Transmigrated in Banshee Town

After last night's attack, the Savoy Gentlemen's Club ceased to operate normally. The neon lights on the facade were off, and only a couple of streetlamps cast a faint yellow glow. Several seasoned drivers, who had traveled from afar, left disappointed upon finding a "Renovation" sign hanging at the entrance.

Soon, headlights appeared on the road: a blue Chevrolet pickup truck slowly approached and stopped in the parking lot. It was Hood. He studied the place carefully and noticed Proctor's Rolls-Royce parked in front of the club. He turned off the lights and sat in silence for a few seconds. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, as if trying to reaffirm a decision he had already made in his mind.

He glanced toward the passenger seat. On the upholstery, a duffel bag waited. He calmly opened it and pulled out his Glock, checking it thoroughly to ensure it was loaded. His cold, resolute gaze betrayed no doubt—tonight, he would leave Banshee without saying goodbye to anyone. But first, he had one last promise to keep. He would kill Proctor, a final gift.

Ever since his identity had been exposed, the risk of staying had increased significantly, and he wasn't going to take any more chances. Remaining in Banshee would only put Deva in danger. She would be better off without an ex-convict and thief in her life.

This time, he might as well use his sheriff's badge one last time to do what he had always wanted to do—put a bullet in Kai Proctor's head. He stepped out of the truck and, as he walked toward the entrance of the club, tucked the Glock into his waistband, hiding it under his shirt.

At the entrance, two security guards stood firm, hands resting on the grips of their weapons, alert for the possibility of another Redbones attack.

Their eyes sharpened as they saw Hood approach, but when they noticed the sheriff's badge in his hand, they relaxed slightly. After the shooting that had occurred there, it didn't seem strange for the law to come investigate. After a brief exchange of words, they let him in without objection.

So Hood entered the club without meeting resistance. Inside, plastic tarps hung from ceilings and walls, and several scaffolds stood amid the debris. Proctor seemed determined to use the incident to completely renovate the place and elevate the club's standard.

Metallic noises and power saws echoed everywhere. The decorators were working overtime and didn't dare complain. Everyone knew who they were working for.

Proctor and Rebecca were personally overseeing every detail of the renovations at the club; they knew that every day the doors remained closed meant a significant financial loss. As for Burton, once his task was completed, he had been sent to Philadelphia. The trafficking channels they had recovered from Cage were already operational, although there were still some loose ends to tie up.

As Proctor's most trusted man and the one who best understood the workings of their operations, Burton had to go in person. Besides, Proctor was still out on bail, which prevented him from leaving Banshee for the time being.

Rebecca noticed Hood almost instantly. She dropped the blueprints she was holding and went to meet him.

—Sheriff, how can I help you?

—This doesn't concern you, Rebecca. I'm looking for your uncle. —Hood stopped and said coldly, scanning the area for Proctor.—

Proctor and his lawyer, Jackson, were talking at a distance. They, too, noticed his presence and both approached with impatience.

—Sheriff, I'm not in the mood to play games with you right now. So say what you've got to say and get the hell out of my establishment.

Hood saw Proctor coming and, without hesitation, shoved Rebecca aside with a quick movement of his arm. At the same time, his other hand reached for his waist, drawing the Glock and aiming it steadily at his enemy's head.

After the recent attacks, Proctor was more alert than ever. Even though his opponent was the sheriff, he didn't let his guard down. The moment he saw the flash of the weapon rise, a spark lit in his eyes. Was he really going to kill him in front of so many witnesses?

But Proctor wasn't one to back down. In an explosive move, he lunged forward, ducking his head to dodge the gun barrel. With reflexes honed by years of violence, he extended his arm and struck Hood's forearm hard, trying to redirect the shot before it was too late.

  —Bang!

The barrel grazed his ear as the gun went off. The violent sound made his head ring instantly; it deafened half his hearing. Rebecca hadn't expected Hood to fire so suddenly, and she froze in place.

—You idiot! Have you lost your mind, Hood? —Proctor cursed angrily, grabbing Hood's hand with force. The two of them struggled to gain control of the weapon.

