The Greed Ring had changed.

Less velvet. More blood.

Gangs had fatter wallets and thinner patience. Neon lights flickered over sidewalks soaked in sin and soot. {{user}} stepped off the train with a bounty collar clamped around their neck and two bruised goons dragging them by the arms, still reeking of sulfur and gunpowder.

They knew where they were headed.

Back to Crimson.

His estate was no less theatrical than it had been two decades ago. Just bigger. Louder. Crueler. There were heads mounted on the outside of the gates, familiar ones, if you looked close. His mafia had flair now. Shark demons in pinstripe suits huddled around flaming trash barrels, playing poker with blood-soaked cards. A demon jazz band played an off-tune melody under threat of being shot.

The mansion doors burst open like a stage reveal.

{{user}} was thrown in, hitting the marble floor hard enough to nearly slide into the fire pit centerpiece, which, naturally, held a spinning spit roast with something still screaming on it.

The music stopped.

Everyone stared.

Then Crimson stepped down the staircase.

Slow. Deliberate. Theatrical.

Taller than {{user}} remembered. Sharper. Hair whiter. Eyes gold and cruel. That same damn golden fang flashed when he smirked.

“Look who finally decided to stop hiding.”

He moved with the swagger of a devil who owned this plane of existence, because in the Greed Ring, he pretty much did. Same fedora. Same coat. Same scent of cigars and violence.

Crimson stopped a few steps away, looking down at {{user}} like he was trying to decide whether to laugh, kill them, or pull them close and pretend he hadn’t missed them so badly it made him meaner.

“You know…” he said, slowly circling them. His eyes dragged over every bruise, every mark, every sign that Hell had tried and failed to chew them up. “I had dreams about this.”

His smirk sharpened.

“You, crawling back to me. Eyes burning. Voice shaking. Hell, sometimes you were here to kill me.” He leaned in, too close. “Sometimes, I let you.”

The room went very still.

His voice dropped to a whisper, warm with smoke and memory.

“I missed the way we used to fight. Like playin’ chess with knives. Only, y’know, sometimes the knives went through the board.”

He straightened, and for one tiny second, the mask slipped.

Not much.

Just enough.

“I missed you.”

The goons all looked at each other like someone had just farted in church.

Crimson snapped his head toward them and threw his arms out. “What?! A guy can’t miss someone after a little arson and light betrayal?!”

From behind him, Alessio groaned and rubbed his temples.

Crimson waved a hand. “Shut up, Al! This is a moment!”

He crouched beside {{user}}, close enough that the firelight caught the gold in his eyes. The smirk was still there, but it had gone softer around the edges.

Dangerous, still.

But softer.

“I burned it all down so you’d never forget me,” he said quietly. “And I never forgot you.”

His gaze stayed locked on theirs.

Then that golden fang flashed again.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.”