Across the bar, a man slouched on a stool near the middle, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. He was a wiry, middle-aged guy with a scruffy beard that looked like it hadn't been trimmed in weeks. His leather jacket was patched with random logos, and a jagged scar ran along his cheek.
He elbowed the customer sitting next to him—a younger man with slicked-back hair and an overly clean jacket that didn't match the rough surroundings of the bar. "Hey," the scruffy man said with a crooked grin, tilting his head toward the corner. "Wanna bet if those little shits are gonna get it?"
The younger man rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. "Really? Are you serious right now?" he asked, shaking his head while taking a sip of his beer. "You think I'd fall for that again? You douchbag."
The scruffy man barked out a laugh, slapping the bar. "Can't blame a guy for tryin'. But you gotta admit, this is gonna be good."
The younger man smirked despite himself, glancing toward the corner where the boys were now holding their breath as they reached for the coins. "I'm not betting," he muttered. "But yeah, this'll be good."
Both men leaned slightly in their seats, their attention fully captured by the scene about to unfold. The air seemed to tighten as the boys inched closer to their prize, oblivious to the eyes now fixed on them from across the bar.
One of the boy whispered, his voice barely audible over the bar's noise, "Hurry up, grab 'em before she wakes up."
The other nodded, his trembling hand reaching for the stack of coins.
"Click."
The unmistakable sound of two shotgun hammers being cocked echoed through the corner of the bar, cutting through the background noise like a gunshot. The boys froze instantly, their wide eyes snapping up to see the old woman glaring at them, her eyes suddenly alive with fiery intensity.
In her gnarled, bony hands, she held two sawed-off shotguns, one pointed squarely at each of their foreheads. Her fingers rested lightly on the triggers, but there was nothing light about her expression.
"One more inch," she growled, her voice gravelly and and low, "and both of you little suckers get a one-way ticket to meet the bloody devil himself."
The boys stammered incoherently, their faces pale as they scrambled to apologize. "W-we didn't mean nothin'!" one of them squeaked, his hands raised as if to ward her off. "We was just lookin'! Honest!"
"Y-yeah!" the other chimed in, his voice cracking. "Didn't even touch 'em! Swear on me mum!"
The old woman didn't budge, the barrels of her shotguns still steady as death. "You're lucky I'm feeling generous today," she spat, her lip curling in disgust. "But if I catch your greasy little fingers even thinking about my coins again, I'll blow your damn heads clean off and use what's left of you as bar decorations. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am! Sorry, ma'am!" they yelped in unison, practically tripping over each other as they backed away from the table, their hands still raised. One of the boys, pale as a ghost, stumbled and froze for a moment as a dark stain spread down the front of his ragged jeans. The sharp smell of urine hit the air, earning a roar of laughter from a nearby table.
"Holy shit, he pissed himself!" one of the customers bellowed, slapping the table as the rest of the bar erupted in jeers.
The boy's face turned an even deeper shade of crimson, and he stammered something incomprehensible before bolting for the door, his friend close on his heels, both of them tripping over themselves to escape.
As soon as they were out of range, the old woman smirked, leaning back in her rocking chair as she lowered the shotguns.
The boys bolted toward the far end of the bar, still shaking, their muttering drowned out by the laughter that erupted from a nearby table. One patron yelled, "You see the look on their faces? Priceless!"
The old woman chuckled dryly, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. "And that, boys and girls, is how you teach manners." she said with a faint cackle, rocking gently in her chair.
"Still fancy scaring those brats, you old geezer?" Vince's voice cut through the lingering amusement, laced with sarcasm as he approached. A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips, though his tone made it clear he wasn't here for idle chatter.
The old woman's eyes snapped up to him, her face creasing into a scowl. "Every time I meet you, bad luck shows up right behind," she grunted, her gravelly voice heavy with annoyance. She adjusted her oversized jacket, the sawed-off shotguns disappearing smoothly into hidden compartments within her sleeves, as though they'd never been drawn at all. "What the hell are you doing here, huh?"
