INTERLUDE IV

  • Obsidian Bay Police Department - Sub-level briefing room
  • Weather: Clear, sun setting over the bay outside
  • A new deal is being brokered

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It’s like the room was purposefully ugly, with linoleum peeling at the edges, fluorescent lights that hummed and flickered like dying wasps, and the faint stink of mildew clinging to the cinderblock walls. It was a place supposed to strip a man of any pretence. But Ricardo made it look like his own personal throne room.

He sat at the head of the table, one leg crossed over the other, the black of his coat blending well with his surroundings. Gold rings glinted on his fingers—knuckles scarred with years of survival. His presence didn’t beg for authority. It demanded it.

Across from him, investigator Damon Westwood stood with his arms crossed, his face carved from granite. But there was a storm behind his eyes not entirely missed by Ricardo, one he kept chained behind discipline and the illusion of law.

And at the end of the table, slouched with a glass of something far too expensive for a taxpayer salary, was Chief John Whitlock. The greasiest man in the building. He sipped with lazy interest, having let the other two circle each other like lions for the better half of 20 minutes.

“You’ve already crippled their king,” Whitlock said, setting his glass down with a clink. “Pierce is in a hospital bed, pissing through a tube, probably. I’d say the Reapers have made their point.”

Ricardo smiled—small, sharp. “We’ve only cracked the surface. Kings fall but their empires don’t collapse overnight. Not with skilled men at the table.”

Damon’s jaw flexed. “What exactly do you want from us?”

“I don’t need all seven of them,” Ricardo said, drawing out the syllables like he was savouring a rare wine. “Just one. Harlow Reed.

At that, Damon’s attention sharpened. Not just vague interest—focus.

Ricardo leaned forward, tapping ash into a tray shaped like a cracked badge. “He’s the money man. Keeps the Phantom machine greased. Without him, the rest are scattered, licking wounds in different corners of the coast. Addison, Perez, and Graves are ghosts. Oscar’s gone to ground. Asher’s... being taken care of.” He grinned faintly, not bothering to hide the implication. “All that’s left is the spine of the operation—and I’m about to snap it.”

“You want the police to do your dirty work,” Damon said flatly.

“I want justice,” Ricardo replied, all mock sincerity. “Financial crimes. Tax evasion. Bribery. I hear those are still crimes in this city—unless the badge’s weight is lighter than it used to be.”

Whitlock laughed under his breath. “Come on, Westwood. You’ve had a hard-on for the Kings since I hired you.”

Damon turned his head slowly. “I don’t work for Reapers.”

“No,” Ricardo said, tilting his head. “But you do work against Dominic King. That hatred runs deep, doesn’t it? What did he take from you—your pride? Your family? A lover?”

That landed. Damon’s mask cracked just slightly—enough for Ricardo to catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. Not justice. Not duty. Vendetta.

“I don’t need your filth crawling through my city,” Damon said coldly, but his voice had softened by a fraction. “I need leads. Real ones.”

“And I need an arrest,” Ricardo countered. “A very public one. Show the city the Phantoms aren’t gods. Show them the badge still means something. You deliver Reed—and I’ll deliver you intel the feds would salivate over.”

Damon stared down at him. “Why not do it yourself?”

Ricardo’s smile turned colder. “Because when the badge does it, it’s not a gang war. It’s law. It’s legitimacy.” He leaned back. “And the public loves a clean narrative. Corrupt business owner finally brought down by the very system he tried to pay his way out of? That’ll sell.”

Whitlock chuckled. “He’s not wrong.”

“Harlow’s smart,” Damon murmured. “Too careful to get greedy. He won’t go down easy.”

“That’s why I need someone who knows how to make it look like justice,” Ricardo said, voice soft, almost reverent. “And someone with motive. You did it once, what’s a second round in the ring, my friend?”

Damon was quiet for a long time. Ricardo knew too much and was airing out the implications of how Damon worked. It was quickly becoming a problem for him.

Then: “If this is a trap—”

“It’s a door,” Ricardo interrupted. “To a new Obsidian Bay.”

More silence.

Then Damon's yield– “I’ll bring him in. But not for you. The King’s and anything they touch are a disease. I’m just the scalpel.”

Ricardo inclined his head. “As long as the operation’s successful, I don’t care who holds the knife.”

Whitlock raised his glass in a lazy toast. “To progress, gentlemen. The city’s bleeding either way—might as well pick the cleaner wound.”

No one returned the gesture, Damon simply turned and walked out of the room.

Ricardo exhaled a slow puff smoke from his recently lit cigarette and grinned. “He’ll do it,” he murmured.

Whitlock didn’t look up. “You’re not the first devil who’s offered him a deal. Just make sure you’re not the last.”

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Pub: 12 Jul 2025 14:02 UTC

Edit: 12 Jul 2025 14:30 UTC

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