A Courtyard at Dawn
Dawn creeps over the Miller’s Square District, turning cracked brick and rusted railings into a watercolor of tired reds and greys. Joe Dimios walks home from a long night at the Acacia Boutique Hotel, butler’s suit still immaculate, tired eyes scanning the empty streets.
By day, Joe pours coffee for tourists and smooths sheets for wealthy executives. By night, behind a login screen and layers of encryption, he’s something else entirely, the quiet hand behind P.R.S., the Public Retribution Society, a forum where anonymous pacifist anarchists whisper about justice the City never delivers.
Joe Dimios acts as a middleman in an illicit market, including drugs, while secretly running the Public Retribution Society (PRS) online.
He cuts through a cramped courtyard, and that’s where trouble catches up. A man steps into his path, middle-aged, tired eyes, jaw already clenched for a fight.
Man: You sold me garbage, Mary. That last batch? Freaking shit. Where’s the real merch?
Joe (or Mary?) shoves him against the wall, collar twisted in his fist. Three more men close in behind the first: war-worn faces, shaking hands, desperate eyes. One clutches a club. Another, brass knuckles. The third… an old wartime pistol, the kind that’s seen too many ghosts.
Up above, watching through the grimy window of a flat, three silhouettes lean into the glass:
Stan Cook, all velvet menace and patient eyes; his ever-present butler James; and Archibald Ness, celebrity climber with the grin of someone who lives for adrenaline. They came to Miller’s Square hunting a rumor, a strange new drug circulating through the City, and a man going by the name “Mary” who might be tied to it in one way or another.
Stan Cook is investigating a special new drug circulating in the City, rumored to have unusual, dangerous effects.
Before they can decide whether to intervene, Stan feels cold metal press into his back.
Detective Enkidu: Hands where I can see them, Cook. Been trying to catch your shadow for a while now.
Detective Enkidu, the infafmous detective of Miller’s Square, stands there with an unblinking stare and a badge that means she doesn’t need to raise her voice.
Detective Enkidu has been tracking Stan Cook, a quiet but influential criminal figure in Miller’s Square who causes remarkably little open trouble.
Candy Canes & Razor Whips
Below, the man with the old pistol fires. The shot cracks the morning open, but Joe “Mary” rolls out of the way, the bullet chewing brick instead of bone. From upstairs, that sound is all the permission anyone needs. Stan, James, and Enkidu rush down the stairs. Archibald, never one to take the stairs if there’s another way, slides down a rusty pipe like it’s just another climbing route.
In the courtyard, Joe’s eyes harden. His hand closes around his belt, not on leather, but on something older, darker. He whips it free. A black lash studded with razor blades uncoils from his waist, humming with the hungry whisper of the Erynies. He lashes Matthis, the first man who confronted him. Flesh tears. The whip sings. Matthis falls in pieces of blood and flesh, the fight going out of him all at once and forever.
Matthis, a veteran and Joe’s regular drug buyer, is killed by Joe’s razor-whip during the altercation.
The man with the gun closes in, violence boiling off him in waves that make the other two flinch, then stand straighter, as if his rage is contagious. He draws closer to Enkidu, who sizes him up in a heartbeat.
Stan reaches into what looks like an ordinary sack, but isn’t. He pulls out a striped candy cane that clicks and unfolds into a gun-like contraption. A shot from the candy-cane weapon knocks the wartime pistol from the violent veteran’s hand. Enkidu steps in, badge blazing, voice cutting through their panic.
Enkidu: Weapons down. I’ve had worse mornings than you three. Don’t make this one memorable.
Thorny vines sprout from her arms, lashing out to coil around the fallen pistol, dragging it across the stone to her feet. The gunless man doesn’t back down. He reaches into his boot and pulls a nunchaku, spinning it with practiced ease. Enkidu fires, the bullet hits the wall. He rushes her, the nunchaku cracking hard against her jaw. The two stunned veterans near him straighten, stirred back to action by his violent presence.
Among the four veterans, one stands out as unnaturally violent, carrying an old wartime gun and a nunchaku; the others are influenced by his violent aura and barely know him.
Joe lashes out again, attempting to snare the nunchaku with his whip, but the man yanks back, dragging Joe off balance and into close quarters. Archibald moves in, his torso and arms shimmering, flesh shifting into the scaled, powerful form of a salamander. He clamps down on the nunchaku man, restraining him with inhuman strength.
James keeps his distance, eyes sharp, reading the battlefield like a ledger. Joe adds his whip to Archibald’s hold, binding the man tight. The veteran’s muscles bulge, straining against both myth and leather. The razor edges bite into his skin, drawing blood, but he refuses to fall. The Erynies whisper in Joe’s skull, voices like broken glass and guilty prayers. He is a sinner, a killer, a murderer. Punish him.