"Got business with your boss," he said bluntly, his grin fading into a more serious expression. He stopped a few feet away, his posture relaxed but firm. "Open the door."
The old woman didn't move right away. Instead, she leaned back slightly in her chair, her gnarled fingers tapping the edge of the bar table as she studied him. The pause hung in the air, her narrowed eyes scanning him with an intensity that seemed to strip away all pretense.
Finally, she grunted, more out of irritation than agreement, and shifted in her seat. "Always stickin' your nose where it don't belong, huh?" she muttered under her breath before turning toward the greasy wooden wall behind her.
Her knuckles rapped against it in a deliberate rhythm, a distinct series of knocks that echoed faintly in the crowded bar. A moment later, a small, rectangular hatch slid open in the center of the wall, revealing a pair of cold eyes peering out from the darkness beyond.
The old woman didn't say a word, just gave a curt nod toward the unseen figure behind the hatch. The eyes lingered on her for a second longer, then shifted to Vince, scrutinizing him silently before the hatch slammed shut with a soft thud.
A low, mechanical groan filled the air as the wall began to shift, sliding inward and to the side with surprising smoothness, revealing a concealed doorway. The once-solid surface now opened into a dimly lit passage, its edges rough and stained with years of grime.
On the threshold stood a thug, broad-shouldered and clad in a leather vest adorned with the Black Marlins' emblem. His arms were crossed over his chest, revealing tattoos that snaked from his wrists to his shoulders, depicting jagged waves and symbols. He stepped to the side as the door fully opened, his dark eyes locked on Vince with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and mistrust.
The old woman rocked back in her chair, lighting another cigarette as she muttered, "Go on, then. But don't say I didn't warn you. Trouble sticks to you like barnacles on a rusty ship."
Vince smirked faintly, stepping forward into the shadowed walkway. "Good to see you too, Gran," he tossed over his shoulder, his voice dry.
The thug at the entrance said nothing, but his stance shifted slightly to closed the hidden door. The dim light from the passage spilled out into the bar, the faint scent of damp wood and something metallic drifting from within. Without hesitation, Vince strode forward, the door sliding shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
Walking down the dimly lit hallway, he felt the atmosphere shift around him. The dull hum of the bar faded into nothingness, replaced by an eerie silence that seemed to press against his ears. The faint glow of aged lightbulbs flickered sporadically, casting long, distorted shadows across the damp walls.
The deeper he moved into the tunnel-like pathway, the surroundings grew colder, darker. A sharp gust of wind howled faintly from somewhere unseen, carrying with it the faint sound of clanking metal sheets swaying loosely in the harbor's breeze. The sound echoed through the narrow space, creating a haunting chorus of rattling tones and metallic whispers that raging against the very walls.
His boots clicked softly against the concrete floor as he continued forward, his senses on high alert. The smell of saltwater and rust grew stronger with every step, mixing with the musty staleness of the confined air. He couldn't shake the feeling that the path stretched endlessly, like a maze designed to disorient and overwhelm anyone who didn't belong.
Then, faintly at first, a sound reached his ears. A distant echo, muffled and distorted by the heavy air. It was rhythmic, deliberate—the unmistakable noise of something hard striking something soft. Vince's steps slowed as he honed in on the sound.
As he moved closer, murmurs joined the rhythm, low voices carried on the wind. The words were indistinct, but their tone was sharp, agitated, and filled with menace. He pressed forward cautiously, his eyes scanning the narrowing hallway ahead, the light now barely enough to see by.
With a few more steps, the sounds became clearer. The repeated thuds of a blunt object striking flesh and the grunt of someone in pain reverberated off the metal walls. Then came the voices, angry and cruel.
"Where was it? Where the fuck was your shithole, you stupid dog?" one man's voice barked, his words biting and filled with venom.
"I don't… argh… I don't know!" another voice replied, strained and hoarse, each word followed by a pained grunt.
Vince stopped in front of a heavy metal door, its surface pitted with rust and scratches. He placed a hand lightly against the cold surface, tilting his head to listen closer to the grim exchange on the other side. The low hiss of the wind behind him only heightened the sense of tension.