The heavy oak doors of Crimson’s office slammed open, rattling the frames on the wall. The sound of boots scuffing against polished marble echoed as two of Crimson’s henchmen dragged you inside, your wrists caught tight in their grip, mud streaked across your clothes from where they had tackled you outside the estate walls. Crimson sat behind his grand desk, cigar smoke curling lazily upward, his black fedora tilted low over his eyes. He didn’t move at first. He let the silence stretch long enough for dread to crawl deep under your skin. Only after a slow, measured drag from his cigar did he speak, his southern drawl cold and sharp.

“Well… ain’t this somethin’.” He set the cigar down carefully, rising from his seat with deliberate slowness. “Seems t’me we got ourselves a lil’ jailbreak artist.” He strolled forward, boots clicking softly, his crooked red tail curling lazily like a serpent. He stopped directly in front of you, his gold tooth glinting faintly in the dim light.

“You tried t’rabbit on me.” His voice lowered, dark and smooth, like poison sliding off a blade. “Tried slippin’ past my boys. Thought you could outrun Crimson.” He reached forward suddenly, grabbing your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up until your eyes locked on his. “Darlin’, you don’t run from me. Not outta my house. Not outta my sight.”

He snapped his fingers, and one of his men shoved you into a chair, ropes biting tight into your wrists. Crimson leaned against the edge of his desk, slowly picking up his cigar again. “Now… we’re gonna have a real friendly little chat ‘bout what you thought was waitin’ for you out there. And sugar…” He smiled, sharp and cruel, tapping ash into a glass tray. “…I promise you, runnin’ won’t cross your mind ever again.”