The abandoned industrial building stood like a broken monolith against the night sky, its shattered windows reflecting the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Paramedics wheeled out wounded men on stretchers, their faces pale and bloodied, while uniformed officers stood in clusters, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.
Detective Marcus "Marc" Devereaux stepped out of his unmarked car, his trench coat flapping in the cool night breeze. He was a man in his late 50s, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face etched with the lines of a thousand sleepless nights. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember glowing faintly in the darkness. He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke as he surveyed the chaos.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel.
A young uniformed officer approached him, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly. "Detective Devereaux, you're gonna want to see this. It's… it's like something out of a John Wick movie in there."
Marc raised an eyebrow, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. "John Wick, huh? Let's hope it's not as messy as the sequel."
He crossed the yellow tape, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. The building's interior was a war zone—bullet holes riddled the walls, bloodstains smeared the floor, and shell casings littered the ground like confetti. Marc crouched down, picking up a spent cartridge and examining it.
"9mm," he said, tossing it aside. "Standard issue. But this… this wasn't a fight. This was a massacre."
Marc moved through the building like a shadow, his sharp eyes missing nothing. The scene was a war zone—bullet holes riddled the walls, bloodstains smeared the floor, and shell casings littered the ground like confetti. He crouched down, picking up a spent cartridge and examining it.
"9mm," he said, tossing it aside. "Standard issue. But this… this wasn't a fight. This was a massacre."
As he straightened up, his gaze fell on something glinting in the dim light. He stepped closer, his boots crunching on shattered glass, and bent down to pick it up. It was a gun—a sleek, gold-plated pistol, its surface marred by scratches and dried blood. Marc's breath caught in his throat.
"No way," he muttered, turning the gun over in his hands. "It can't be."
From his years on the force, Marc knew the stories. Thais Moreau, the Demon of the Underworld, was infamous for her gold guns. She didn't carry them for show; they were a statement. A message. This isn't personal, the guns said. It's just business.
Marc's mind raced as he recalled the legends. Thais was a ghost, a myth, a name whispered in the darkest corners of the city. She was the right hand of the most dangerous crime boss in New Orleans, a woman who could walk into a room and leave it drenched in blood without breaking a sweat. And now, here was her calling card, lying in the middle of a war zone.
"Thais Moreau," Marc said under his breath, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief. "What the hell were you doing here?"
He turned the gun over again, his fingers tracing the scratches on its surface. Each mark told a story—a fight, a close call, a life taken. Marc had heard the tales of her precision, her ruthlessness, her uncanny ability to walk away from situations that would've killed anyone else. But this… this was different. The blood on the gun, the chaos around him—it told a different story. A story of desperation. Of survival. Of an end.
Marc's eyes swept the room, taking in the bullet holes, the shattered furniture, the bodies. His mind began to piece together the scene, the fragments of the fight playing out in his imagination. He could almost see her—Thais, the Demon—moving through the chaos like a force of nature, her gold gun flashing in the dim light.
"She was here," Marc said, his voice low. "And she didn't go down without a fight."
Thais Moreau sat on a park bench, her tall, imposing frame draped in a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the sunlight. Her short-cropped hair, faded at the sides, gave her a sharp, no-nonsense look. She leaned back, her gold-plated pistol resting discreetly in its holster beneath her jacket, as she watched ordinary people enjoying their Sunday barbecue. Children laughed, couples strolled hand in hand, and the smell of grilled meat wafted through the air.
For a moment, Thais allowed herself to linger in the peacefulness of it all. It was a rare indulgence, this quiet observation of a life she could never have. She didn't envy them—no, she was too pragmatic for that—but she appreciated the simplicity. It was a stark contrast to the world she inhabited, a world of blood, betrayal, and endless scheming.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, shattering the moment. She pulled it out, her expression hardening as she saw the caller ID. It was her boss. She answered, her voice calm but laced with tension.
The Villa by the Ocean
The villa stood like a fortress on the edge of a cliff, its white walls gleaming under the moonlight. Waves crashed against the rocks below, their rhythmic roar a constant reminder of the power and isolation of the man who lived there. Inside, Victor Moreau, the aging crime lord, stood by a floor-to-ceiling window, his hands clasped behind his back. His sharp eyes stared out at the endless expanse of the ocean, but his mind was elsewhere.
His son, Lucien, paced the room like a caged animal, his voice rising with every word. "She's a liability, Father," he spat, his face flushed with anger. "Thais has too much power. The men respect her more than they respect you—more than they respect me. Do you really think she's loyal? She's a stray you picked up off the streets. She's not family."
Victor didn't turn around, but his jaw tightened. He had heard this argument before, and each time it grated on him more than the last. Lucien was his blood, his heir, but the boy had always been weak—more weasel than wolf. He lacked the cunning, the ruthlessness, the sheer force of will that had built the Moreau empire. And he resented Thais for possessing all of it in spades.
"Thais is loyal," Victor said finally, his voice low and gravelly. "She has never given me reason to doubt her."
