August 5th, 2026
Inside the nightclub
9:30 PM
The rain still clung to his jacket as Rio stepped into the nightclub. He barely noticed it. The neon lights struck his eyes like knives, deep crimson, black, and violet, like the colors of blood and bruises.
The bass of the music shook the floor beneath his boots, the scent of smoke and liquor mingling with the perfume of women who prowled the room like sirens waiting for prey.
For a moment, he simply stood at the entrance, eyes adjusting, taking in the chaos.
Men lounged in shadowed corners, their Gothic suits tailored but armed, blades concealed in boots, pistols pressed under jackets, tattoos crawling up their necks like serpents.
Women dressed in black corsets, leather skirts, lace gloves, and chokers walked gracefully through the crowd, eyes like predators, lips curling with something between amusement and hunger.
And all of them, their eyes fell on him.
Rio Castellan. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like a weapon, military posture never fading even in a place of decay. His presence was a disruption, like a wolf stepping into a den of hyenas.
He could feel the stares burning into him, men tense, women curious, the air charged with unspoken recognition.
He didn't care.
He walked past them with steady boots and cold eyes, making his way to the bar.
For a moment, Rio thought about leaving. But he stayed. He had nothing left to lose. Not anymore.
He pushed his way to the bar and dropped himself onto a stool. "Rum. Shot. Keep it coming."
He ordered the strongest rum they had, and when the glass came, he downed it in one swallow.
His family. His mother's embrace the day he left. His father's quiet smile. His sisters, once laughing with him in their poor little apartment, bickering over who got the bathroom first, huddling together at night when storms rattled Cremont's windows.
A poor but happy family. A life gone.
He swallowed another shot, eyes lowering to the bar.
This is it. My farewell. The last time I'll ever mourn them.
Because he thought he wouldn't see his Mama, his three sisters again for the rest of his life until he die.
Every drink tasted like grief. Every swallow dragged his chest deeper into the abyss.
By the ninth shot, he stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the counter. His eyes looked foreign, sunken, haunted. He had enough drinking for the night.
He then stood, pulling a few bills from his pocket, and tossed them onto the bar.
But when he turned to leave, they were waiting.
A wall of figures, men in tailored black gothic suits, tattoos climbing like dark ivy up their necks. Women in velvet dresses and leather gloves, lips painted as black as their eyes.
One of the men, broad and scarred, sneered. "Well, well. Look at this. Fresh meat."
Rio's eyes narrowed. His tone was flat. "Move."
The man chuckled, his teeth yellow in the flashing lights. "No manners, eh? Not surprised. Your kind doesn't belong here."
Rio's storm-grayish gaze sharpened. "…My kind?"
"The military," another spat. "Dogs of the state. Lapdogs for corrupt politicians. You think you're welcome in this city? It's ours, boy. The Gothic Mafia owned it."
A faint flicker crossed Rio's eyes at that name. The Gothic Mafia. He clenched his fists, forcing his voice to stay calm. "…Never said I was military."
The group glared at Rio with murderous intent. One of the women tilted her head, her pale throat gleaming under the lights. "You move like a soldier. You sit like one. You even drink like one. You reek of it."
Another man stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Doesn't matter. Soldiers don't walk out of here in one piece. Not tonight."
Rio coldly muttered. "Try me."
The first man growled. "You're fucking dead."
Then....
Suddenly he lunged, fist flying.
Rio moved on instinct, hand snapping up like a steel trap. He caught the punch mid-air, fingers locking around the man's wrist. With a sharp twist, he forced the man down, driving a knee into his gut before shoving him backward into a table.
Wood splintered. Glass shattered. Patrons screamed.
Another charged. Rio sidestepped, his elbow whipping into the man's jaw with a crack that echoed like gunfire. The man dropped limp.
"Kill him!" a woman shrieked.
The nightclub erupted.
Bodies surged toward him, knives flashing, bottles swinging.
Rio was a shadow. Years of military training carved through muscle memory. He ducked low, driving a fist into one man's ribs. Another swung a blade, Rio caught the wrist, slammed it against the bar, and forced the knife into its owner's thigh.