Several more shots rang out. Under the pressure of the scuffle, Hood's finger pulled the trigger uncontrollably and bullets flew everywhere. Horrified workers fled in a panic.

Jackson turned to the security guards nearby, shouting:

—What the hell are you doing just standing there? Somebody call the police!

The security guards saw the weapons flying around and bolted out the door.

—I'm the sheriff —Hood growled through clenched teeth—. Who are you going to call?

—Shit, the Banshee Police Department! —Jackson shouted—. I'm going to sue you for every damn stitch on your pants!

With hands trembling from fury, Jackson pulled out his phone and called the police without a second thought.

Rebecca tried to intervene, stepping between them, but both men shoved her aside without hesitation. She stumbled and fell backward against a metal scaffold. The sharp blow made her cry out, her vision bursting with stars.

—Ah!

Proctor's roar echoed like a wounded beast. He lunged at Hood, shoved him hard, and grabbed his arm, slamming it against a nearby table with brutal force.

The Glock slipped from Hood's fingers and flew off, landing among the debris behind the table.

Hood let out a muffled curse, spun around, and threw a punch straight at Proctor's head. The hit landed solidly—but so did the counterattack: a sharp blow struck his ear, and the deafening ringing intensified like a shriek.

Proctor staggered back, dazed. Hood seized the opening and kicked him in the stomach, folding him over in pain.

—Game's over, Proctor. Tonight, you're going to hell with me —Hood spat hoarsely, turning urgently as he ran to the table, desperately searching for his Glock among the rubble.

But Proctor rose with all his strength and, with a leap, slammed into Hood with force.

  —Wham!

The wooden construction table split in half, and Hood also crashed heavily to the ground. Both men were dazed, struggling to get back on their feet.

Proctor lunged at Hood again, grabbed him tightly around the waist, and threw him with brutal force onto the center of the dance floor.

—Wham!

Hood's head hit a steel pipe with a dull crack. His vision went dark immediately, clouded by a burst of pain.

—Fuck you, you piece of shit! —Proctor roared, driving a punch straight into Hood's face. The blow was so violent that it rippled his skin, and a tooth flew out into the air.

—Shit! —Hood shouted, blood pouring from his mouth. He turned with fury, resisting the dizziness, and countered with another punch, this time hitting Proctor directly in the ear with a harsh smack.

Both men lunged at each other, gripping one another by the neck in a frenzy. For several seconds, they wrestled, rolling across the dance floor like two wild animals blinded by rage. Proctor stumbled, lost his balance, and they both crashed off the stage, slamming into a workbench with a brutal thud.

Tools flew everywhere, clattering against the concrete floor with a metallic clatter. Hood, still on the ground, reached out blindly and grabbed a hammer. Without hesitation, he raised it with lethal intent, aiming straight at Proctor's head.

—Hood! Stop, don't do it! —a desperate voice shouted.

Brock appeared suddenly like lightning, throwing himself on Hood just in time. The impact knocked him to the side, and the hammer smashed into the floor with a crack that made the tiles creak.

Seeing the crack left by the hammer in the ground, Proctor went pale and began to sweat cold.

But now, the real danger was Hood.

A few feet away, Rebecca had drawn her Glock 43 and was aiming directly at the sheriff's chest, ready to pull the trigger. However, Brock reacted in time: he also pointed his gun at her.

Had he not done so, Hood would've been dead at that very moment… and Proctor likely as well.

Jackson, who had witnessed the scene, saw the gun in Rebecca's hands. Realizing that local law enforcement now had control over Hood, he waved frantically at her, signaling for her to lower her weapon.

Rebecca, her face tense and her head still aching from the earlier blow, holstered the Glock into the thigh holster with visible reluctance.

Meanwhile, Brock looked down at the two men lying on the floor, panting, covered in blood and rage, and felt a hammering pain begin to throb in his temples.

After the events of the past two days—the brutal destruction of Tommy Littlestone's body and the deaths of two other Redbone gang members—the Savoy Gentlemen's Club had become the epicenter of law enforcement attention. Patrols constantly passed through the area, alert to the possibility of another attack.

