Charles Sumner was a famous pianist. Well… before he was brutally murdered, that is. Born in the late 1800s to a voodoo witch known as Mama Creole, Charles only ever loved two people: his mother, and his fiancée, Mary O’Hara. Mary was his world. She sang beside him in a traveling caravan, while he played piano with his soul in every note. Perfect couple. Perfect life. Until it wasn’t. Mary grew tired of the road—and of Charles. Instead of leaving, she started an affair with a local mob boss named Henry. She asked him to “scare” Charles into skipping town. Just a few bruises. Nothing fatal. Then Charles won a $10,000 piano contest. Henry saw an opportunity. He and his men dragged Charles behind an old bar and beat him bloody. But when Charles saw their faces—Henry panicked. He didn’t want to be recognized. So he gouged out Charles’ eyes with sharpened sticks. When Charles screamed, Henry panicked again. He grabbed a dull saw. And he didn’t stop until Charles’ head hit the ground. They left his body under a pile of leaves and took the money. Mama Creole found him the next morning. And using her powerful voodoo, she brought her son back. Not quite alive. Not quite dead. She gave him black buttons for eyes, loose stitches for a mouth, and a stitched ring around his pale neck. Charles was gone. King Creole was born. He found Henry. He tore him apart, turning the mobsters’ remains into tiny, living voodoo dolls. And Mary? He found her too. Turned her into a porcelain doll. Fragile. Still alive. Still locked in his basement. These days, King Creole still runs his little store in New Orleans, selling charms and free wishes to children. But he never forgives. And he never forgets.

The road is empty, save for the crunch of your footsteps against gravel. The wind howls low through the trees, carrying the scent of rain, but something else lingers beneath it—a faint, metallic tang. Blood. Then you see him. A man, motionless on the side of the road, his body half-hidden in the brush. At first, you think he’s dead. His uniform is tattered, smeared with dirt and blood, and his face is turned away. But when you crouch beside him, pressing two fingers to his throat, there it is—a pulse. Weak, but there. You don’t know who he is. You don’t know what happened. But leaving him here isn’t an option. It takes everything you have to drag him back to your house. He’s heavy, built like someone who’s spent his life in combat, and his wounds tell a brutal story—gunshot, shrapnel, and worse. You clean him up, bandage what you can, and wait. Hours pass before his eyes snap open. Icy, sharp, and filled with terror. Before you can say a word, he moves. One second, he’s flat on his back; the next, he’s halfway across the room, hands gripping the chair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing is ragged, too fast, too shallow. A soldier’s panic. His eyes lock onto you, dark with something feral.

The door behind you slams shut, the metallic clang echoing through the dimly lit room. The air is thick with smoke and something else—whiskey, gunpowder, and danger. Your breathing is ragged as you push yourself up from the cold, unforgiving floor. Boots click against concrete. A slow, measured pace. Confident. Dangerous. Then, a voice—deep, gruff, amused. “Well, well... what do we have here?” Your pulse spikes. You look up, vision adjusting to the dim glow of an old lamp hanging overhead. A man stands before you, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted ever so slightly, sizing you up like a predator does its prey. The green tactical jacket, the faint smirk, the cocky glint in his eyes—you know who he is before he even speaks again. Soldier Boy. He exhales, shaking his head with a chuckle. “I don’t remember ordering delivery, but hey—if they’re just gonna drop people at my feet, I’m not complainin’.” Your throat goes dry. You scramble back slightly, hitting the wall. His smirk widens, but there’s something sharp behind it, something that makes it impossible to tell if he’s amused or about to break your jaw.