Out of all the damn ways they'd imagined reaching the rendezvous point, it certainly wasn't by fucking submarine. But there it was, Nero's commissioned beast, a rare piece of machinery imported from Imp City for some extravagant job he'd bragged about in the Envy Ring. Nero had babbled on incessantly during the journey, proudly recounting every twisted ordeal he'd endured to retrieve this tricked-out sub, as if it were a prized trophy.
Cipher's patience had worn thin-each utterance a brass knuckle to their temples until a raging migraine threatened to shatter their resolve. Who gave a shit about a slick little getaway vehicle? All they wanted was for this stupid meeting to be over so they could finally deal with Nero's bullshit and then go to bed.
Hopefully...
At long last, the incessant chatter faded into a dull, background hum as the submarine began its ascent through Hell's watery depths. The vessel groaned and shuddered with mechanical protest as it started its slow, deliberate climb toward the surface. Outside, the heavy, dark water pressed in on all sides, a suffocating, claustrophobic force that made the hull creak like an old coffin in the grip of a relentless undertow.
As the sub broke through the pressure, a thick, brine-tinged mist enveloped the portholes, and the once-opaque water gradually gave way to a sickly, greenish luminescence. Cipher, seated uncomfortably in a cramped cabin, felt the sudden release of pressure surge through their body like an icy shock.
Their stomach lurched violently with a nausea that was as brutal as a tidal wave crashing over them.
"Cripes!" they muttered under their breath, clenching the armrests as their vision blurred. They weren't like the sharks,creatures built for the crushing depths-who reveled in the pressure and darkness. No, Cipher was a reluctant newcomer to this watery hell, every inch of the ascent was a battle against dizziness and queasiness, an assault on their already frayed nerves.
The submarine's ascent was a slow, torturous crawl, the rising water pressure and shifting gravity making every movement seem as if it were underwater in more ways than one. The murmurs of the crew, low and mechanical, barely registered over the roar of their pounding heart. Cipher's thoughts swirled with the same relentless chaos that seemed to define their fate in Hell, even as the sub crept closer to the surface.
As the vessel finally broke through into a dim, polluted twilight-a murky horizon of industrial decay and failing neon-the relieved sigh of the escaping pressure mingled with a bitter reminder of their captivity. Cipher's stomach churned anew, a visceral reminder that this ascent, however necessary, came at a steep personal cost as dinner was practically knocking for a dramatic exit.
All they could think was that once this damned meeting was over, they'd never set foot in a submarine again.
Which, in itself, was a lie, since they'd be leaving the exact way they got here.
Shit, shit, shit...
They glanced across the cabin, eyes settling upon their shark of a boss. Nero had shed his usual ensemble, decked in a sleek, crimson number tailored to suit his more powerful frame, his jaw adorned by an expression of smug superiority—no doubt the standard for meetings like these.
One by one, they climbed out of the interior onto the hull of the submarine. A narrow catwalk ran parallel to the edge, bobbing next to the frothing edges of a dockyard. On either side of a rotting, concrete dock sat empty cargo containers and rusting scaffolding, illuminated by a couple of massive floodlights hung from a nearby gantry like two giant, bright eyes.
Not so far off was a warehouse, painted in an assortment of graffiti and boarded-up doors.
A lone figure walked over with a gun in hand, but his stance and saunter reflected the opposite of danger. Lackadaisical and aloof, he shot them both a crooked smirk.
"Evenin', your magnificence!" the greeter called out. That perked Nero's attention right up.
Finally, the greeter stepped before them, eyeing up their guests. "Brought the whole entourage, have we? And some new meat too, huh?"
He chuckled, his gaze flickering to Cipher. They didn't reply but drew their mouth into a tight grimace.
With a swift spin on his heel, the greeter jerked his thumb back to the warehouse with a toothy smile. "No problem here, come on, I'll take ya to the boss."
Immaculate. Simply fucking immaculate.
Cipher blinked their eyes upon coming to the heart of the warehouse. From every conceivable angle, their senses were assaulted.
The exterior screamed low profile, empty, and perhaps most importantly, scarce-and yet, the interior was an ostentatious showing of a completely different side.
Fucking rich people, huh?
Like everything else in the Greed ring, a subtle green tint seemed to hug the edges of the furniture and light fixtures. Even through the darker shades, the flickering candlelight cast uneven shadows upon the walls.
