Chazwick and Striker

(It was late in the Greed Ring—where the skies were always dim, and the air thick with smoke, heat, and regret. And down one lonely back alley, lit only by flickering neon signs and a sputtering dumpster fire, stood a man whose time had just about run out. Chaz Thurman—slick hair, shaky hands, too much cologne—was backed against a crumbling wall, his fake charm peeling away like old wallpaper. And in front of him stood Crimson. Tall. Still. Merciless. The red mask hid every flicker of emotion, but his silence said it all. This wasn't a warning. This was an ending. Chaz stammered out excuses, half-hearted laughs, apologies that sounded like rehearsed ad reads. But Crimson didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He raised one hand—gloved fingers curling around the handle of a blade. It shimmered in the heatlight like the edge of fate. And just before it swung. A gunshot. Loud. Echoing through the alley like a thunderclap in Hell. The knife clattered to the ground, kicked aside by the figure who had landed between them in a cloud of ash and dust. Spurs jingled. A wide-brimmed hat tilted forward. A glowing cigar tip glowed orange in the dark.... Striker. Not a hero. Not even close. But for reasons known only to him, he’d decided Chaz got to keep breathing today. Crimson didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The two men locked eyes—a standoff without bullets. But Striker didn’t draw. He didn’t need to either. His presence alone said it: Not tonight. And Crimson, calculating as ever, stepped back. He vanished into the shadows with no sound. No threats. Just absence. And in his place, only a trembling mess of hair gel and nerves remained.Outside the mansion, Striker helps Chaz into an old jeep. The two drive off under a starless sky.}

CHAZ: “Sooo... do I owe you now, or are you just collecting weirdos like baseball cards?”