No... wait—" Zona gasped as she was yanked down onto the mattress.
The predator became the prey in the heartbeat it took for Jax to roll over, his weight pinning her into the silk sheets. The purple lights flickered as the night in Los Santos truly began.