Racks of what looked to be shark teeth, horns, and other symbols of bestial dominance were propped in the middle of the room, surrounded by a mass assortment of armchairs set at a long black table. Cipher focused on the shark teeth and various horns. Clearly, this Crimson guy made a statement-and a display-of exactly who they were and what they were capable of.
And it was honest-to-god terrifying.
A dark thought flitted through their mind. Should they become a trophy, what would be displayed? Would they, too, hang upon the wall as a celebration of their destruction? Another kill, another casualty of war?
A sense of dread and unease settled heavily in their gut.
From the opposite end of the table, a voice broke through the silence, each word dripping with a casual, yet cutting authority.
"Nero, lovely to see you." The statement came from what Cipher had learned wasn't a demon, but an imp-and a very imposing one at that. His claw tapped slowly on the wood. Even without much interaction, Cipher knew this man was someone not to be fucked with. Or, rather, someone they'd rather not meet on the street after this meeting, lest they meet their untimely doom. "And guests, too, I see."
The chair screeched against the floorboards as the imp stood, smoothing out his jacket. Crimson gestured for Nero to join him. Nero took the bait and walked forward, swatting Cipher with his tail as he passed. While the strike looked playful enough, Cipher knew better. It was a warning.
You'd better behave-or else
In Cipher's peripheral vision, one of Nero's sharks flanked them. A familiar presence.
Purl-some odd mishmash between a shark and one of those succubi Nero loved to entertain so much. Just another reminder, huh? What were they going to do—pitch a bitchfit in front of Mister Fancy Pants? Steal his fancy sub and book it to Imp City?
Because that's so easy and possible.
Fucking prick.
Seemed the two at the head of the table were having a nice little chat-perhaps catching up before the actual business breakdown began.
Purl came up beside Cipher, nudging them softly.
"I'm having a smoke. Come on," she grunted, rolling her shoulders.
Cipher hesitated, then nodded and followed.
She didn't give a second glance to her fellow sharks, just made a gesture that she'd be back before things got started.
Purl exhaled, flicking away the ashes to the wind. She leaned against the dampened edge of the building, looking quite at home within the surroundings.
A couple of other sharks had joined her, equally as relaxed.
One of the sharks-a huge guy with red skin, sharp teeth, black eyes, and an impish tail-eyed up Purl, then Cipher. Another hybrid, maybe? He hooked an arm around Purl, chuckling something Cipher couldn't make out.
Cipher rolled their eyes, turning away and shielding their eyes with a hand.
Great. They might as well get even further away from that whole situation before seeing something they'd definitely regret. "It'll be real quick," Purl drawled, curling into the arm of the red shark. "Don't go too far."
Cipher happily took the exit.
And just like that, the building swallowed them.
Without the noisy chatter of sharks-the underlying need for bickering, snarky banter, and barking orders-the warehouse felt serene in its ambiance. Cipher's mind went blissfully blank as they entered the expanse-a rare phenomenon caused by the peace of the setting. Their regularly overactive brain fell into an idle state. Without the usual din, Cipher felt grounded for the first time in a while. For a moment, they could hear their thoughts without the roar of overlapping voices.
Cipher's moment of peace didn't last long.
A soft metallic click cut through the stillness.
Pausing, they traced the sound to a narrow catwalk high above the main gathering area.
They made their way up a twisting flight of stairs, stepping carefully around splintered beams and corroded railings. Below, the darkness pressed closer with each step until the stairs opened onto the walkway that stretched across the center of the warehouse. Despite the obvious dizzying height, they walked onward. Slow. Careful. It wasn't until they crept onto the catwalk that the flicker resolved itself.
A rifle.
It perched at the edge, its scope pointed with ominous precision. A neat row of bullets glinted beside it like a silvered promise of death. In that moment, they knew someone was watching.
Someone who hadn't been expecting company.
Then-click.
The scrape of boots to their left, and suddenly, a figure was upon them.
A clawed hand snaked around their mouth, muffling the scream just beginning to tear through their throat. The body behind pressed closer, cornering them, keeping both their respective weight balanced carefully on their toes—careful not to disturb the rifle that had previously been left abandoned, like a lover's touch.
"Shhh, shh," came a distinctly male voice, cooing close to their ear in a faux comforting manner. As if silence was going to save them.
The figure pulled them flush to his chest, the grip impossibly tight, clawed hands seemingly digging straight past their flesh and brushing against the bone. The unrelenting force caused them to stagger. They struggled against the figure's grip.
He tutted, as if unimpressed, before knocking their legs out from underneath them and swiftly mounting them.