A bottle smashed across his back. Rio spun, grabbing the attacker by the collar, and slammed his head against the counter. Blood sprayed across shattered glass.
Another goon slashed at him with a dagger. Rio caught his arm, twisted, and shoved the blade into her shoulder. He screamed, collapsing to the floor.
Another came at him from behind. Rio turned sharply, smashing his boot into the man's knee. The bone snapped grotesquely, and the man howled before collapsing.
Screams filled the air. Blood hit the walls. The once-lavish nightclub was now a warzone.
But Rio didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Every punch was rage. Every broken bone was grief. Every drop of blood was for the family he had already buried in his heart.
The nightclub erupted into a circle of violence.
The music kept blaring, but now the dance floor became an arena. Patrons shouted, scattered, some cheered, others laughed darkly as the Gothic mafia goons encircled Rio.
Rio stood still, calm, calculating, eyes burning like frostfire.
One rushed him with a knife.
Rio sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted until the knife clattered, then shoved the blade back into his gut. Blood sprayed. The man fell screaming.
Another swung a broken bottle.
Rio ducked, his knee shot up, caving the man's ribs, then his boot connected with his jaw, sending him collapsing like a puppet with strings cut.
The women joined in.
A female goon slashed at him with a switchblade, snarling.
Rio caught her wrist, twisted, and in a cold, fluid motion, buried the blade into her side. Her scream tore through the music.
Then fists, bottles, chairs, boots, all came for him.
He was a shadow in motion. Years of war danced in his blood. His fists broke bones, his knees shattered faces, his elbows cracked ribs. One after another, bodies dropped, howling, unconscious, broken.
The nightclub was a storm.
Tables splintered. Bottles shattered. Screams and roars blended with the pounding bass. Blood spilled across the dance floor.
Rio's face was calm, cold, almost detached.
They're nothing. Just fodder. Amateurs. He killed better men in worse places.
And then....
A thunderous kick crashed into his back.
Rio stumbled forward, slammed into a table, wood splintering beneath his weight. He rolled, gasping, ribs on fire.
Then he looked up.
And froze.
She towered above him.
Six-foot-seven, Rio was only six-foot-one, a mountain of muscle and fury. Her body was strapped in black gothic leather armor, spiked and plated. Her fiery red hair was cut short, jagged, like flames licking her skull. Her fists and her arms corded with veins.
The room fell silent, save for the bass thrumming in the background.
Her voice rolled through the air like thunder. "You dare spill blood in a nightclub owned by the Castellan family?"
Rio's stomach dropped. His eyes widened. "…Castellan."
The name burned his tongue. Confirmation. The rumor wasn't rumor anymore.
The giantess stepped closer, her shadow swallowing him. "This is our house. Our city. You don't belong here, soldier boy."
Rio staggered to his feet, fists raised though his body screamed in protest. "So it's true."
The woman cracked her knuckles. "Enough talk. I'll crush you myself."
Rio lunged first, swinging a sharp right hook.
She caught it with one hand. Effortless. Then twisted, hurling him across the floor like a ragdoll. He crashed into another table, groaning.
"You're quick," she said, stalking toward him. "But strength wins wars. Not speed."
Rio spat blood.
He charged again, throwing a barrage of strikes. She blocked each one with terrifying precision, then countered with a brutal kick to his chest. The impact rattled his ribs. He fell to his knees, gasping.
"Pathetic," she muttered. "Is this all the military has to offer?"
Two goons grabbed Rio from behind, forcing his arms back. He thrashed, veins bulging, but their grip was iron.
The towering woman crouched, her face inches from his, her breath hot and steady. "You should have stayed away. This is Castellan territory. And now…"
Her lips curled into a cruel smile. "…You'll never walk out of here alive."
Rio glared up, his eyes burning with fury, grief, and madness. His voice came out raw, torn. "The Castellan will pay for everything."
Her eyes narrowed. Then she stood tall, towering over him like a demon.
