A fine tremor ran through Cindy’s hands where they were clenched together on the polished surface of her worktable. She willed them to be still, pressing her knuckles white, but the fear was a live wire in her veins, impossible to contain. The calm, cluttered familiarity of her own shop—a place that had always been her sanctuary—now felt like a gilded cage.
Sitting across from her, his immense frame seeming to absorb the very light from the room, was her worst nightmare given form. Kyle Feris. Second-in-command of the Nighthounds. A name spoken in hushed tones, a legend of brutality she had prayed would never intersect with her quiet life on the west side.
The arrival had been a chilling invasion.
The door had chimed its usual friendly bell, and then he had filled the doorway, a mountain of a Doberman mutant sheathed in an impeccably tailored suit that did nothing to conceal the raw power beneath. He didn't need to snarl; his presence was threatening enough.
Flanking him were a half-dozen other syndicate members, their fine suits and polished silver collars—the mark of high-ranking Nighthounds—glinting in the afternoon sun. And then there was the woman. A platinum blonde with an unnerving stillness, who stood slightly apart from the pack. She didn't wear a collar, and her expression was one of detached observation, which somehow made her more terrifying than the obvious thugs.
They hadn't shouted. One of the grunts had simply uttered, "Store's closed," in a flat, final tone. The reaction was instantaneous. Her mutant customers, their eyes widening with fear, had immediately dropped their goods and scrambled for the exit, not even looking back. A few non-mutant patrons, visitors from the central districts unfamiliar with the east side's true rulers, had opened their mouths to protest. But they were swiftly, silently hushed and physically pulled away by others who knew better, their urgent, terrified whispers—"Nighthounds!"—echoing in the sudden silence.
As the last of them fled, Cindy’s eyes locked with those of Rael, a multi-armed mutant regular who often stayed to chat. Her gaze was a desperate, silent scream: Please, don't leave me here! Rael’s face contorted in a agony of helplessness, his four hands flexing uselessly before he turned away, his shoulders slumped in shame. The click of the front door lock was the loudest sound Cindy had ever heard.
Now, alone with the syndicate and the mysterious woman, sweat beaded on her temple and traced a cold path down her cheek. She knew why they were here.
But, seeing Kyle himself, someone of such importance in her tea shop, laid bare the depth of her fears. Cindy had been around long enough to understand how scary Kyle really was. Stories of his ruthlessness played in her mind on a frantic loop—most vividly, the one about Cory, his head literally punched clean from his shoulders by Kyle.
Cindy found herself offering a frantic, silent prayer to the Light, not for salvation, but for a simple, intact death. “Please, just don't let him punch my head off.”
Kyle: “Well then,” he began, his voice a low, monotone rumble that was disturbingly calm, like the stillness in the eye of a hurricane. Every syllable was measured, yet it carried the implicit threat that a single wrong word could shatter his composure and unleash a storm of violence. “I suppose you know why I’m here?”
Cindy’s throat constricted.
Cindy: “U-Um… I-I a-assume it’s not for t-tea?” she stuttered, a pathetic, involuntary attempt to defuse a situation that was utterly beyond defusing.
Kyle’s expression didn’t flicker. He didn’t acknowledge the joke, his eyes remaining fixed on her, stripping away her feeble bravado layer by layer.
Kyle: “No. I’m here because I’m curious to know how one of my boys ended up dead in the alley behind your store.”
Cindy audibly gulped, the sound deafening in the silent shop. This was the confrontation she had been dreading since the moment she’d seen that crumpled form amidst her trash bins. She had done everything by the book—called the police, answered their questions, pleaded ignorance. It was only when the coroner’s team zipped the body into a bag that she’d caught a glimpse of the distinctive silver dog collar, and her blood had run cold. A Nighthound.
She had to make him believe her. That she had nothing to do with this. Her life depended on it.
Cindy: “Please. I-I have no idea what happened. I-I just reported it to the police. That’s all!”
Kyle: “Is that so…” the mutant doberman mused, leaning back slightly, the fine material of his suit straining over his shoulders. “And you weren’t the one who… did the deed?”
Cindy: “NO! Never!” The denial from her, desperate and sharp. “I didn’t even know he was back there until I went to throw the trash out. If I was the one who did it, I wouldn't have reported it to the police!”
Kyle: “A clever ploy,” he countered, his tone still dangerously conversational. “Reporting a murder you committed is an excellent way to control the narrative. It makes you look like a concerned citizen, not a suspect. It allows you to cover your ass quite thoroughly.”
Tears of frustration and terror began to well in Cindy’s eyes.
Cindy: “I-I didn’t murder him! I have never murdered anyone! I have no reason to!”
