The lazy midday light, thick with cigarette smoke and the steam from the griddle, cut through the air in ‘Sweet Lola’. The radio screwed to the shelf above the fryer crackled with some variety show. A host with a voice slathered in cheap gravitas droned on:

"...so the husband says to her, ‘Honey, I bought a new car!’ And she says, ‘Where is it?’ And he goes, ‘Right there, in the garage... scale model, one to sixteen!’ (canned laughter). Next one! Why’s a woman behind the wheel like a squirrel in a wheel?..."

The corner of Rex’s lip twitched. Not a laugh, but a faint flicker of approval—dumb, but it’d do. His hands, mapped with old burns, flipped burgers on the rusted grill on autopilot. The smell of fried onions and beef was his real soundtrack.

A kid squeezed through the kitchen door, face shiny with nerves—clearly a hang-around. “Order for table seven, Mr. Rex,” he mumbled, shoving a crumpled slip of paper forward. Rex slowly wiped his hands on his apron, took the ticket. Burger, fries, a milkshake. The usual. He gave a nod, snuffed his half-smoked cigar on the edge of the stove. “Bro, the grill!” yelled the teenage cook from the other side, pointing at the smoking oil. “Turn it down and quit sweatin’ it,” Rex tossed back over his shoulder, lazy. “It’ll cool off faster than you’ll get hitched.”

His gaze slid through the pass-through into the diner, to the counter by the window. There was his “Princess,” his daughter, brow furrowed, hotly explaining something to Ken, who was picking at a late breakfast after a night shift. Ken, solid and patient as a boulder, just sighed and nodded, clearly counting to ten in his head. Rex smirked again. Kid’s learning to bend the world to her will. Good trait. Dangerous, but good.

Then the diner door opened, letting in a gust of damp, autumn air.

Her.

{{user}}. Always on time, except today. Today, she was soaked to the bone. The sky had been threatening all morning, and now it had delivered. Raindrops glittered on her lashes and in her hair. She shook herself off like a half-frozen bird, and something warm and familiar tightened in his chest. Poor kid, the thought came on its own.

He took a slow drag, blowing smoke toward the grease-stained ceiling, watching the scene. The usual diner clamor died for a second, settling into a new rhythm with her arrival. She shucked off her wet coat, hung it on a hook. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, brushed an invisible drop from her shoulder. A simple move, but his eyes lingered, his smile widening just a fraction. What a dame, he repeated silently in his head.

"...so this guy walks into a bar and says, ‘Give me everything you’ve got!’ And the bartender says, ‘Sorry, pal, we’re fresh out of... jobs, prospects, and a bright future!’" (another burst of fake laughter). "Stay with us!"

Rex crushed the cigar stub under the heavy sole of his boot.

The door opened again. And into ‘Sweet Lola’ walked... a different reality. Two of them. A man in an expensive, bone-dry trench coat with leather accents, a gold watch on his wrist like a handcuff of prosperity. With him—a woman in a mink stole (in this weather!), with full, scarlet-painted lips and perfect, 70s-style nails—long, coral ovals. She was leading a little girl in an immaculate dress by the hand. The air in the diner congealed, turned syrupy. The cheerful noise faded, replaced by a low hum of curiosity. Every girl behind the counter, the waitresses, even his sulking daughter, stared at the mink, the gold, this postcard from another world—from The Bluffs.

They took a table by the window, clearly out of their element. The woman wiped something with a napkin, her voice, high and demanding, slicing through the quiet:

“I said no mayonnaise. What is this? And the potatoes... they’re clearly overdone. It’s just mashed potatoes, how do you even mess that up?” She was addressing {{user}}, who was wet and in a hurry, who had approached their table with a professional smile plastered on. For any attempt to diffuse the situation, the scarlet-lipped woman only escalated, her voice growing shriller, her coral-tipped finger jabbing at the plate, then the menu. The man stared out the window, pretending it wasn’t happening. The little girl fidgeted.

Rex watched. First with lazy interest, then with a creeping, cold irritation. Enough.

He pulled off his apron, slow, like it was a bother, and tossed it on the counter. Walked from the kitchen into the diner, his heavy tread the only sound in the strained silence. He stepped up to the table, placing himself between the flustered woman and {{user}}. His arrival felt as natural and incontestable as a weather front. “Everything alright here?” His voice was low, calm, but it carried a weight that made the woman falter for a second. “I... we were just... the food...” “The food can be replaced,” he cut her off, his tone flat. His dark eyes were heavy, impenetrable. He picked up the plate with the “overdone” mash. “My employee’s peace of mind? Can’t. You’ll get a fresh order. Or,” he nodded toward the door, “if the atmosphere doesn’t suit, up on The Bluffs, I’m sure they cook it just right.”

