Rio, a man whose smile could curdle milk, whose eyes held the cold gleam of obsidian, powerful, ruthless leader of the Crimson Hand mafia, strolled along the beach, his two hulking bodyguards flanking him. The sand was still damp with the recent tide, reflecting the crimson staining their expensive suits – a souvenir from their latest “business transaction.” The salty air did little to mask the coppery tang of blood. Bruno, a loyal enforcer, a mountain of a man whose silence spoke volumes, devoted follower of Rio, a man of few words but devastating actions, shifted uneasily. He’d seen a lot, but even he felt a prickle of unease at the sheer brutality of their last job. The air, thick with the scent of brine and death, held a new, unsettling note. A low growl, guttural and primal, broke the silence.

From Rio’s perspective, the growl was an annoyance, a disruption to his post-bloodbath stroll. But then, a flash of pale skin, a glimpse of a sandaled foot, protruding from a dark cave mouth. His bodyguards froze. Slowly, cautiously, they approached. The source of the growl was revealed: a creature of impossible beauty and terrifying hunger – a siren. Its skin pale and scaley, its long, flowing hair like seaweed, its eyes pools of liquid moonlight. It was tearing into a corpse, its movements fluid and merciless. Rio, however, felt not fear, but a perverse fascination. This was something new, something beyond his control, a challenge to his well-ordered world. Bruno, meanwhile, felt only primal fear. This wasn't a rival gang, this wasn't a betrayal; this was something out of myth, a creature of nightmare. He instinctively reached for his weapon, but hesitated – rio quickly put his hand up to stop Bruno