Kyle: “No reason?” he head tilted a fraction. “Are you not operating a little information brokerage on the side? A cozy little operation where people who are too scared to approach us, or who are on our bad side, can go to buy and sell secrets? Perhaps you saw my boy around here and thought he was infringing on your territory. Maybe you thought he was gathering information on you. So, to protect your business and send a message to the Nighthounds to stay off your west-end turf… you decided to make an example of him.”
The theory was laid out with such cold, brutal logic that it felt more real than her own panicked denials. He knew. Of course he knew about her side business. She had been a fool to consider anything in this city escaped their notice.
Cindy: “N-No… please…” she begged, her voice breaking. The shaking intensified, her whole body trembling as she looked at him, a silent plea for mercy in her eyes.
Kyle watched her dispassionately, his face an unreadable mask. He showed no reaction to her tears, her terror, her trembling. It was as if he were observing a mildly interesting lab specimen.
Kyle: “Well… you seem pretty sure you didn't do anything,” he concluded, his tone implying he believed no such thing. “If that is the case, surely you wouldn’t mind if my boys looked around a little bit then?” He gestured to the pack of suited men who stood like statues, their hands clasped, their scowls promising violence.
Cindy’s eyes darted to the armed men. Their gazes were flat and harsh. Of course she minded. The thought of them rifling through her private things, her ledgers, her life, made her feel violently ill. But refusal was not an option. She gave a weak, jerky nod, the motion sending fresh tears tracking down her cheeks.
Kyle: “Hmm, good.” the mutant gestured to one of his grunts, who approached with deferential speed.
Kyle leaned forward and whispered something into the man’s ear, his eyes never leaving Cindy.
Kyle: “Well then, I’ll leave my boys to it,” he announced, as if concluding a casual business meeting. He got up, turned and walked out, the platinum-haired woman falling into step behind him without a backward glance. Through the shop window, Cindy watched them slide into a waiting black limousine, which pulled away smoothly, returning to the east end and leaving her alone in her shop with the hounds.
♦♦♦♦♦
The limousine glided away from the curb, the quaint tea shop shrinking in the tinted rear window until it was swallowed by the landscape. A heavy silence filled the plush interior, broken only by the muffled hum of the city. Thalia watched Kyle, his massive form a dark silhouette against the passing urban blur. After a few minutes, the tension of the encounter seemed to dissipate enough for her to speak.
Thalia: “So,” she began, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Do you think she was responsible for the murder of your man?”
Kyle didn’t turn from the window.
Kyle: “No, I don’t think so,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he rested his head against a hand.
Thalia: “You sound remarkably confident.”
Kyle: “The initial information I got made me ninety percent sure she was just a civilian in the wrong place,” he explained, his gaze still fixed on the passing streets. “After talking to her, I’m a hundred percent sure. That wasn't the fear of a guilty person trying to keep a story straight; that was the raw terror of someone caught in an unexpected bad situation. If she had the guts to kill a Nighthound, she'd have had the sense to flee the city, unless she was stupid. And she's not stupid. She's a bystander. Nothing more.”
Thalia considered this, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.
Thalia: “I find it interesting that she was so terrified of you, if she believed herself innocent. You’re a rather nice person, all things considered.”
Kyle let out a short, derisive scoff, finally turning his head to look at her.
Kyle: “What makes you say that?”
Thalia: “I have good ears. I heard what you whispered to your men. You told them not to make too big of a mess, and if they found nothing, to give her some cash for her trouble and the lost business. Those aren't the orders of a ruthless crime lord. They're the considerations of… someone reasonable. It rather ruins the aesthetic you're presenting.”
Kyle sighed, a sound of weary resignation, and fully faced her, the weight of his attention now absolute in the confined space.
Kyle: “Look,” he said, his voice dropping, losing its public gruffness and gaining a layer of gritty sincerity. “Reputation is a currency, and in my business, it’s the hardest one to earn and the easiest to lose. If people think you're soft, they test you. They try to walk all over you. So, you make a very public, very brutal examples of the pieces of shit you don't give a fuck about. You punch a few heads off, and suddenly, people think twice before fucking with you.”
He leaned forward slightly, his expression intent.
Kyle: “But that doesn't mean violence is the first, or even the preferred, tool. It's the loudest, that's all. It's bad for business in the long run. Scared people make unreliable partners. So, it's a balancing act. You need a reputation ferocious enough that your enemies won't risk a fight, but pragmatic enough that neutral parties will still sit across a table from you. You want them afraid enough not to cheat you, but not so terrified that they won't deal with you at all. That's the line. And that," he said, gesturing vaguely back toward the tea shop, "is how you walk it."
Thalia: “Hmm, and a philosopher-king too,” Thalia mused, a soft chuckle escaping her before her expression sobered, the levity fading like a snuffed candle. “So, the death of your man. The real question, then. Do you think it was John who did it? I understand the Nighthound who died was part of the team monitoring him.”