"Loyal?" Lucien scoffed, stopping mid-pace to glare at his father. "Loyalty doesn't mean a damn thing when she's the one calling the shots. The men follow her, not you. They whisper her name like she's some kind of god. 'The Demon,' they call her. Not 'Victor's enforcer.' Not 'the boss's right hand.' The Demon. Do you even hear yourself? You're defending her like she's your daughter, but she's not. She's a weapon, and weapons can be turned against you."
Victor's hands clenched behind his back. He knew Lucien was right, at least in part. Thais had become a legend in her own right. Her reputation overshadowed even his, and that was a dangerous thing in their line of work. She was a double-edged sword—loyal to a fault, but her very presence was a threat to his authority. And now, with Lucien's constant prodding, the seeds of doubt had taken root.
"Two bulls cannot stay in the same kraal," Victor said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Nor two tigers on one mountain."
Lucien's eyes lit up, a sly smile creeping across his face. "Then you'll do it? You'll take her out?"
Victor turned to face his son, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, his sharp eyes boring into Lucien's. The boy had always been jealous of Thais, resentful of her skills, her reputation, her place in the organization. But this wasn't just about jealousy. This was about survival. The Moreau empire was built on fear and respect, and if Thais' legend eclipsed his own, the balance of power would shift. He couldn't allow that.
"I'll handle it," Victor said finally, his voice cold and final.
Lucien's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it—only triumph. "Good. It's the right decision, Father. She's too dangerous to keep around."
Victor didn't respond. He turned back to the window, his mind racing. Thais had been with him for over two decades, since he found her as a scrappy teenager on the streets, fighting for survival. He had molded her into the weapon she was today, honing her instincts, her ruthlessness, her loyalty. And now, he was about to destroy her.
But loyalty, he reminded himself, was a luxury he could no longer afford. The organization came first. Always.
As Victor stared out at the ocean, his mind drifted to the stories that had made Thais a legend. He remembered the time she single-handedly took out a rival gang's entire leadership, leaving their bodies strung up like a warning. He remembered the countless times she had saved his life, her gold-plated pistols blazing as she cut through enemies with surgical precision. And he remembered the fear in the eyes of his men when they spoke of her—not just fear, but awe. Thais was more than an enforcer; she was a force of nature.
But that was the problem. A force of nature couldn't be controlled. It could only be unleashed—or destroyed.
Victor's decision to betray Thais wasn't just about power; it was about survival. In their world, loyalty was a currency, but it was also a weakness. Thais had been loyal to a fault, but her very existence threatened the delicate balance of power that kept the Moreau empire intact. Victor had built his legacy on ruthlessness, on making the hard decisions that others couldn't. And this was the hardest decision of all.
Lucien, for all his flaws, understood this. He was a coward, yes, but he was also a survivor. He knew how to manipulate, how to plant seeds of doubt and watch them grow. And he had played his father like a fiddle, using Victor's own insecurities to turn him against his most loyal soldier.
But Victor wasn't blind to his son's shortcomings. He knew Lucien would never be the leader he was, never command the respect Thais did. And yet, he had chosen his son over her. Blood, after all, was thicker than loyalty.
Victor was a tiger—a predator who had clawed his way to the top through sheer force of will. Lucien was a sheep in wolf's clothing, a boy who had convinced himself he was a predator but lacked the teeth to back it up. And Thais? She was the tiger Victor had raised, a reflection of his own ferocity and cunning.
But now, the tiger father had sided with the sheep, sacrificing his most dangerous creation out of jealousy and spite. It was a decision that would haunt him, but one he believed was necessary. The Moreau empire would survive, even if it meant destroying the very thing that had made it strong.
The Call
Back in the park, Thais listened as her boss explained the job. There was an arms deal going down at an abandoned industrial site. He wanted her to scout the location, make sure the other party wasn't planning an ambush. It was a routine assignment, one she'd done countless times before.
"Understood," Thais said, her voice steady. "I'll check it out."
She hung up, her hand sliding slowly down to her side. For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the sky with an unreadable expression. Then she stood, smoothing out her suit, and walked away from the park without a backward glance.
Thais Moreau moved through the abandoned industrial building like a shadow, her gold-plated pistol holstered at her side. Her sharp eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, her movements deliberate and precise. She was meticulous, her instincts honed from decades in the underworld. The building was empty, just as she expected, but something felt off. The air was too still, the silence too heavy.
She reached the center of the building, her hand instinctively moving to her gun as she heard the sound of car doors slamming outside. She froze, her body tense, her eyes narrowing as she peered through a broken window.
A convoy of black vans pulled up, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Men poured out, heavily armed and moving with purpose. At the front of the group was a man she knew all too well—Dead Eye, a hardened enforcer from a rival gang. His scarred face was twisted into a cocky grin, and his eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and malice.
Thais' lips curled into a smirk, but her mind was already racing. She pulled out her phone and dialed her boss, Victor Moreau. The line rang once, twice, then went to voicemail. She tried again, but the result was the same. A cold knot formed in her stomach, but she pushed the feeling aside. Now wasn't the time for doubt.