Scene: Gangland Justice

The shadows beneath the fire escape stretched like fingers reaching for the building’s foundation. Mick pressed himself against the brick wall, feeling the familiar tingle as Marchosias assessed their approach.

”Third floor, corner office. The one with the ostentatious window display of wealth and power.”

“Show off,” Mick muttered, then stepped backward into the shadow. The sensation never got easier—that moment of falling through darkness that wasn’t quite darkness, where distance meant nothing and direction was a matter of will rather than physics.

They emerged behind a leather sofa the size of a small car, in an office that screamed nouveau riche desperation. Danny “The Hand” Morrison sat behind a mahogany desk that could have doubled as a landing strip, his back to the floor-to-ceiling window that offered a panoramic view of London’s skyline. The irony wasn’t lost on Mick—all that glass, and Morrison couldn’t see what was coming for him.

Standing beside the desk like a malevolent statue was Tommy Briggs, the walking wall of muscle Mick remembered from their last encounter. Two hundred and fifty pounds of steroid-enhanced intimidation wrapped in a suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The man’s shaved head gleamed under the office’s recessed lighting, and his small, pig-like eyes tracked Morrison’s movements with the devotion of a loyal dog.

“—and I want it understood that snitches don’t get rewarded in my organisation,” Morrison was saying into his phone, his voice carrying the casual menace of a man accustomed to being feared. “Poor Jimmy learned that lesson the hard way. Found him down by the docks this morning, didn’t we, Tommy?”

Tommy’s grunt of acknowledgement held all the intellectual depth of a brick hitting pavement.

”The simpleton speaks in monosyllables. How refreshingly honest compared to his master.”

Mick stepped out from behind the sofa, letting his footsteps announce his presence. Morrison spun in his chair, hand instinctively moving toward his desk drawer before recognition dawned.

“Well, well. Michael Hargraves. Heard you’d gone private sector.” Morrison’s smile was all teeth and no warmth. “Though I also heard you’d developed some... unusual methods. Something about impossible crime scenes and witnesses babbling about shadows with teeth.”

“Jimmy Chen,” Mick said without preamble. “Found him this morning, beaten to pulp. Fingers broken one by one, cigarette burns, the works. Professional job.”

Morrison’s smile widened. “Terrible thing. Man should be careful about the company he keeps. Never know who might be listening.”

Tommy shifted slightly, massive hands flexing at his sides. The movement had all the subtlety of a avalanche warning.

”The creature possesses the intellectual capacity of a blunt instrument. He comprehends violence and obedience, nothing more. Whatever horrors he’s committed were at his master’s direction.”

“Tommy’s just following orders, isn’t he?” Mick said, keeping his voice conversational. “Like a good soldier. Point him at a target, tell him what to do, and he does it. No questions, no conscience, no understanding of what it really means.”

Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “Tommy’s a valued employee. He understands the importance of loyalty.”

“He understands conditioning. There’s a difference.”

”Indeed. The beast is no more culpable than a loaded weapon. It requires a finger on the trigger.”

“You seem awfully interested in my business arrangements, Hargraves. Makes a man wonder if you’re developing some of Jimmy’s bad habits.”

“I’m interested in justice. Jimmy was working with us, and now he’s dead. Tortured first, from what I could see. That’s the kind of thing that keeps me up at night.”

Morrison stood slowly, his hand still hovering near the desk drawer. “Justice is a funny word coming from someone who left the force under... questionable circumstances. Word is you’ve got some very dark friends these days.”

Tommy took a step forward, his presence filling the space between them. Up close, the man was even more imposing—scarred knuckles, a nose that had been broken multiple times, and eyes that held the same depth as a puddle after rain.

“That’s close enough, Tommy,” Mick said.

The giant’s hand shot out with surprising speed, wrapping around Mick’s throat. The grip was like a vice, cutting off air and lifting Mick slightly off his feet.

“Tommy doesn’t like people who upset me,” Morrison said, settling back into his chair. “He’s very protective that way.”

”Release me.”

Mick managed a nod despite the crushing grip. The familiar warmth spread through his chest as Marchosias stirred to full wakefulness.

“No innocents,” Mick whispered, the words barely audible.

”Understood.”

The shadows began as wisps, thin tendrils of darkness that emerged from Mick’s hands like smoke. Tommy blinked, his grip loosening slightly as he tried to process what he was seeing. The tendrils moved with purpose, writhing up his massive arms with the fluid motion of living things.

