For as long as anyone knew, the Kingsmen and the Statesmen believed they were the only ones of their kind.

Britain had its tailors. Kentucky had its distilleries.

That was it.

Until rumors started circulating about something else. Whispers of a third counterpart tucked away in Louisiana. An organization no one remembered authorizing. No records. No files. Just stories passed quietly between old contacts who swore there had always been something down there.

Of course, it was investigated.

Ginger pulled strings. Champagne made calls. And eventually, confirmation came through.

It was real.

A Kingsman-level organization operating out of Louisiana, hidden in plain sight under the name The Golden Gator.

An in-person meeting was arranged.

Agents Whiskey and Tequila, Ginger, Eggsy, and Champagne flew down together. The moment they stepped into Louisiana, they felt it. The air was thicker. The streets were louder. Music spilled from every corner, blending with laughter, arguments, and the constant pulse of life. Kentucky suddenly felt sterile by comparison.

Bourbon Street hit them like a wave.

Neon lights. Brass instruments. Sweat and energy and rhythm. And right in the middle of it all sat an unassuming bar with a weathered sign swinging above the door:

THE GOLDEN GATOR

An old Creole woman sat outside, tapping her foot to the music drifting through the street, eyes sharp and knowing. When they asked if they were in the right place, she didn’t answer. She just smirked and pointed inside.

That was answer enough.

The bar was mostly empty when they stepped in. Jazz played low and smooth, curling through the air like smoke. At the far end, seated comfortably as if he owned the world, was the boss of the Louisiana HQ.

You sat beside him, relaxed, drink in hand. Not postured. Not tense. Just watching them with an unreadable expression that made Tequila immediately uneasy.

The boss leaned back slightly, eyes flicking over the group with casual assessment before he spoke, voice thick with a Cajun lilt and unmistakable authority.

“I hope y’all treated dat li’l Creole chérie sittin’ out dere real good, sha,” he drawled, lips curling into a knowing smile.

“’Cause if ya didn’t… dis meetin’ gon’ get real short, real fast.”

As your boss spoke, you and Tequila saw each other. You two already knew each other secretly and that made you smirk once you saw him there with his Crew