Some moments prior...
"I said, freeze!" the gangster yelled. More gangsters revealed themselves from shadows and corners, surrounding him with raised rifle barrels.
Rainer slowed to a deliberate stop, and his duffel bag hit the concrete with a soft thump. Then he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, speaking out calmly.
"I heard you needed to spice this party up," his voice echoed, muffled by the mask. "I have come to dance."
The gangsters drew closer, exchanging perplexed glances.
'Dance? Who the hell hired a dancer?'
Just then, one of them squinted, his gaze catching the dull bronze glint of the GBG hat pin.
His face paled.
"Shit! He's GBG!" The alarm in his voice was a live wire.
"Wait, what!?"
"Oh, hells! It's true!"
The circle tightened. Anxious fingers caressed triggers, hovering on the edge of doing something drastic.
Rainer felt a spike of genuine alarm and shifted his tone to one of placating reason.
"Wait," he spoke, employing a more soothing tone. "These are props. I heard your Boss hates the GBGs. He would surely appreciate my performan—"
*Bam!*
The steel-capped butt of a rifle smashed into the small of his back, driving the air from his lungs and sending him to his knees on the rough concrete.
"Shut the fuck up!" the gangster roared.
Another squatted before him, his expression dark with menace.
"What? Think we're fools, eh?"
He delivered a ruthless, backhanded slap that cracked across Rainer's cheek and sent the white mask skittering across the ground.
His face was revealed.
The gangster gripped a handful of his dark brown hair, yanking his head back to examine him under the harsh light.
"That's the face of a GBG if I've ever seen one," a gangster remarked.
"They always got that high-and-mighty air about them."
"Search the piece of shit. He must have a weapon on him."
Instantly, grubby hands were upon him, patting him down with rough, invasive efficiency, brushing over his torso, his legs, even groping at his crotch. Multiple times.
"He's clean," one declared, stepping back. While another examined the discarded boombox with suspicion.
A smirk touched Rainer's split lip. "I told yo—"
*Bam!*
A punch rocked his head back. And a warm trickle of blood dripped from his nose.
"I said, shut the fuck up!" the gangster roared.
Rainer's head bobbed, but his eyes lifted to meet his assailant's. The look in them was clear: 'Is that all you've got?'
The other gangsters glanced at the puncher with noticeable disappointment. The man's expression soon ashened, then turned demonic with humiliation.
"Youuu!" he ground out through gritted teeth, then raised the butt of his rifle high, aiming to cave Rainer's skull in.
At that moment, light streamed over them as the bar's doors were thrown open. Owen emerged, glancing back over his shoulder in a panic. He paced about anxiously before his eyes eventually registered the commotion.
"Hey!" He descended the stairs. "What's going on over there?!"
The gangsters parted. "It's one of the GBG's brim brigade," a soldier reported in jest, his tone thick with scorn.
"Hah?!" Owen couldn't believe it.
'A GBG? Here?'
He approached, curious to see the brave idiot.
It was a young man, bleeding from the nose, his short hair disheveled. His dark brown eyes met Owen's, not with fear, but with an unnerving calm.
"You a messenger, boy?" Owen inquired.
"Nah. Came to dance, is all." Rainer answered, then wiped his nose. "Apparently, someone called for a stripper. For one mister—Festus. Said they'd pay a good fee if I dressed like a GBG."
Owen was taken aback. "You're not with the GBGs?"
Rainer scoffed, blowing blood from his nostril. "Heard you guys blew up their turf a day or two ago. Can't remember. Heh! Now, what GBG in his right mind would come down here alone, eh?"
"That was our turf, not theirs, boy." A gangster spat.
"That's not even the point here," another said, looking at Owen. "A male stripper? For the Boss? Don't believe him, Cap."
Owen frowned, weighing the absurdity, but then a muffled roar and a crash echoed from within the bar.
His expression tensed.
He looked at Rainer. "You said you're a stripper? A dancer?"
Rainer grinned, a flash of white against the blood.
"The very best. Though I'm rather new in town, so take that for what it's worth."
Owen's stern gaze shifted to the gangsters.
"You've searched him, right?"
They nodded.
"Apart from a boombox, he didn't have much of anything on him."
Owen let out a tense sigh.
"Let him in."
"Cap—?"
"I said,release him!" Furious, he suddenly took a step toward the questioning gangster, making the man stumble back in fear.
Rainer silently got up, dusting off his suit with deliberate care before retrieving his mask. He approached the boombox, kept it into his duffel bag before hefting it.
As he passed Owen, he leaned in and whispered, "You guys will pay big time for what you did to me."
Immediately, Owen's arm shot out, grabbing Rainer's collar and yanking him close. He glared into the empty eyeholes of the mask.
"The fuck did you just say to me?"
"My injuries..." Rainer said, a touch of a smile in his muffled tone. "I expect proper compensation."
Owen scoffed and shoved him toward the bar.
"Just put on a good show!"
He turned away. "Money isn't an issue for the Beach Boys."
Rainer adjusted his hat, climbing the stairs. "Good to know."
Upon reaching the door, he sighed out. "Well, it's show time."
With that said, he stamped the door open with a resounding BANG! that echoed into the night. Then he was inside.
Owen turned to follow but stopped, glancing back at the guarding gangsters. "Triple the guards. Widen the surveillance perimeter."
A soldier shifted his weight to one foot, disturbed.
"For that, guys would have to be called out from the party. They won't be pleased."
"Just do it!!!" Owen yelled, then turned and stalked inside.
...
Inside, Rainer walked into the rapidly silencing bar. He could feel the weight of a hundred disbelieving stares, the collective intake of breath, the growing aura of fear and alarm.
Yet, one gaze felt different—soft, empty, and sharply observant. His eyes instinctively found hers.
Aqua, standing at the bar, her expression a mixture of surprise and what looked like awe. At that moment, he stopped, smiled beneath the porcelain, and tipped his hat.
She blinked, clearly startled at the move.
Soon, Rainer's attention was seized by another gaze, one so hot with fury it felt like a brand against his skin. His eyes rose fearlessly to meet it.
The world seemed to slow as a room full of criminal minds whirled—processing, calculating, deducing. Yet none could make sense of why a man dressed as their mortal enemy was standing calmly in the heart of their celebration.
But Rainer knew.
He recalled the information from the file on the bus. Snippets of data on one Festus, Regional Boss of the Beach Boys.
The man was bisexual with a known, discreet predilection for the city's finer male strip clubs, preferring to hire solo male entertainers for his private viewing.
Rainer hadn't come merely to fight or to save a girl. He had come to perform. To dance his way into the intimate, lethal proximity of his prey.
Their eyes locked across the crowded room, and within the mask, Rainer's smirk was dark and predatory.
'Time to hunt the king fish. A shame I had to be bait.'