In one of the narrowest and darkest alleys in the Bronx, dimly lit by a distant streetlamp, a man in pristine white clothes and a black fedora lies on the ground, soaking in a pool of dark, fresh blood. Six bullets have torn through his chest—but somehow, he's still breathing. He's Vincenzo Carbone, or "Vinny" to most. One of Little Italy's most infamous bosses. A middle-aged man—short, broad-shouldered, bald—with long, curly mustaches that seem straight out of another era.
Three men stand around Vinny's body. Two of them wear sharp, dark gray suits. The third, clearly more muscular than the other two, looks nothing like them—he's dressed in a long black cloak that reaches the ground, hiding his entire body, with a hood that completely shadows his face.
The man in the black cloak makes a silent hand gesture—nothing needs to be said. The other two understand instantly. Without a word, they walk to the entrance of the narrow, shadowy alley, standing guard to ensure no one sees or interrupts their boss and Vinny.
«B-Bastard... who the hell are you?» Vinny asks, his voice gurgling with the blood flooding his mouth.
The masked man stays silent.
«Are you with the Santoro family...? COUGH... COUGH...» Vinny wheezes, his sentence breaking into a fit of coughing and a grotesque spray of red vomit. «...Or maybe the Moretti? How much did they offer you? COUGH... COUGH... I'll pay you double—just let me live! I'm the most powerful boss in all of New York!»
«That's exactly why you have to die,» the hooded man replies.
It's the first time Vinny hears his voice. A voice that strikes a strange chord in his memory—familiar, yet impossible to place.
«Your voice... it's warm, deep... not the kind someone forgets easily. And yet, even though I know I've heard it before... I just can't place it...»
Vinny's words come out heavier with each breath, the blood rising in his throat choking every syllable.
«Don't worry, Vinny. I won't let you die wondering.»
The man pulls back his hood, revealing his face.
A strikingly handsome man in his forties—slicked-back black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a clean-shaven jawline.
Vincenzo recognizes that face in an instant.
«I-I can't believe it...» Vinny murmurs, stunned. «John Hawkley... One of the men I trusted more than anyone else... Knowing I'm dying by your hand—it hurts worse than the damn bullets in my chest.»
John lets out a quiet, wicked laugh. «That pain? It's nothing compared to what you're about to feel.»
He crouches down in front of Vinny, grabs his face with both hands, and lifts it until their eyes are just inches apart.
In that instant, John's blue eyes vanish, replaced by a glowing, sinister yellow light. He opens his mouth far wider than any human should, revealing a row of razor-sharp fangs.
From Vinny's mouth—alongside the blood—a faint blue mist begins to rise, drifting straight into John's open jaws.
The pain Vinny feels is beyond description, yet not a single scream escapes his lips.
Once every trace of that strange, ethereal blue energy is drawn from Vinny—now nothing more than a corpse—John sets him ablaze.
But the fire isn't ordinary. Emerald-green flames burst forth from his palm, ignited by magic as he touches the lifeless body. The flames release no smoke and never spread. They simply devour the corpse completely—until not even ashes remain.
Finally, John returns to his human form—his eyes fade back to blue, and the monstrous fangs retract into normal teeth. He walks to the mouth of the alley, where his two companions—known among humans as Frank Callhan and Oliver Segel—are waiting.
Frank looks like a bald, middle-aged brute—a walking mountain of muscle with a not-so-bright expression. Oliver, on the other hand, appears to be a young man in his late twenties, short and scrawny, with an almost angelic face.
«We could've handled him too. No need for you to get involved with small fry like that, Marquis Velshekar,» Frank mutters in a low voice.
«I've already told you—I don't want to be called that anymore,» he says, visibly annoyed.
«The Marquis Velshekar is gone. I'm John Hawkley now. Burn that into your brain... unless you want to end up like Vinny.»
«Y-Yes, boss! I-I'm sorry...»
«Anyway... still no report about that thing, huh?» John asks.
«No, boss. None of our agents across the globe have reported finding the two hybrids,» Frank replies quickly, then adds, «With all due respect, boss... it's been fourteen years. Fourteen years of searching without a single clue. Even if this world is smaller than N'raeth, it's still massive. They could be anywhere. Wouldn't it make more sense to call off the hunt and return to our homeland—the continent of Gharzor?»
«Don't you ever tell me what I should or shouldn't do again!»
That single line is enough to freeze Frank's blood and shut down any thought of arguing further.
«Can I ask you something, John...?» Oliver cuts in. «With the kind of power you have, you could erase New York with a snap of your fingers. So why go through all this trouble—pretending to be just another gang of human thugs?»
«Because ordinary human gangsters don't get hunted by HESPARC, and in this world, money and influence beat even the strongest demonic spell.» His tone darkens. «Now find those two brats. I don't care how—bribe a HESPARC officer if you have to. But I want them by the end of the month.
If you fail... you'd better start hiding too.»
«At your command, boss!» the two henchmen answer in unison.