"Old cowboy, you came back rather quickly."
Roy Pulsipher stormed back into the shop.
"They're organized." He said bluntly. "Those dead ghosts, they're part of a gang."
Garfield glanced outside through the shop window.
Four or five misshapen, ghostly figures lingered at the edge of the block, peering in like crooked melons and cracked dates, whispering among themselves.
"And?" Garfield asked calmly. "What are you planning to tell me next, old cowboy?"
Roy didn't waste time. At maximum speed, he explained the situation.
A gang war over territory.
Several members died in the conflict. They hadn't been good people to begin with, and in death, they were no better.
Instead of dispersing, the dead banded together, clinging to their former loyalties.
Worse still, they killed their original boss even after death.
The new leader consolidated power, absorbed wandering dead, and turned the gang into a full-fledged undead syndicate.
Roy had been ordered to handle the case, but instead of a clean execution, he found himself hunted across the city.
Outnumbered.
With nowhere else to go, he ran straight to High Claw Gold & Exorcism Shop.
"I figured…" Roy said stiffly, "…if there's anywhere in this city that could help me, it would be here."
Garfield tilted his head slightly. "So you're asking for help?"
Roy's expression stiffened.
He used to end cases with a single bullet. One shot, one soul escorted. This time, the situation had spiraled far beyond that.
His pride resisted, but reality won.
"Yes." Roy said at last. "I am."
While they spoke, the undead gang gathered more tightly outside the shop, pointing, testing boundaries.
They did not cross the line.
Because this block belonged to High Claw Group.
High Claw Group, New York's largest and most mysterious organization. Controllers of three major districts.
Major shareholders of Stark Industries, the fastest-rising arms manufacturer in the Mid-Atlantic.
In New York, there was a saying… Better to go to hell than to provoke High Claw.
This wasn't an exaggeration. It was a lesson written in blood over seven years.
Hooligans. Crime families. Politicians. Superpowered clans. Even the government, none of whom challenged High Claw had ended well.
Even dead ghosts knew better than to die twice.
The living gang members under their control didn't dare approach at all. The High Claw insignia at the block entrance was enough to stop them cold.
As for the undead gang's new boss… Bob, he was uneasy.
He'd been a street punk in life. He knew rumors. Whispers passed between alleys and bars.
To him, High Claw Group sounded like half-true street mythology.
Still, one thing was clear.
High Claw was not something they could afford to offend. Unfortunately, Bob's caution did not extend to everyone around him.
His subordinates… former gangsters, now undead were reckless. Death had stripped them of fear. Wild habits carried over from life, amplified by arrogance.
They whispered among themselves.
"Boss, it's only High Claw Group. What's there to be afraid of?"
"Yeah, we're already dead. How many times can we die?"
"High Claw's only powerful among the living. If we're ruthless enough, maybe we can take them too."
Bob said nothing.
And outside the shop, the dead began to edge closer.
꧁𓊈𒆜༺⚜༻𒆜𓊉꧂
PhantomDream