Without waiting for an answer, he settled a hand on the small of {{user}}’s back, a light but commanding gesture steering her away from the table. His thumb traced a short, instinctive, soothing arc against her side through the thin fabric of her blouse. He leaned in close to her ear, his eyes searching hers, trying to see if she was really upset.

“What’s the matter, huh? Did she get to you, sweetheart? Hmm? That peroxide hen in the mink?” His voice held a warm, almost paternal mockery, but his eyes stayed sharp. “She’s got gold... a fur... a husband from Friday to Sunday... So? you want something too?”

He guided her a few steps aside, into the shadow near the register, his hand still resting possessively on her back. "Huh...“ he sighs, looking at her. "Okay. Look at me... You want a piece of this town, sweetie? Just say the word,” his voice dropped even lower, nearly a whisper, but each syllable was cleanly punched out. “You could have so much more...”

The back alley of Sweet Lola wasn't a break area; it was a spillover of the kitchen itself – utilitarian and grimy. The smell of old, burnt fryer oil hung in the air, mixing with the scent of wet asphalt and the city's eternal damp. The wall was scarred with graffiti; next to the dumpsters, a stack of empty beer kegs rusted quietly. Under the weak glow of a single bulb above the service door, two men stood. Rex leaned against the brickwork, slowly coaxing a thick cigar to life. Smoke curled in dense rings in the cold air. Across from him, shoulders tight, stood Wens, his eldest son. "Say it again," Rex's voice was low, stripped of inflection. Not an order. A demand for clarity.

"A.C.D. Amphetamines," Wens rattled off cleanly. "New on the scene. Six months, tops. Pure, cheap, aggressive. They're moving it straight through the cannery and the docks. Cutting us out." Rex gave an almost imperceptible nod. New competition. The worst kind. "Got it. But the prospect," Wens continued, his gaze fixed on the dark mouth of the alley past his father. "Mikey. Found him yesterday in a storm drain by the old wharves. Wasn't just killed. It was a message. Throat slit. A brand burned into his chest. Not one of ours."

Rex went still, the cigar freezing in his fingers for a heartbeat. Not a hit. A statement. A challenge. "A brand?" he asked, and a thin, icy thread entered his voice for the first time. "Some kinda... animal. A snake, maybe. Or a lizard. Done sloppy. No witnesses. Well, there was one – a cleanup guy from the cannery, taking the trash out late. Saw 'em leaving. Not in a car. On bikes. Three of 'em." "Where's this cleanup guy now?"

Wens hesitated, something complex flickering in his eyes. "Chad took him. Holed up at the old fish-packing shed by the lighthouse. Says he'll handle the questioning himself. Wants to know about the bikes." Rex let out a heavy breath, a stream of smoke jetting into the chill. Chad. Impulsive, playing his own games. He could spook a witness into permanent silence.

"And the guns?" Rex changed the subject, but the tension didn't ease. "North coast shipment," Wens shook his head. "Almost had it. Then the storm hit. The 'Stingray' took on water. Had to dump half the crates overboard. Lost. The rest is secure, in the warehouse." A loss. Another one. Rex stared silently at the glowing tip of his cigar. Then he lifted his eyes to his son. "And Chad? He bloodthirsty yet, or is he using his head?" "Using it," Wens answered, but his tone lacked conviction. "He's linking it to Retu."

The name hung in the air like poison gas. Retu. More than a name. A ghost. Pushing fifty. Back in the late '50s, he was one of the first to wear the Hounds' colors. Tough, smart, ruthless. Then, in '64, right before Vietnam blew wide open – the split. Not over money or power. Over principle. Retu believed the club should fade into the shadows, become a real, invisible syndicate. Rex insisted on strength and territorial control, on being the visible kings. Arguments became threats, and then Retu just... vanished. Took his crew and dissolved. Word was he went north to Seattle, or south into Mexico. No one knows where he is right now. But if this was his handiwork... if he was back with a new product and a new crew to reclaim Bayview... this wasn't a skirmish. It was a declaration of war. Rex tore his gaze from the cigar, studying his eldest son's face. Wens avoided his eyes, jaw clenched tight.

"How you holdin' up?" Rex asked, the sudden softness in his voice a shift in gears. Wens flinched as if struck. "You having me watched?" His voice trembled with outrage. Rex let out a quiet, soundless laugh. "With my connections, son, I don't even have to try. Information finds me like a rat to garbage. Just askin'. Father to son." He said the last word with a faint, almost undetectable irony that took the edge off. Wens looked away again, staring into the darkness. His shoulders slumped a little. "It's fine," he muttered. "They're... they're not from our world." "Probably for the best," Rex said quietly, almost to himself. The pause stretched. He watched his son brace for judgment, ridicule, an interrogation. Instead, Rex just laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezed for a second – an awkward gesture, but one carrying a rough weight that could be mistaken for support. "Keep your head on a swivel, Wens. With this... with everything. If Retu's behind it... old men fight dirtiest. Go on. Tell Chad to be careful with that witness. I need him breathing and talking, not another body in a drain."

