Magic gangster

The warehouse was unusually quiet. Rod leaned against a cracked windowpane, watching Dustvale's streets stir to life. He had spent the better part of the morning pacing, his mind weighed down by the strange encounter in the woods and the ominous warnings it carried. The city felt smaller now, as though it couldn't contain the scope of what lay ahead.

He barely noticed the sound of the door creaking open until a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

"Looks like you've upgraded since the last time we saw each other."

Rod turned sharply, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife tucked into his belt. But as soon as he saw who it was, the tension melted away. Standing in the doorway was Carl Johnson, his old friend, wearing a grin that barely masked the exhaustion etched into his face.

"Carl?" Rod said, his surprise quickly giving way to a genuine smile. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Carl shrugged, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "Figured I'd drop by and see if you've gotten yourself killed yet. Turns out, you're doing a little better than that."

Rod chuckled and crossed the room, pulling Carl into a brief hug. "It's been a while," he said, stepping back. "You've been keeping busy?"

"Busy surviving," Carl replied, his grin fading slightly. He glanced around the room, taking in the maps and weapons scattered across the table. "Looks like you've been doing more than that. Word on the street is the Vipers have a new leader. Didn't think they meant you."

Rod's smile dimmed. "It's a long story. You hungry?"

Carl nodded eagerly. "Starving. If you've got more than stale bread and cheap whiskey, I might cry."

Rod laughed and led Carl to the small kitchen at the back of the warehouse. It wasn't much—just a stove, a few mismatched plates, and a pantry that was perpetually half-empty—but it was enough. As Rod pulled together a meal of eggs and potatoes, Carl leaned against the counter, watching him.

"So," Carl said, breaking the silence. "You're running the Vipers now. What's that like?"

Rod sighed, setting the pan on the stove. "Complicated. It wasn't exactly the plan, but things happened, and here I am. It's not just about running a gang anymore, Carl. There's… more going on."

Carl raised an eyebrow. "More? Like what?"

Rod hesitated, his mind flashing back to the figure in the woods, the glowing lights, the warning of the dark ones. He hadn't told anyone about it yet, not even his closest allies in the Vipers. But Carl was different.

"You ever hear stories about people with… abilities?" Rod asked carefully, keeping his back to Carl as he stirred the food.

"Abilities?" Carl repeated, frowning. "You mean like freaks at the circus? Or are we talking about something else?"

Rod turned to face him, his expression serious. "Something else. People who can do things that shouldn't be possible. Things that seem… unnatural."

Carl studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "I've heard whispers. Mostly drunk old men trying to scare each other at bars. Why?"

Rod didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out to the table, where a small metal knife lay. He focused on it, channeling the spark of energy he had been learning to control. The knife trembled, then lifted off the table, hovering in midair.

Carl's eyes widened, and he took a step back. "What the hell, Rod? How—"

"It's real," Rod said quietly, lowering the knife back to the table. "And it's not just me. There are others out there. Some of them are dangerous."

Carl stared at him, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the right words. "This… this is insane," he said finally. "Since when can you do that?"

Rod leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "It started a few weeks ago. I don't know why, but I've been trying to figure it out. And the more I learn, the more I realize how much danger we're in."

Carl ran a hand through his hair, his expression still one of disbelief. "Danger from what?"

"From people like me," Rod said. "But not like me. There's a group—people who've twisted their powers into something dark. They want control, Carl. Of everything. And they'll destroy anyone who gets in their way."

Carl shook his head slowly. "This is… a lot to take in."

"I know," Rod said. "But I need you to trust me. We're standing on the edge of something big, and I can't do this alone."

Carl looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "You're my friend, Rod. You've always had my back, even when no one else did. If you say there's a fight coming, I'm with you."

Rod felt a surge of gratitude, a weight lifting off his shoulders. "Thanks, Carl. That means a lot."

Carl smirked, his usual humor returning. "But you owe me an explanation. A real one. Maybe after breakfast."

Rod laughed and turned back to the stove, flipping the eggs onto a plate. "Deal. But don't say I didn't warn you—it's not a pretty story."

As they sat down to eat, the tension between them eased, replaced by the familiar rhythm of old friends reconnecting. For the first time in weeks, Rod felt a glimmer of hope. He wasn't alone anymore.

And as they talked late into the morning, planning their next moves, Rod realized just how much he had missed having Carl by his side. Whatever lay ahead, he knew they would face it together.