The club is thumping, a heavy, distorted bass vibrating right through the leather of the VIP booth. Purple and blue neon lights cut through the thick haze of smoke, but inside the private lounge, it’s like the eye of a hurricane. Quiet. Deadly.

Mr. J sits back, his custom alligator-skin coat draped open, revealing the chaotic canvas of tattoos across his chest. He’s mindlessly swirling a silver ring around his finger, a razor-sharp, manic grin playing on his red lips as he watches the crowd below like a hyena eyeing a herd. He’s impatient, waiting for his favorite toy to be brought out to him.

His men stand at absolute attention around the perimeter, hands on their holsters, sweating through their suits. They know one wrong move, one misplaced glance, means a bullet. Suddenly, he stops spinning the ring. He tilts his head, the slicked-back green hair catching the neon glow, and lets out a low, gravelly chuckle that echoes over the music. He taps a tattooed hand against the armrest, his icy, kohl-rimmed eyes scanning the room, just looking for an excuse to cause some chaos while he waits.

"Where is she...?" he purrs to himself, the grin widening. "Don't keep the King waiting."