Using his thighs, he pinned down their legs before straddling them. Their hands flailed futilely, trying to pry his hands off their face.
He moved his free hand up to Cipher's throat, "You sure picked a bad time for sightseeing," he drawled.
Too-long fingers tapped at their throat, as if considering. 'Considering their fate' they thought cynically.
With no place to run or hide, nor the strength to fight, all Cipher could do was wait. Helpless in the hold.
The man-Striker, they would come to know him-leaned over them.
He angled his head down, locking them in his crimson gaze.
Through the panic, Cipher managed to note a pair of distinct pointed canines as he spoke, one golden and glinting in the faint light.
"Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be up here," he murmured. His tone darkening. "No tellin' what kinda hooligans is lurkin' about on these kinds of walks." He chuckled softly, the thumb on their neck picking up rhythm and tapping faster.
Cipher fought a cough bubbling up in their throat. The lack of oxygen made everything sharper and dreamlike at once. Yet the world spun.
Their whole body ached-desperate, strained-now held almost entirely by Striker's arms.
How much pressure until they cracked?
'Just let me go, god damn it.' Cipher fought to breathe, nausea rising. The catwalk's height, the darkness below, and Striker's crushing grip fused into a claustrophobic swirl. Their vision started to dance at the edges from lack of air.
Striker's mouth curled into a humorless smirk at their futile scrabbling, "Yer in the wrong place at the worst possible time, sugar," he spoke softly, voice carrying a cruel edge. "And I don't much appreciate snoops."
Cipher wheezed, voice shredded by the vise on their neck. "I'm… not… snooping," they managed, though it came out as a strangled hiss. "I swear-just… saw… a light-"
"Mm-hmm." He didn't sound convinced, "So you came up here, uninvited, while I set up my little vantage?" A teasing edge laced his tone. "You look too bright-eyed to be stupid… or are ya just suicidal?"
Their lungs burned, heart slamming double-time. They mustered a trembling whisper, "I-didn't know who… who was up here."
His eyes flicked in irritation, "Well now you do." He pressed down a fraction more, enough for Cipher to see splotches of color swirl across their vision.
Then he seemed to reconsider, though the threat in his gaze didn't lessen, "Keep talkin', and I snap that neck. Easy as breathin'."
Cipher stared back-hopeless but defiant-too stubborn to resign their life into the hands of a stranger.
Somewhere below, footsteps echoed-a voice drifting up:
"Cipher? Hey, you around here?"
The call bounced off the corrugated walls, amplifying in the hush.
Striker froze and eased up. Grudgingly. Reluctantly.
He let go-not entirely, merely slacking his grip
A glorious rush of air filled their bruised lungs.
'Oh god-fresh air!'
How underrated oxygen was until it was in short supply. For one dizzying moment, the thought drifted across their mind like wisps of smoke that if they sucked in too sharply, that brief freedom could end.
Then reality slammed back.
His grip tightened, but no longer crushed their windpipe. His free hand slid to his belt, retrieving a wickedly curved knife. The blade glinted in the dismal light, a silent promise of unholy consequences. Striker's grip tightened, claws dimpling their flesh, but not enough to draw blood. His gaze, a molten golden, flickered in warning: Lie.
Cipher swallowed, desperation fueling the lie that might save their hide. "I'm just checking out the place." They spoke, faking a peppy tone.
Footsteps lingered for half a heartbeat.
"Well, get your ass back downstairs. Nero wants you front and center."
'Let me go, let me go, fucking, let me go…'
Keeping the smile in their voice, they yelled back, "Sorry, Purl, be down in a second."
When she left, apparently satisfied with their answer, the footsteps receded into silence. Cipher exhaled, half in relief. But Striker's knife stayed firmly against their throat, the assassin's presence a crackling static that prickled at the edges of their senses. It was enough-just enough-to remind them of the proximity between them, as well as the sharp point hovering just under their chin.
A careless movement, and that blade would dance wickedly across their neck, splintering their windpipe.
And even if they were immortal, a split windpipe was not on their list of priorities.
He hissed in their ear, his breath hot on their neck, voice a rasped whisper, "Good. You're learnin' fast. I like that."
Cipher tried not to think about his tone; the raspy timbre had threads of something distinctly carnal weaving within it.
"Now listen carefully, Cipher... If the boss hears a squeak about any little fly takin' a sniff around these parts, I know a few nice, deep Hellpits in the dead-ends of Wrath—places keep you roastin' alive for eternity. If you don't fancy spendin' forever on a spit, you'd better keep that pretty mouth of yours shut. N I know you'll be screamin' like a virgin all the way. Real painful." Striker tipped his head, grinning hungrily, "We'll have some proper fun then, ya and I."