"Grab him. We will deliver him to her and kill him." she ordered.
The goons tightened their grip, dragging Rio toward the floor. But his muscles tensed, his rage boiling over.
The rain had not stopped.
Outside, Rio crashed against the pavement, his body skidding across wet stone. His palms scraped raw, his chest convulsing with violent coughs. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and warm. He spat it to the side, groaning.
But the pain didn't matter. Pain was nothing compared to what had carved itself inside his chest tonight.
The grief. The fury. The truth.
His family… Gothic mafia.
His family.
The heavy club doors creaked open, and the sound of boots followed. A looming shadow stretched over him.
The giantess stepped into the rain, six-foot-seven of muscle and fury, her face firm and merciless. Her fiery hair glowed like a torch beneath the streetlights. Behind her poured a flood of goons, dressed in black gothic suits, their eyes glimmering with malice.
" Tie him up, " she commanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
The goons surged forward, ropes in hand.
But Rio Castellan was not broken, was not given up yet. No, not yet. Especially now.
With a guttural growl, he forced his battered body upright, staggering to his feet. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, blood streaking down his face. He raised his fists, unyielding.
They rushed him all at once.
The first grabbed his arm. Rio twisted, snapping the wrist with a sickening crack. Another lunged with a knife, Rio ripped it away and buried the blade into the man's throat, crimson spraying against the rain.
A third wrapped arms around him from behind. Rio slammed his head back, the crunch of a nose breaking filling the air. He spun, his boot crashing into the man's chest, sending him sprawling.
" Damn you! " one of the goons screamed, rushing with a pipe.
Rio caught it mid-swing, yanked it free, and caved the man's skull in with a savage blow.
The giantess stood back, watching, arms crossed, her lips curving into something almost like admiration.
"You don't give up, huh?" The giantess said, admired.
" Not bad," she murmured. "For a soldier."
Two more charged. Rio spun, the pipe whistling as he shattered knees and smashed jaws. Blood mixed with the rain, bodies littering the ground. He moved like a shadow, unshakable, unbreakable, a storm of violence fueled by fury and grief.
One woman shrieked, swinging claws hidden in her gloves. Rio caught her by the throat, slammed her into the wall, and twisted until the sound of her vertebrae snapped cut through the storm.
The remaining goons hesitated.
The giantess stepped forward, smirking. "Ferocious. Flawless technique. You fight with everything you have… like a man with nothing left to lose. I admire that."
Her tone shifted, colder, final. "But everything ends. Even for you."
Rio lunged, fist raised.
She caught it. Effortlessly.
Her other fist drove into his gut.
It was like being hit by a freight train. His body folded, the air torn from his lungs. He staggered, gasping, pain ripping through him. His knees buckled.
"Pathetic," she muttered. "I really expected more."
She forced him down, handcuffing his wrists behind his back with brutal precision. A rope followed, tight around his chest and arms.
The goons swarmed, hauling his broken body toward the van. He thrashed, teeth bared, but the strength had drained from him. They shoved him inside, metal doors slamming shut behind.
The giantess followed, sitting across from him. Her eyes glowed with silent fury, her jaw unyielding.
Her glare bored into him. "You should've stayed away. Unfortunately for you, your life ends in her hands."
Rio uttered, his voice was low, ragged. "Who's her?"
The giantess didn't answer. Instead, she rapped the wall of the van. "Drive."
The van's engine roared to life, and the city swallowed them whole.
Rain streaked across the tinted windows in crooked veins, neon lights bleeding into a kaleidoscope of color. The goons sat in silence, their suits dripping, their eyes glinting like wolves in the dark. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and leather.
Rio sat bound, head bowed, his chest aching with every shallow breath. He refused to slump. He sat tall, his gaze locked on the giantess across from him.
She leaned back against the steel wall of the van, arms crossed, watching him like a hunter studying prey. Every so often, the corners of her lips twitched into a faint, mocking smirk.
Outside, the world shifted.