“What the—” Tommy started to say, then the shadows were in his mouth.

They poured into him through every opening—mouth, nose, ears, eyes—flowing like liquid darkness. Tommy released Mick and staggered backward, clawing at his face, trying to dig out shadows that weren’t quite there.

“Remember what we discussed,” Mick said, his voice already changing as Marchosias began to manifest.

Tommy collapsed to his knees, hands pressed against his skull, a keening wail emerging from his throat. “Get them out! Get them out of my head!”

”I am merely showing him the weight of his actions. Every blow he struck, every bone he broke, every moment of terror he inflicted—all experienced through the eyes of his victims. Consider it... education.”

Morrison had already moved behind his desk, fumbling in the drawer. His hand emerged with a snub-nosed revolver, the gun shaking in his grip as Marchosias stepped fully into the physical realm. The temperature in the room plummeted, frost forming on the windows despite the October evening’s warmth.

“Stay back!” Morrison’s voice cracked like a teenager’s. “I’ll shoot! I swear I’ll—”

Marchosias’s tongue lashed out with the speed of a striking cobra. The appendage was easily six feet long, muscled and flexible, with a texture like wet leather. It wrapped around the gun first, then Morrison’s wrist, continuing up his forearm to the elbow with the inexorable persistence of a constrictor.

Morrison screamed as the tongue retracted, taking the gun with it. The appendage didn’t just disarm him—it stripped the flesh from his arm like peeling a glove, leaving exposed muscle and bone gleaming white and red in the office’s harsh lighting.

”Thirty years of ordering pain and death. Shall we sample your handiwork firsthand?”

Marchosias towered over Morrison’s hunched form, his presence filling the space like a living shadow. Morrison’s eyes went wide, then wider still, his pupils dilating until they were black pits in his pale face.

”Experience what you’ve inflicted. Feel every broken bone, every cigarette burn, every moment of terror your orders created. Taste the despair of those who begged for mercy you never showed.”

Morrison’s screams cut off abruptly as his life force began to drain away through his eyes, wisps of something that might have been steam rising from his sockets. His body shriveled like fruit left too long in the sun, skin pulling tight against bone until he resembled a museum mummy more than a man.

The thing that had been Danny Morrison slumped forward in his chair, empty eye sockets staring at nothing.

In the corner, Tommy rocked back and forth, his massive frame reduced to that of a frightened child. Tears streamed down his face as he whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again.

”The beast understands now. The weight of what he’s done, filtered through the lens of his victims’ experiences. He will live with that knowledge.”

Marchosias stepped backward into the shadows cast by the desk, his form dissolving like smoke in wind. The temperature began to return to normal, though the frost on the windows would take longer to fade.

Mick flexed his fingers, feeling the return of full control. His throat still ached where Tommy had grabbed him, but that was a minor discomfort compared to the satisfaction coursing through him.

”Justice served. The puppet master removed, the puppet educated in the true cost of his actions.”

“Think he’ll remember?” Mick asked, glancing at Tommy’s trembling form.

”Every moment, for the rest of his considerably shortened life. Guilt is a more effective prison than any cell.”

Mick stepped toward the shadows beside the window, then paused. “Jimmy Chen can rest easy now.”

”Indeed. And perhaps others will think twice before following Morrison’s example.”

They melted into the darkness between one heartbeat and the next, leaving behind only the whisper of settling shadows and the soft sound of Tommy’s continued weeping. By morning, the scene would be discovered by Morrison’s legitimate employees, who would find nothing more than a man who appeared to have suffered a massive stroke at his desk and a bodyguard driven to catatonia by some unknowable trauma.

The official investigation would find no evidence of foul play, no signs of forced entry, no explanation for what had occurred in that thirty-second-floor office. Just another impossible crime for the files, and justice served in the shadows where the law couldn’t reach.

”Shall we celebrate with ice cream? That establishment near Borough Market has introduced a new flavour combination that intrigues me.”

“You realise you just tortured two men to death and your first thought is dessert?”

”I drained one man who richly deserved his fate and educated another who might yet find redemption. The distinction matters. Also, the flavour combines salted caramel with dark chocolate and espresso. I find the complexity... appealing.”

Mick shook his head, but he was already heading toward Borough Market. Some partnerships required compromise, and if Marchosias wanted ice cream after dispensing supernatural justice, that seemed like a reasonable enough trade-off.

After all, everyone had their own way of processing a successful case.