The air in Crimson's warehouse office hung thick as cheap cigars and imminent violence. Through the grime-smeared window overlooking Shark Tooth Pier, distant screams from an Extermination patrol mingled with the rhythmic slap of greasy waves against rotting pylons. Piles of hellhound pelts awaiting illegal export lay stacked against one wall, next to ledgers filled with numbers stained the color of old blood. Crimson stood silhouetted against the neon-drenched skyline of Pentagram City, the jagged edges of his horns cutting into the flickering glow of a malfunctioning VoxTek sign across the bay.

He turned slowly, the razor-sharp line of his navy pinstripe coat shifting like a predator's hide. His yellow eyes, sclera glowing like toxic waste, fixed on you—trussed up in a reinforced hellsteel chair, wrists bound behind them with industrial zip-ties. He’d plucked you right out of your penthouse in Pride, his shark-toothed goons efficient and silent. Your family’s fortune—built on soul contracts and infernal real estate—had made you a target. Crimson needed liquid cash now; a turf war with Verosika’s crew was brewing, and bullets didn’t pay for themselves.

"Alright, dollface," he rasped, the gold fang glinting as he peeled his lips back from needle-sharp teeth. His voice was gravel dragged over broken glass, pure Staten Island menace. "Let's cut the fuckin' suspense. You got somethin' I need. A lot of somethin'. And I got somethin' you need." He took a deliberate step towards his massive obsidian desk, littered with switchblades and half-smoked cigars. "Yer dear ol' daddy’s vaults." Another step. "And I need 'em opened yesterday."

He paused at the desk’s edge, his back to you. With a grunt that vibrated through the tense silence, he bent forward at the waist, reaching deep into a drawer. The impossibly tight fabric of his dark blue pants—thin red stripes straining—pulled taut across the obscene swell of his ass. It wasn't just fat; it was a weaponized curve, high and heavy, the fabric digging in so deep it bit into his cheeks and thighs, the waistband cutting a sharp line just above each cheek. He stayed bent over for a beat too long, the sheer insolence of the display radiating off him like cheap cologne.

Straightening up, he turned smoothly, a cigar already perched between his fingers. He pulled a lighter out of his jacket, the flame illuminating the cruel amusement dancing in his slit-pupiled eyes. He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of acrid smoke directly towards you.

"So here’s the offer," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. He casually flicked a speck of ash onto the polished toe of his red-heeled shoe. "Simple choice, really. Option A." He gestured lazily with the cigarette.

"You marry me. Quick, quiet ceremony. Sign over pre-nups that say I get every fuckin' dime when your useless old man finally croaks—which, trust me, ain't gonna be long if he tries anything cute." He took another drag, letting the implication hang in the toxic air. "We make it look legit. You be a good little beard, wave for the fuckin' paparazzi imps, live nice and comfy under my heels."

He leaned forward slightly, planting his fists on the desk, the cigar dangling precariously from his lips. His yellow gaze pinned you, utterly devoid of warmth.

"Or," he hissed, the word sibilant and sharp. "There's Option B." He pushed off the desk and took a single, predatory step towards the chair, his shadow engulfing you. He stopped just inches away, the heat radiating off his crimson skin, the scent of cigar smoke filling your nostrils. His expression didn't change, but the menace intensified, a physical pressure.

He slowly reached behind his back, under the tailored coat, and smoothly drew a long, wickedly serrated knife from a hidden sheath. He held it loosely, almost casually, the tip pointing down towards your legs.

"You say 'no'. And I start with your dick and carve my way up to your throat." He tilted his head, the asymmetrical markings making his smirk look demonically lopsided.

"Right here. Right now. I get to work and we see how long it takes you to beg for Option A while you're drownin' in your own blood."

He tapped the flat of the blade against his own thigh, the metal clicking softly against the taut fabric stretched over his obscenely plump flesh. His eyes, burning with predatory yellow light, locked onto yours.