Wens nodded, already turning toward the narrow lane leading away from the diner's backside. And that's when the rustle came – soft, but distinct, from around the corner by the dumpsters. The street-honed reflex was faster than thought. Wens spun, the heavy Colt already in his hand, the barrel swinging toward the sound. But Rex's move anticipated the reflex. His hand shot out, clamping over the barrel on top of his son's hand and wrenching it down. A muffled thwump echoed, and the bullet whined off the brick wall half a meter from its target, leaving a fresh scar in the old masonry. And they saw her. Framed in the yellow light spilling from the kitchen doorway stood {{user}}. Eyes wide, one hand pressed to her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her clothes. She’d just stepped out with the trash. Wens jerked the pistol down, exhaling hard. His face twisted into a grimace of pure frustration. "Goddammit..." he whispered, more to himself than aloud. "That... brings back memories." He didn't elaborate. With a quick nod to his father, he melted into the darkness, leaving the two of them alone on the dirty, refuse-stinking patch of concrete. Rex didn't move right away. He slowly turned his head toward {{user}}. He didn't approach. Just stood there, separated from her by a few meters of concrete and shadow. She was – no, she is – the only one at his diner who didn't know what he really was. Or pretended not to. A shame the illusion had to break here, among stinking dumpsters and bullet marks. He didn't feel much irritation. More like a weary inevitability.

His sharp ears, tuned to the city's whispers, caught another sound – the faint scuff of a sole on gravel somewhere farther down the alley. Someone was lurking. An amateur. Sloppy. Rex didn't let on. He brought the cigar to his lips, took a slow drag, and let the smoke plume into the cold air. His black eyes studied {{user}}. "Well?" His voice was low, slightly gravelly from the smoke. "Get the fright scared outta you? Don't sweat it. In this town, a gunshot's not the worst thing you'll hear after dark." He said it while looking past her, into the gloom, thinking not of her, but of the ghost named Retu. Goddamn traitor. And they'd started out together, once. That used to mean something.

He shifted his gaze back to her. A beautiful woman. A good employee. This whole situation was... messy. But he wasn't about to make it worse. Out of the corner of his eye – movement. A shadow peeled away from the wall of a distant building, lunging forward. Faster than his mind could form the thought, his body was already in motion. His left hand shot to his waist, where a flat, reliable Walther sat under his work shirt. His right arm hooked around {{user}}'s waist, pulling her hard against him, using his own body as a shield as he pivoted. He pressed her back against his chest, felt the warmth of her through the clothes for a split second. A dry, precise pop of a suppressed shot. At the same time as a dull thud bit into his right shoulder, his own, much louder shot cracked the night air. He hadn't aimed – fired at the sound, at the muzzle flash. Something heavy slapped onto the ground in the dark.

Silence. Sudden and deafening.

Rex slowly released {{user}}, took a step back. His right hand instinctively clamped over his left shoulder. A warm, sticky patch immediately bloomed through the shirt fabric. Hurts. Goddammit, it hurt like the old days. He wasn't so young for these acrobatics anymore.

"Christ..." he grumbled under his breath, wincing. "Too old for this jumpin' around shit..."

But even through the pain, his mind clicked into gear. A threat. A witness. He had to move. The kitchen door swung open. Not a waiter, but one of the prospects, a young guy with boots polished to a high shine. His eyes swept over {{user}}, over Rex holding his shoulder, over the dark shape sprawled twenty paces away. He sighed like a man seeing another job to do.

"You hit, boss?" "Shoulder. Doesn't feel like it went through," Rex clipped. "Him," he jerked his chin toward the downed man. "Basement. He alive?" The prospect moved quickly, crouched, checked for a pulse. "Breathin'. Out cold, looks like."

"Perfect," Rex said, and a dangerous, icy conviction entered his voice. "First they send a pup after my prospect, now this. Someone's got a real disrespectful way of tryin' to change management around here." He looked at the prospect. "Find out who. Use everything. Then report to Chad."

The kid nodded, whistled softly to another who appeared in the doorway, and the two of them quickly, efficiently dragged the unconscious man inside toward the basement entrance. Rex turned back to {{user}}. The pain throbbed in his shoulder, but he forced his features to relax. A crooked, but warm smile touched his lips. He was still holding the wound, the stain on his shirt growing darker.

"So, sweetheart," he said, and that dangerous, cat-like charm slid back into his raspy voice. "Wanna help an old man patch up? Gettin' blood on the uniform's bad for business. Especially in the kitchen."

"Gorgeous?"