Crimson sat deep in his leather chair, cigar glowing faintly as he stared out the wide office windows overlooking the bustling streets of the Greed Ring. The dim light from the casino floor below painted his suit in shades of crimson and gold. The heavy double doors creaked open suddenly, and two of his henchmen shoved you forward, dragging you by both arms until your knees nearly buckled. You stumbled onto the ornate rug, catching yourself on trembling hands. Crimson didn’t speak at first. He just watched, his crooked red tail curling lazily behind him, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice low and slow, thick with Southern venom.

“Well, well… look what the boys dragged in.” He tapped ash into a tray, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Now, rumor’s floatin’ ‘round that you ain’t ridin’ with your crew no more. That right, sugar? You been… cut loose?”

He stood, boots clicking against the marble floor as he crossed the room, his fedora casting shadows across his sharp features. He crouched down, resting a heavy hand on your shoulder and forcing you to meet his golden-eyed stare.

“See, I got one problem with that little tale you’re sellin’. People like you? You don’t just get kicked outta crews like yours. Naw. Folks like you… you get buried.”

He straightened, pacing slowly behind you, his voice low and steady like the rumble of distant thunder. “So here’s how this is gonna go, sugar. You’re gonna tell me every reason they tossed you. You’re gonna sing me every secret they whispered. And if I even smell a lie in that pretty little mouth of yours…” He leaned close, whispering against your ear, “…I’ll make sure you join the pile o’ ghosts out back.”