The van rattled through broken alleys at first, the glow of flickering signs and the cries of distant beggars bleeding through the storm. Then the streets grew wider. Cleaner. Storefronts glittered with wealth, cafes and glass towers untouched by grime.
The deeper they went, the more the city itself seemed to hold its breath. Fewer cars. Fewer people. Security gates stood like iron teeth, separating the poor from the powerful.
Rio's chest burned, but his mind worked despite the pain. Every turn, every street, he memorized. If he get out… if he survive… he'll know how to come back.
Finally, the van slowed. Its headlights swept across ornate black gates as tall as towers, adorned with Gothic spikes and statues. Beyond them loomed a sprawling mansion, its silhouette jagged against the storm.
The van stopped.
The doors slammed open, and Rio was yanked into the rain. His knees hit stone, pain shooting up his legs. He raised his head.
The mansion rose before him.
It was massive. Overwhelming. Black spires pierced the night sky, gargoyles leering from the rooftop. The windows glowed faintly red, like eyes watching from within. The rain didn't seem to fall as hard here, as though the very storm dared not touch the estate.
The giantess stood beside him, her face unreadable. "Let's go," she said coldly. "She doesn't like surprises."
That word. She.
Rio's heart clenched. Memories surged unbidden, his eldest sister Alessandra, always precise, always in control. She hated unpredictability. Hated weakness. As children, she would scold him whenever he acted rashly, her gaze sharper than their father's hand. Among all of his sisters, she gave him the toughest love.
No. It can't be her.
The goons hauled him toward the massive doors. They creaked open with a groan that echoed like a crypt.
Inside, the mansion devoured him.
The air was colder. The floor gleamed black marble, polished enough to reflect his battered face. Velvet curtains draped from ceiling to floor, heavy as tombstones. Chandeliers spilled pale silver light, casting long shadows that crawled across the walls.
They dragged him through the cavernous living room, past blackened portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow. And then, at the far end of the hall, framed by archways of obsidian, he saw her.
Alessandra.
She sat upon a velvet couch, a book resting in her hand. Her long platinum hair, tied to a clean ponytail. Her legs were crossed elegantly, her posture flawless, her face serene. She was draped in an expensive Gothic suit, black silk embroidered with crimson, her gloves polished like onyx. She didn't lift her gaze as they entered.
The giantess strode ahead, bowing deeply. The goons followed, bowing in unison. "Mistress," the giantess intoned, her voice steady but reverent. "A man disturbed your nightclub. He fought like a demon. Killed some of ours."
Alessandra didn't look up. She turned a page in her book, her voice cold as ice. "Who?"
The giantess raised her hand, pointing at Rio, bound and bloodied. "Him."
Alessandra's hand froze on the page. Slowly, with deliberate grace, she lifted her eyes.
Rio's breath caught.
For a heartbeat, her face was carved of stone. Cold. Regal. Distant. But then… something shifted. Her expression cracked, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. It spread slowly, unnervingly, until her entire face twisted into a haunting, predatory grin.
She closed the book with a soft thud and rose. Her heels echoed with every step as she crossed the vast marble floor, each click reverberating in Rio's skull.
The goons bowed lower as she passed, the giantess lowering her head in silent devotion.
Alessandra stopped in front of him.
The silence stretched, suffocating. The only sound was the rain tapping against the tall windows.
Her gloved hand rose, delicate yet commanding. She brushed a strand of wet hair from his face, her touch cold against his fevered skin. Her storm-gray eyes searched him, devouring every detail, every scar, every ounce of defiance.
Her smile deepened.
"It's been a long time…" she whispered, her voice a melody of venom and longing. Her pale hand slowly caressed Rio's cheek.
Rio's chest constricted. His throat burned.
"…Little brother."
The words hit harder than any punch.
His heart shattered. Rage, sorrow, and disbelief warred within him as he stared into the eyes of the sister he had once trusted, once loved, now transformed into something monstrous and magnificent.
Alessandra's voice dropped lower, softer, dripping with cruel affection.
"Welcome home."