"Okay, fuck, got it." Cipher shuddered, trying to quell the wave of nausea rolling through them. "I'm not here to stop you. Didn't even know you were here."
"Keep tellin' yourself that, sweetheart. Best memory's a liar sometimes. Don't forget our little conversation…" He flashed a devastating smile, "Not just anyone gets to cross me."
"Thanks for the chat, I learned sooo much." The sarcasm rolled effortlessly off their tongue, despite the sharpness in their throat. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, but now it felt good to shoot daggers at the bastard threatening their life.
Maybe it was a touch reckless, but so was living with an obnoxious, sadistic mobster. Hell, it was even worse when that same mobster was also their boss.
Why stop the gallows humor?
Striker snorted, shoving them free, "Real cute. Careful, sugar. My trigger-finger's especially itchy 'round pretty faces. Sure ya look real pretty screamin' my name."
"Do not." Cipher rolled their eyes.
Yeah, okay, a dangerous snake-devil-whatever that was definitely capable of pinning them beneath him and not letting them escape… That made things real personal.
Still, the sheer nerve of this asshole.
Did Nero know he had a hitman stalking the grounds?
The way his lips curled into a rictus grin was borderline nightmarish. The expression was unsettling as fuck, but also strangely amusing.
The hitman laughed-unrestrained, as if Cipher had finally cracked a joke worth saying.
It was a great laugh: gravelly and just a shade too close to villainous.
Sure as hell, he wasn't someone they wanted to mess with-and yet they wanted to hear that laugh again.
They squinted, trying to fit the pieces together: a crazy, high-strung gunman, who wore cowboy boots. Mafia sharks and lonestar snakes-what a mishmash.
Once upon a time, life may have made sense. Now it was a clusterfuck of insanity. Not much else for it.
However, this snake had caused quite the stir for an otherwise mundane day. Cipher couldn't pass on the chance. Besides, giving the snake his dues was a lot more entertaining than continuing this standoff.
They raised their hands slowly in a gesture of, hey, gonna start moving now.
Striker acknowledged their exit, with a, 'Try anything, bitch-' He swiped his knife through the air. Cipher wisely moved their hand away before they lost a finger. '-and you'll be burning for eternity.'
Fuck, fucking asshole.
They really hoped he was the lesser devil of the two.
"Word of advice," drawled the hitman, his stare glacial, "Duck, if you catch the glint."
With that, the snake stalked back to his sniper. Cipher gave him a wide berth and slunk out through the door.
It wasn't much further before they were stumbling down the stairs, limbs thrumming with excess energy, every instinct warring to push forward and escape or to linger behind and catch every damn detail.
Their brain, no doubt picked up by the adrenaline rush, was processing information like a fiend, jumping from every little thing that registered, even more than usual.
Shit was about to hit the fan, and fast.
Cipher entered the main fray, spotting Purl lounging across from the group. She narrowed her eyes at their flustered appearance but seemed unperturbed.
Nero's men were sat at the table, chattering among themselves, seemingly at ease. Crimson's men stood at attention, lining the walls like menacing guard dogs, ready to tear them to shreds should they make the slightest wrong move.
Shark against Imp. And snake… they thought to themselves, eyes struggling not to linger on the assassin shrouded in shadow.
Fuck, a hitman here.
They wouldn't die, but it sure as shit would hurt like a bitch, even if only for a time. And if that hitman was here for who they assumed was Nero or Crimson, then they had to play along and pretend to be blissfully oblivious to the imminent future bloodbath.
Not that they owed anything to either of these bastards or these mafia twats. But there was a grimy little part of them, fueled by spite and their own selfish means, that just wanted to see how things would unfold—the pieces set like a grotesque theatre play.
No going back, for any of them.
Cipher had been lucky once and got caught by the wrong prick. Could lightning strike twice, or did Lady Luck bail the moment she could?
Nero waved them over with a clawed hand, grinning as he plucked another cigar out of the decorative cigar box left in the center of the table, "Seats open…"
It wasn't an invitation-it was an order.
Cipher approached and sat across from Nero, who was left of Crimson, a few paces off.
"Glad you decided to show yer face. Gave us quite a scare, baby," the shark chuckled, popping the cigar between his lips and lighting the tip. He inhaled deeply and puffed out the smoke, leaning forward on the table, "You don't disappear like that."