Kyle: “No.” His answer was immediate and firm. “I don’t. Not that I could do a damn thing about it if it was.”
Thalia: “That’s a definitive answer. Is there a specific reason, or have you actually spoken to him?”
A visible shudder passed through Kyle’s shoulders.
Kyle: “Talk to him? No. Fucking. Way. I already hate that I know as much as I do about that man. Just being on the same continent feels too close.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a troubling thought. “We’ve had eyes on him for a long time. We’ve seen sellers try to swindle him, drunks bump into him, all sorts of minor, stupid insults. He never reacts with violence—not the physical kind, anyway. The worst that happens is they tend to… have a change of heart. Decide to leave the city, or donate all they have to an orphanage. The point is, we’ve never once seen him hurt anyone. At least, not physically.”
He leaned back, the fine leather of the seat creaking under his weight.
Kyle: “The one who died was found in that alley… with his neck crushed. It was a hands-on kill. Messy. Personal. That wouldn't be John’s style. I’m almost certain it’s another party at work here.” His gaze grew distant, fixed on some internal horror. “Because if John wanted someone dead, there wouldn't be a body to find, or report, or mourn. There would just be… an absence. A question mark where a person used to be.”
Thalia: “Then, if not John, do you have any idea who did do this?” she asked, her curiosity sharpening.
Kyle: “I’ve got a theory,” he grunted, his jaw tightening. “I think it has something to do with those folks you’re looking for.”
Thalia: “Really? That’s quite a leap.”
Kyle: “It’s not a leap; it’s a process of elimination. That’s the real reason I had you come along today,” he admitted. “I wanted you there, in the room, to watch that woman’s reactions. I was hoping she might have some connection, however faint, to your quarry. But based on her reaction and the profile we already had on her, it’s clear she’s just a small-time info broker in over her head. The boys I left behind will grill her specifically about the strangers you’re hunting, just in case she’s heard a whisper in her little information shop, but I doubt she has. She’s local, and this feels… different.”
Thalia leaned forward, her platinum hair catching the dim light.
Thalia: “I’ll ask again, then. Why are you so certain this is connected to my group?”
Kyle’s expression darkened, a flicker of genuine offense showing through his usual mask of control.
Kyle: “Because, Thalia, no one in this city—no one in their right mind, at least—fucks with the Nighthounds. And I mean no one. We have enough pull with the city council, the noble families, that even the cops give us a wide berth. The only people brazen or stupid enough to kill one of my boys in his own territory fall into three categories: suicidal idiots, the genuinely insane, or someone from outside the city who don’t know the rules of this particular jungle.”
He held up a meaty hand, ticking off the points.
Kyle: “We would have heard about an idiot or a lunatic that might do something like this. That leaves outsiders. I’m thinking one of my boys, while following John, saw one of your ‘weirdos’ skulking around where they didn’t belong, decided to lean on them a little, and picked a fight with someone who was a lot more dangerous than they looked. They killed him because he was a threat, or because they simply don’t care about the consequences of crossing the Nighthounds.”
Thalia: “I see,” she replied, the pieces clicking into a grim picture. “That makes a lot of sense. But that also complicates my mission. And, I’m sorry about you man.”
Kyle: “It’s not like you brought these bastards here,” he stated, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The professional detachment he’d maintained in the tea shop was gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “But their presence is now a personal insult. They didn’t just trespass in my city; they hurt one of my own. In my world, that debt can only be settled in blood.” He paused, his knuckles tightening where they rested on his knee. “Although, to be frank, after what you’ve told me about this group—I probably would have authorized a kill-on-sight order for them anyway. Some things are just too vile to tolerate, even in my line of work.”
Thalia studied him for a long moment, a slow, genuine smile gracing her lips. It was a rare expression for her, one that held a flicker of real warmth.
Thalia: “See?” she said, her voice softening. “Underneath all that carefully cultivated menace, you really are a nice person.”
Kyle just grunted, turning his head to stare out the window as passing buildings were interesting all of sudden. The compliment seemed to make his shoulders tighten with discomfort.
Kyle: “Just don’t get the wrong idea,” he rumbled, without looking back at her. “And don’t you dare try to pet me like a dog the way Yin does. Or I won’t be nearly as ‘nice’ as you’ve decided I am.”
Thalia’s chuckle was light, a soft sound in the limousine’s quiet interior.
Thalia: “Okay, noted. Yin is the only one allowed to scratch behind your ears. Your secret is safe with me.”
Kyle: “That’s not what I—” he began, then cut himself off with a defeated sigh, realizing the futility of the argument. “Anyways, we’re heading to a club that might have information your looking for.”
Thalia: “Why a club?”
Kyle: “You’ll find out.” He said as the limousine glided smoothly through the tightening streets, carrying them back into the dark, beating heart of Nighthound territory.
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