His whip can’t take much more. If he pulls tighter, it might break. If he doesn’t, the man might break free.
He chooses.
The whip buries its blades deeper. Flesh tears. The veteran screams, wounded badly but not dead. The lash shatters, fibers snapping, power severed. Joe collapses to his knees, tears streaking his face, pain and release tangled together. Blood runs down his hands… and then vanishes, as if washed clean by invisible rain.
Stan lunges forward, wrestling the wounded nunchaku man toward his sack. The cloth swallows the struggling body…
And then there’s nothing.
No man. No weight. Just empty cloth.
Joe stares at his right hand, where the mark of his myth burns unseen and bright. Then his knees give, and the world goes dark. The courtyard is left with two terrified veterans, a dead man in pieces, and the echoes of something very wrong.
The Cupboard
In the aftermath, deals are made in low voices. Stan and Enkidu argue on what to do with the remianing veterans but for now, they ride together. James pulls up Stan’s big Mercedes, and loads in the two survivors and the unconscious hotel butler.
They drive through narrow streets to The Cupboard, a dusty flat owned by Stan’s organization, white sheets over the furniture and a distinct smell of mold to hide any other possible smell. James turns the TV on and sets about making breakfast: pancakes and his famous secret syrup.
Somehow, Enkidu and Stan agree to cooperate, at least until the drug trail makes sense. Joe wakes on a couch, his head pounds. He remembers what just happened. But he also remembered how he had a vivid dream last night, of this exact fight. Of how he would shred the veteran in pieces with his whip. Of how his whip would be broken at the end. In the middle of the action, he could In his pocket, he finds the small vial of blood. He pours a few drops into his palm, hidden under his coat. The liquid vanishes into his skin. A moment later, the shattered pieces of his whip knit back together, reforming, coiled and waiting.
Elsewhere in the flat, the interrogation begins. The two surviving veterans tremble as Enkidu and Stan enjoy James’ pancakes. Their story spills out in fragments: trauma, nightmares, and an ache they’ve been treating with this white powder.
Veteran 1: Matthis… he found a guy: “Mary”. Brought us his merch. Took the edge off.
Veteran 2: Last week’s batch though… that was different. Same look, but when it hit… it was like going to heaven.
Veteran 1: This week it was back to normal shit. Felt like nothing. After tasting heaven, nothing’s worse than nothing.
The special batch of white powder from last week is far more potent and super addictive, described by veterans as “going to heaven”.
They explain that Matthis handled the pickups, weekly meets in the Parkside district with “Mary”. They never met Joe face-to-face until today. And the fourth man, the violent one with the wartime gun and nunchaku? They barely knew him.
Veteran 2: He heard us complaining. Said he’d “help us get what we deserved”. We thought he meant the good stuff. Didn’t know he meant… this.
The violent fourth veteran was mostly a stranger to the others, joining them only after hearing about the drug source.
In the background, another piece of the puzzle sits quietly in Joe’s memory: the special stack of powder he sold Matthis last week was not from the same origin as his usual stack. He stole it from Room 42 at the Acacia Boutique Hotel, where a certain Marcus Blunt, muscular gambler from Fortune Row, had been staying.
The enhanced drug batch Joe sold was stolen from Room 42 of the Acacia Boutique Hotel, from a guest named Marcus Blunt, a wealthy gambler from Fortune Row.
Someone else, somewhere, is making something new, and dangerous.
Retribution & Pancakes
Joe asks to speak to the veterans alone. They refuse, until Stan and James agree to stay in the room, while Enkidu waits just outside the door. Joe sits across from them, eyes tired.
Joe: I’m… sorry about Matthis. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. Veteran 1: Your apologies don’t change nothing, mate. Don’t freaking sell shit if you don’t know where it comes from. The people you deal with… they’re broken. Does not mean you can treat them like hungry dogs.
Joe slides a small card across the table, minimal print, no flourish. Just three letters and an encrypted address : P.R.S.
Joe: If you need help, really need it, use this. I’ll come. Doesn’t matter when.
Joe offers the veterans a contact to P.R.S. (Public Retribution Society), promising help whenever they call.
Enkidu returns, and the mood stiffens again. Before the veterans leave, both she and Stan cut their own deals.
Enkidu: If you see that special powder again, you call me. First. Stan: Call me first as well.
The vets nod. Desperate men don’t turn down lifelines, even if they come from cops and criminals. They’re released back into the City. Joe leaves soon after, watched carefully by Stan and James, heading toward a local schoolyard. Enkidu heads back to her 23rd Precinct while Stan and James linger in the quiet flat, plates sticky with syrup.
James: More pancakes, boss?
The case is far from over. The new drug still circulates. Marcus Blunt is still out there. And somewhere in the City, the unseen hands that cooked up “heaven” are already reaching for their next batch.
Fade out. Roll credits.