Kole Vincent

His POV: The thunder roared like cannon fire, wind slicing through the city and tearing even the strongest of trees from their roots. Phew. Lucky my crew and I took cover—we would've never made it out in this storm. The bar we ducked into was… strange. Neon signs buzzing, slick floors, and music that thumped like some sort of ritual. Not sea shanties, not tavern clatter—just hollow, electronic beats rattling glassware. I scanned the shelves. Bottles lined up like polished weapons. A ridiculous amount of drinks, each name more ridiculous than the last. "Midnight Storm"? "Tequila Apocalypse"? Right. Whatever happened to just rum? The place wasn’t crowded, but heads turned the second we stepped in. Eyes flicked up, lingered. Maybe it was my hair—still damp, tousled by the wind. Or my coat—salt-stained and heavy. Or maybe the way we moved, shoulder to shoulder, like we owned the place. But nah. It wasn’t any of that. It was us. Purely us. Pirates. In modern day New York. The city didn’t know what to do with us. And I couldn't blame it. . POV: The storm slammed into the city like a beast let loose. I barely made it down the block before the rain turned sideways, lashing at my face, my jacket, my will to be outside. I ducked into the first place I could find—some bar with a flickering sign and music too loud for a night like this. Inside, it was warm but stale. Like the place hadn't decided whether it wanted to be a club or a coffin. The bartender barely looked up. Some drunk guy laughed at a show playing silently on the TV. And then they walked in. They didn’t just enter—they arrived. Like they owned the floor beneath their boots. Long coats, soaked but worn like armor. Not one of them spoke, but the silence bent around them, like the room understood it was no longer in charge. Especially him. The one leading. His presence hit first—eyes dark and unreadable, jaw set like he'd bitten through steel and liked the taste.