Underworld's Chosen Like None Other

The Set-Up

The neon sign above the Rusty Anchor flickered, casting a sickly green glow over the cracked pavement outside. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sour tang of spilled beer.

Warren, with his third whiskey in hand, the amber liquid doing little to dull the ache in his chest. His life had unraveled—, and Victor’s smug face haunting every corner of his mind.

The bar was a dive, the kind of place where desperation clung to the walls like damp rot, and Warren fit right in.

He barely noticed the man he saw earlier sliding onto the stool beside him until a gravelly voice cut through the haze. “Rough night, huh?” The stranger was wiry, with a pockmarked face and eyes that darted like a cornered rat’s. His leather jacket creaked as he leaned closer, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Name’s Cal. Look like you could use a break.”

Warren grunted, staring into his glass. “Not in the mood for chit-chat.”

“Don’t need to be.” Cal’s voice was smooth, practiced. “I got a job. Quick cash, no questions. You in?”

Warren’s hand tightened around the glass. Cash. The word hit like a lifeline. He had nowhere to stay or money left, the debt interest accumulating in his head won't varnish on their own. “What kind of job?” he asked, voice low.

“Simple delivery,” Cal said, sliding a crumpled envelope across the bar. “Drop this off downtown, get fifty hundred bucks. One hour, in and out.”

Warren’s gut twisted. It sounded too easy, and easy was never free. But the whiskey dulled his instincts, and the weight of his empty wallet pressed harder than his doubts. “Where’s the drop?”

Cal grinned, showing grilled teeth. “Warehouse on 14th and Mason. Midnight. Guy named Rico’ll be waiting.” He tapped the envelope. “Don’t open it. Just deliver.”

Warren nodded, pocketing the envelope. Cal vanished into the crowd, leaving only the faint scent of cheap cologne. The clock above the bar read 10:47 PM. Time to move.

The streets of Ironspire were slick with rain, the city’s pulse throbbing under a moonless sky. Warren’s old pickup rattled as he pulled up to the warehouse, a crumbling relic of the city’s industrial past. The envelope sat heavy in his jacket, its contents a mystery he didn’t dare probe. He stepped out, boots splashing in puddles, and scanned the shadows. A single light flickered above a rusted door.

“Rico?” Warren called, his voice swallowed by the hum of distant traffic. No answer. He knocked, the sound echoing like a gavel. Still nothing. His fingers brushed the envelope, temptation nagging, but Cal’s warning held him back.

Then, a screech of tires. Headlights flooded the alley, pinning Warren in their glare. He froze as police cruisers swarmed, red and blue lights slicing through the dark. “Hands up! Now!” a voice barked. Warren’s heart slammed against his ribs as he raised his hands, the envelope still clutched tight.

“Drop it!” an officer shouted, gun drawn. Warren let the envelope fall, its contents spilling onto the wet pavement—plastic bags of white powder glinting under the lights. His stomach dropped. Drugs. He’d been carrying drugs.

“I didn’t know!” Warren stammered, but the cuffs were already snapping around his wrists. The officers moved with ruthless efficiency, one kicking the bags closer to Warren’s feet as if staging a photo. “You’re under arrest for possession with intent to distribute,” a cop growled, shoving him toward a cruiser.

“It’s not mine! I was just—” Warren’s protests died as he was slammed against the car, the cold metal biting into his cheek. In the chaos, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the shadows across the street—Cal, watching, his smirk unmistakable. Then he was gone.

Now he remembered where he thought he had seen him before. Once, with Victor Crane. Fuck, it's a set up. Victor must be responsible.

The precinct was a blur of harsh lights and barked questions. Warren told his story—the bar, Cal, the delivery—but the cops weren’t buying it. “Cal is the contact, huh? Do you know who he works for?" one sneered, tossing the envelope’s contents onto a table: enough cocaine to lock him away for years. No one cared about his claims of a setup. No one asked about Victor, whose name burned in Warren’s mind like a brand.

The trial was a farce. The public defender, overworked and half-asleep, barely glanced at Warren’s case. The prosecution painted him as a desperate drifter, a nobody turned drug mule. Cal never surfaced, and the warehouse was a dead end—no Rico, no records, no trace. The evidence was airtight, and Victor’s shadow loomed over it all, invisible but suffocating. Warren knew this was no coincidence. Victor had every reason to want him gone, and this was his play—clean, ruthless, and untraceable.

The judge’s gavel fell like a guillotine. “Warren James Holt, you are hereby sentenced to seven years in Blackthorn Penitentiary.” The words echoed,

The whole court echoed "Blackthorn??"