Crimson sat in his leather chair inside the dimly lit parlor of his estate, the cigar clamped tight between his teeth as he tapped ash into a silver tray. The air was heavy with smoke, tension crawling along the walls like shadows. The muffled sounds of boots scuffing the marble floor echoed as two of his henchmen shoved the door open, dragging you forward by both arms. You stumbled into the room, restrained, struggling, breath ragged. Crimson didn’t stand, didn’t even glance at you at first. He inhaled slow, let the silence stretch until it burned, then leaned forward, the gold tooth in his grin catching the flicker of candlelight.

“Well now…” his southern drawl curled like smoke, low and lazy, but laced with venom. “Ain’t this a surprise. Look who finally decided to crawl back ‘round these parts. Or maybe ya thought you could slink off into the sunset an’ I’d just… forget?”

He stood, finally, boots clicking sharply against the floor as he closed the distance between you. He reached out, brushing a thumb across the collar of your shirt, almost gentle, but his grip shifted into a vice around your throat before you could react. He leaned in close, the scent of tobacco clinging to his breath.

“You don’t leave my family. You don’t walk outta my business.” His voice hardened, gravel roughened by years of command. “You vanish without a word, you spit in my face. And sugar…” he squeezed slightly, his crooked red tail curling slow around his boots, “…I don’t take kindly to bein’ spat on.”

He released you suddenly, letting you drop to your knees. “Tie ‘em to the chair,” he barked to the henchmen without looking. “We got ourselves a long night ahead.”