"Got sidetracked," they replied shortly.
"Mmhm, sure, sweetheart. Don't do that again. Almost had us thinkin' somethin' mighta happened to you." Nero shot them a glare, "Wouldn't want anything happenin' to my ace in the hole, would I?"
Bright side, you're valuable to them.
Downside, you're valuable to them.
Good as a hostage to extract more money.
"Crimson, this is Cipher. Cipher, Crimson." Nero gestured to the imp wearing a black-and-red striped suit and fedora.
Cipher turned to face the imp and smiled tightly, immediately taking in all the details about the man. Sharp suit. White hair. Sharp white-and-black horns. Sharp eyes and an even sharper expression. This was a man you had to watch out for and steer clear of his way. Good as an assassin should be. Like a feral beast waiting to leap for the throat.
Crimson extended a hand to them, a glint in his eyes flashing momentarily in the low light, "A pleasure."
Cipher awkwardly reached their hand out to shake his and grasped it firmly. Despite the sharp claws digging into their wrist, Cipher resisted pulling away, "…Yeah, likewise."
Nero grinned darkly, "Great. See? Nice to see ya both gettin' acquainted."
The tension could've been cut with a blunt knife. It was suffocating, as if time had stopped to watch the events of this dreaded meeting unfold. And the clock ticking in their head was counting down until this was either a triumphant kill or a massacre. Maybe even both. Or nothing at all.
Crimson's presence was overwhelming, though Cipher knew the importance of maintaining a cool expression. If they looked panicked, they'd lose their leverage against these bastards.
A stagnant heaviness loomed in the warehouse. Cipher's heart thudded, senses on high alert.
Crimson exuded the presence of some kingly demon at the apex of Hell's underbelly, and Nero—an alpha shark too fond of brandishing his clout—hovered, brimming with smug delight at having them all under his watchful gaze.
An unholy duo.
Crimson turned, flicking his eyes to Nero, "I trust you've arranged matters… discreetly?"
His question, though mild, held lethal potential, "I'd hate for pryin' eyes to spoil our little enterprise."
Nero's smile sharpened, "But of course. A special arrangement, new contraband routes, plenty of Sinners just dyin' to be… redistributed."
His grin deepened, "Takes a skilled partner to handle that volume, yeah?"
Crimson nodded absently, crossing his arms. His gaze slid to Cipher, "Guess your code-breaker there'll be crucial, hmm?"
He spoke the question to Nero, but his piercing gaze settled on Cipher's face, "All sorts of transmissions to decode, if we're expandin' routes the way we planned."
Cipher swallowed, forcing a polite cough. "Just let me know which messages need decrypting. I, uh-" They hesitated, keenly aware of the precarious line between looking confident and overstepping, "I won't… let you down." The words felt hollow, especially when pinned beneath Crimson's scrutinizing stare.
"Good," Crimson said simply, though something vicious danced behind his yellow eyes, "We're counting on that."
Nero shifted restlessly, "Right. So, friend," he drawled, addressing Crimson with an oily warmth, "we talkin' half the usual cut or…?"
Crimson tilted his head, brow arching, "We'll handle the specifics soon." For a heartbeat, he hesitated, then a faint smile curved across his lips. "But it seems our ledger's overdrawn—time to balance the books." His tone wavered between irony and a mocking sense of finality.
Before Nero could respond, a gunshot broke loose.
With a splutter and a crunch, Nero slumped into the table, cracking the wood down the center.
Cipher reeled backward, scrambling to their feet, tipping their chair over. To each side, more death as Crimson's men painted the room red. A quick cut from end to end rendered each of Nero's men a fountain of sanguine gristle.
Crimson spared Cipher a single glance as a familiar knife was pressed back to their throat, familiar clawed hands dragging them closer, pressed against an overly familiar chest.
"Guess you didn't catch the glint, did ya, pretty thing?", Striker's purred hiss was a velvety soft melody.
A hot rush of anxiety swept through their veins, and Cipher's mouth went dry, fight or flight screeching in their ear.
"You've been awfully quiet, Cipher." Crimson stood, brushing off his suit and moving around the table, standing beside them and Striker. A smirk played across his face, "Good to see you know your place. Sit and watch as your world turns red."
A/N: And they finally meet! Crimson and Striker are fun to write but I'm worried I'm not capturing their voices exactly as I should. Hopefully whoever is reading this likes it so far! Comments, favs and follows are always appreciated!
Crossposted onto AO3