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Scooby with Darth Vader  sharing the herb among friends  :)  and vegans when the munchies set in  :)

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Scooby with Darth Vader  sharing the herb among friends  :)

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Free as can be

I'm hooked. Like, super hooked. Each time, you do a good job in leaving me hanging and thinking about what happens next. I'll wait! 🙌✨Awesome job, JD!

Sullivan’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer. As the fog thinned, the figure became clearer—a man, one of his men, propped up against the wall like a broken puppet. His face was bruised, swollen, his shirt soaked in blood. Billy Greene. He’d been watching the docks earlier tonight.

Sullivan crouched down, his fingers brushing the man's collar. Billy's eyes flickered open, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

“They... they took it,” Billy rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took what?” Sullivan asked, his voice calm, though his eyes burned with a quiet fury.

“The shipment... Doyle’s boys… but… they weren’t alone.”

Sullivan's expression didn’t change, but the words hung in the air like the echo of a gunshot. “Who else?”

Billy coughed, blood staining his lips. “Didn’t see... but they weren’t local. Didn’t sound like Doyle’s crew.” His hand twitched, grabbing at Sullivan’s sleeve. “They’re working with someone. Bigger than Doyle. Bigger than all of us.”

Sullivan’s jaw tightened. “Where?”

Billy wheezed, his eyes drifting shut. “East River... warehouses... they’re moving fast. They—”

His voice trailed off as his head slumped forward. Dead.

Red cursed under his breath, his hand already tightening on the revolver tucked into his coat. Sullivan stood, his face expressionless, but his mind racing. This wasn’t just about Doyle anymore.

“They hit our shipment,” Red said, his voice low and cold. “They’re moving fast, like they know we’re stretched thin.”

“Not they,” Sullivan corrected. “Doyle wouldn’t make a move this bold without someone behind him.”

Red’s frown deepened. “Who?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Sullivan muttered, his voice edged with quiet anger. “Someone’s playing Doyle like a pawn, but for what?”

Before Red could respond, another figure stepped out of the mist—a young boy, barely twelve, wearing ragged clothes and a cap too big for his head. Tommy Mulligan, one of the street runners Sullivan used for information. The kid looked panicked, his breath coming fast.

“Mr. Sullivan, sir!” Tommy gasped. “You gotta come quick. It’s bad. Real bad.”

Sullivan glanced at Red, then back at the boy. “What happened?”

Tommy wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his voice shaking. “They hit Patrick, sir. Down by the old rail yard. It’s bad.”

A chill ran through Sullivan, though his expression didn’t change. “Who?”

Tommy shook his head. “Don’t know, sir. But they ain’t Doyle’s men. They... they had black coats. Organized. Looked military.”

Sullivan’s gaze darkened, and he turned to Red. “Get a car. We’re going.”



(Comments)

The cold air hit like a slap as Sullivan and Red stepped out of the tavern and into the fog-soaked street. The distant sounds of the harbor were muffled by the thick mist, but there was something else—a tension hanging in the air, almost like the city itself was holding its breath. Red moved ahead, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the dark alleyways as they made their way down the cobblestone path. Sullivan walked in silence, his mind already turning over the pieces of the puzzle Maeve had laid in front of him.

“Boss,” Red said, his voice low. He stopped at the mouth of an alley and nodded toward a shadowy figure slumped against the brick wall.

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This image shows an abandoned New York rail yard from the 1880s, submerged in thick fog. The cinematic shot features muted blues and greys, enhanced by film grain and low-key lighting.

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