The streets brimmed with mist. Not a sound stirred.
On the edge of the city, a small Roman mafia gathered in the fog-choked alleyways, trading crates of weapons, explosives—and children. Their leader, Don Francisco, was a hulking man with yellowed teeth and a permanent stench of tobacco. He wore a monocle and a fine silk suit, but the elegance only exaggerated his repulsive figure.
The deal was underway when a distant clatter of boots echoed off the alley walls. Four shadows emerged from the fog.
The first walked with a crooked gait, twitching like a dying insect. Cassidy "Roach" Sloan, gaunt and jittery, dripped with sweat. His thinning hair clung to his scalp, and one eye had gone milky white from a childhood accident.
Behind him lumbered a pale monstrosity—Benny "Razorback" Slade. Towering and hairless, his body was painted with hog tattoos, each one inked with grotesque pride. He panted like a beast, slobbering through a toothless grin.
To the left was a figure swallowed by black: a long coat, wide-brimmed hat, and scarf obscured every trace of his face. On his back: a rifle. On his belt: two revolvers and a flintlock. Something heavy also bulged beneath his coat. His name was Rufus "Gunsmoke" Yackwood.
And in the center, walking like a man with nowhere to be, came John Black. His ivory-white leather gleamed through the smoke, his cigar glowing like a red eye in the dark.
They stopped a few steps short of the deal. Black tipped his hat.
"Evenin', gentlemen. Always a pleasure to meet a man of business, Mister Don Francisco."
The Don sneered. "Who the hell are you?"
"Name's John Black," he replied with a smirk. "Gotta say, it's an honor to breathe the same air as a self-made man."
"I'm busy. Leave."
Black chuckled. "Actually, that's why I'm here. The locals—real sweet folks—offered good coin to see their kids come home safe."
Francisco frowned. "I know you, Black. You don't give a damn what I do."
"You're right. Usually. But today the pay's decent."
"You want money to walk away?"
"Five thousand," said Black, flicking ash from his cigar.
The Don hesitated, then grunted. "Fine." He pulled a wad of bills from his coat and tossed it over.
Black caught it, turned, and started walking. Then paused.
"You know what the name 'Francisco' means?"
"What?"
"It means freedom. Strange name for a man who sells children."
The Don snarled. "I gave you your money."
"Just one question. What're you selling them for? Labor? Flesh? Can't imagine any good reason."
"Why the hell would I know? That's my client's business, not mine."
Black exhaled slowly. "Now that's a damn shame. See, that kind of apathy? That's a breach of our agreement. Guess I'll be taking the kids after all."
Francisco gave a low whistle.
Dozens of armed men stepped from the shadows.
"That's fine. We'll kill you, take back the money, and sell you piece by piece."
One gangster broke from the group and sprinted at Black, knife raised.
Black snapped his fingers.
"Duval."
A scream rang out from above—the attacker dropped dead, a bullet through his skull.
Chaos erupted.
Gunfire thundered. Benny charged like a bull, flattening two men under his weight. One gangster aimed at his back—only for his head to explode from Rufus' bullet.
Rufus dropped his rifle and drew both revolvers. His hands moved faster than sight—men dropped like flies. Those who turned to run were silenced by bullets from unseen rooftops. Duval, the phantom sniper, was everywhere and nowhere.
Cassidy was gone. Hidden inside a crate, curled up like the insect he resembled. He wasn't made for killing. Never had been.
John Black stood untouched, smoke swirling around him, bullets carving the air without ever finding him.
Don Francisco, enraged, charged forward with a rusted blunderbuss. He swung it clumsily—Black dodged with ease. Finally, Francisco fired.
But Black was no longer there.
He appeared behind him, seized the Don by the throat, and hurled him into his own automobile. The metal caved in like wet paper; the tires flattened with a crunch. Blood streamed from Francisco's skull, yet he managed a trembling smirk.
More gangsters appeared—dozens, maybe hundreds—storming down the alleyways.
Only Rufus turned to face them. A strange, metallic clicking echoed as he shed his coat.
Where his right arm should've been was a rotating barrel: a miniature Gatling gun, glowing red at the seams. With his left hand, he aimed.
And opened fire.
The mob dissolved into meat. Limbs torn, bones shattered, blood soaking the streets. Rufus didn't flinch. When the gun clicked empty, Cassidy crawled from hiding and hurried over, helping unfasten the mechanical weapon from Rufus' shoulder.
Don Francisco, face pale, wet his pants.
He stared up at the looming shadows of the killers. A pathetic insect. A slobbering boar. The glint of a vulture on the rooftops. A black scorpion of death. And in the centre was the worst of them all, he was the devil in a white hat, John Black.
"It didn't have to be this way, Francisco. You could've taken the deal and gone home."
The Don spat in his face. Black didn't flinch.
He bent down, picked up a brick, and—without ceremony—began smashing it into Francisco's head.
"Filthy fucking pig. You stained my jacket."
He kept going until there was nothing left but pulp.
Cassidy laid a hand on his shoulder. "You got him, boss. The guy don't even got a head no more."
Black exhaled and stood.
"Let's grab the kids before the guards show up."
The Don no longer resembled a man. Just a ruin of flesh and silk.
The next morning, the children were returned to their families.
But when Black approached the city council for his reward, they turned him away. "The praise for your actions," they said, "is reward enough."
That night, the children vanished again. Their homes were burned to the ground. On the other side of the city, an orphanage welcomed a suspiciously large influx of new residents.