𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝕽𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖘 & 𝖂𝖔𝖑𝖋 𝕱𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖘~

Rain tapped like impatient fingers on the rooftop of the Black Lotus facility, the city drowning in shadows and neon reflections. Each droplet caught red and violet light from distant signs, streaking the wet metal surfaces like spilled blood.

Inside the labyrinthine complex of secrets, one file rested in a vault behind biometric locks—a file so dangerous, so powerful, it could tilt the balance of the underworld. Not just intel. Insurance. Leverage. Names that weren’t supposed to exist.

Two forces moved through the night, unknowingly drawn to the same moment.

Dante Hance, the enigmatic Don of The Crimson Hyper, was a man whose name alone made even killers flinch. Tall, poised in tailored black with a crimson tie like a streak of blood, his black rose tattoo peeked out from under his shoulder holster. Calm, calculated, and deadly, he strode through the lower halls like a shadow with purpose, boots silent against marble and chrome.

Every corner he passed, every shadow he entered, seemed to recoil—like the building itself knew he didn’t belong.

And elsewhere, already slinking through the ventilation system above, was Amelia Scaman—the consigliere of Black Wolf. Dressed in sleek matte black, her amber eyes shimmered with cunning. She wasn’t just a strategist—she was a ghost, a whisper, a myth told among traitors before their last breath. On the small of her back, hidden beneath leather, lay the symbol of her rank: the Pigeon’s Blood Wolf, a red so deep it only surfaced during emotional extremes.

Tonight, it stirred faintly.

Something felt off.

Sliding down into the secure server room, Amelia landed like a cat, only to freeze as a quiet click echoed behind her. A gun. She turned slowly.

Dante stood in the shadows, one hand in his coat, the other holding a silenced pistol loosely. His eyes were unreadable, voice smooth as polished glass.

“You’re not Black Lotus,” he said. “Wrong tattoo.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “And you’re not security. Guess we’re both trespassing.”

His eyes flicked to the small safe on the wall. “We have a problem.”

Amelia tilted her head, almost amused. “Not if you step aside.”

“You first,” Dante replied.

Silence stretched between them like piano wire. The kind of pause that usually came before a gunshot or a kiss.

Then—

The alarm chirped faintly.

A single pulse. Soft. But lethal.

Someone else had tripped it. Black Lotus wasn’t dumb—they had backups.

In a blur, both moved. A dance of efficiency and violence. Fingers flew over digital locks. Two sets of hands, too experienced to fumble, disabled the security system in near unison. Their fingers brushed. A jolt passed between them—brief, electric.

Amelia pulled back sharply, irritated. Not just at him. At herself. Her blood was heating—and not just from danger.

Focus.

The vault clicked open with a mechanical sigh. Inside, a single drive—no label, just an obsidian finish. Amelia’s hand reached first, but Dante didn’t stop her. He simply watched her.

That unsettled her more.

Before either could speak, the door behind them slammed open.

Gunfire. Shouts. Red lights painted the white walls like arterial spray.

Dante cursed and yanked Amelia behind a reinforced desk as bullets tore into the air where they’d stood. Ceramic and steel shattered around them.

“You owe me for this,” he muttered, returning fire with cold precision.

“I don’t owe anyone,” she snapped, yanking a smoke bomb from her belt. “Especially not Crimson trash.”

She threw the grenade. With a hiss, smoke swallowed the room. Through the dim chaos, her mark shimmered faintly—her tattoo glowing red under the strain of adrenaline and rising fury.

Dante noticed. His aim faltered for a half second.

“You’re not just any Black Wolf.”

“And you’re not just any Crimson.”

They moved in sync—covering each other without speaking, slipping between gaps in the walls like ghosts. A shared rhythm. No trust, only necessity.

By the time they reached the rooftop, the night had opened above them like a wound—stars barely visible behind clouds and drones. A sleek black helicopter whirred to life for Dante, its blades chopping the rain into mist.

Amelia backed away, preparing her own route—grappling line in hand, breathing hard.

Dante looked at her, blood soaking his sleeve, curiosity flickering in his voice.

“We’ll meet again, consigliere.”

She smirked, though the fire still shimmered faintly beneath her skin.

“Count on it.”

And like smoke in the wind, they vanished into the night—two enemies, two hunters, sharing one stolen breath under the crimson sky.