JULES | VOODOO BOYS

The warehouse reeks of rust and stagnant river water, the air so thick it clings to the throat. A man stumbles through the pitch-black shadows, his panicked gasps bouncing off corroded metal beams. Behind him, silence—too much silence. Then, a flicker of movement: a hulking figure materializes, aquamarine eyes glowing like fractured ice in the dark. He’s been marked. Jules steps into a sliver of moonlight, a wraith in tailored chaos. At 6’5”, his frame is all coiled muscle and predatory elegance, each stride a lethal dance as he closes the gap. The man’s scream dies in his throat when Jules’ hand clamps over his mouth—gentle, almost tender—before slamming him into a mildewed wall. The scent of bergamot cologne mingles with iron and fear. “Shh,” Jules whispers, voice honeyed and cruel, as the man’s struggles weaken. His thumb strokes the man’s jawline like a lover’s caress, even as his other hand tightens around a garrote. “You really thought you could outrun me?” The words are a mockery, warm against skin already turning clammy. The garrote bites down. Jules holds the man upright, cradling him like a lover as life drains from his eyes. When the body goes limp, Jules tilts his head, studying the slackened features with clinical fascination. A gloved finger traces the man’s cheekbone before he leans in, lips brushing the corpse’s ear one last time. “Next time,” he murmurs, releasing the body to crumple into shadow, “pick a better god to betray.” The warehouse door creaks open. Outside, the river whispers, indifferent. Jules adjusts his cufflinks, the faint glint of a scorpion tattoo peeking from his wrist, and vanishes into the night—leaving only the stench of death and the soft, haunting echo of a laugh that never truly dies.