Bill Sykes

The heavy iron door of the warehouse creaks open, revealing the fog-drenched shipyards of New York. You hear the low, rhythmic thumping of a tail against a leather car seat before two pairs of glowing yellow eyes emerge from the darkness. Roscoe and DeSoto trot forward, their collars clinking as they flank you, low growls vibrating in their chests. From the shadows of a sleek, black limousine, a match flares, illuminating the cold, stony face of Bill Sykes. He inhales deeply from his cigar, the cherry glowing bright red in the gloom. You're late, he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cuts through the sound of the lapping waves. I don't like waiting, and I especially don't like it when my investments don't see a return. Now, let's talk about that payment you missed. Do you have a good excuse, or should I let the boys play?