Just as he was driving the patrol car toward the vicinity of the club, Brock had received a call from Alma reporting a disturbance at the scene. His first instinct was to assume the Redbones had returned to attack. But what he found upon arrival was something completely unexpected: Hood, the sheriff himself, wielding a hammer and about to kill Proctor.

—Come on, get up —Brock said, approaching Hood and helping him to his feet—. Are you okay?

Hood nodded with difficulty, still breathless, his face bloodied, eyes fixed on the ground.

Without wasting time, Brock pulled the handcuffs from his belt and turned toward Proctor.

—Kai Proctor, you are under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with an attorney and to have one appointed to you if you cannot afford one. Do you understand your rights?

—This is a fucking joke! I was the one attacked! —Proctor shouted, outraged—. They nearly killed me, and now I'm the one being arrested? Is that justice to you?

Ignoring his outbursts, Brock firmly grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back.

—Click.

The metallic sound of the handcuffs snapping shut broke the tense air. Proctor's wrists were now tightly restrained.

—Oh, oh, oh... —Jackson stammered as he stepped forward quickly, a mix of disbelief and defiance on his face—. Lotus, have you lost your mind? Hood tried to murder my client; he was only defending himself!

Brock fixed his gaze on Hood's bruised face and answered coldly:

—Tell it to a judge —he said firmly—. Now step away from me or I'll cuff you too for obstruction.

Jackson knew very well that out in the field, cops followed their own rules, and nearly without exception, they would side with a fellow officer. Cautiously, he stepped back and pulled out his phone to call the district attorney. That was all he could do for now.

—Don't be afraid —Proctor whispered to Rebecca, who still looked dazed—. Stay here, oversee the renovation, and take care of everything. Call Burton and tell him to return as soon as possible. I'll be fine.

Rebecca nodded silently, committing every word to memory, and cast a look of pure hatred at Hood. She didn't understand why they were arresting her uncle when he had been the one attacked.

Proctor was taken away quickly, and the club—just minutes before echoing with gunfire—fell into a silence even deeper than the night before. Rebecca glanced around the debris-strewn room filled with scaffolding; her body trembled slightly for a moment, but she quickly pulled herself together and her expression hardened.

—Let's go, back to work! —she shouted with authority, her voice echoing through the dark corners where men had been hiding, forcing them out of the shadows and into motion at once.

At the Banshee sheriff's station, Ethan stepped out of the bathroom, washed his hands, and returned to his desk. A few seconds later, Emmett and Siobhan entered, visibly exhausted from their patrol, but still alert. Brock had ordered them to return to the station immediately.

—Ethan, I thought you were over there too —Siobhan said, unbuckling her duty belt with a sigh of relief.

—Over where? —Ethan replied, confused, grabbing a few tissues to dry his hands.

—Savoy. It's in trouble again. Brock headed straight there. We figured you were with him —Emmett explained, lifting the radio from his belt—. Brock, what's the situation at Savoy? Need backup?

—Things got a little complicated, but Hood and I are already on our way back to the station —Brock responded over the radio, in a tone that sounded... unusually tense.

—Alright… drive safe —Emmett muttered, shrugging before placing the radio on the table.

Ethan took a sip of hot coffee from his mug. Fortunately, it wasn't his day to patrol. The office was nearly empty at that hour, wrapped in an unusual silence. But soon, he noticed someone sitting in the waiting area. As he looked up and recognized the visitor, the man stood and began approaching.

—I remember you —Ethan said, his brow slightly furrowed—. You came in last time for the deputy interview, right?

The man in front of him wore a long-sleeved shirt, stood upright, and had a neatly trimmed short mohawk. Ethan recognized him immediately: Kurt Bunker, a former soldier of the Aryan Brotherhood who had chosen to leave his life as a white supremacist behind. Despite the change, the shadow of his past still followed him, inked permanently into his skin.

—Yes, Officer Morgan —the man replied firmly as he slowly stood—. My name is Kurt Bunker.

—Take a seat —Ethan gestured with his hand, not taking his eyes off him—. How do you know my name?

—It's a small town —Bunker replied, sitting again—. And a lot of people know Officer Morgan. You're kind of famous.

—What brings you here? —Ethan asked, taking another sip of coffee—. Still looking for work?

—Yes, sir —Bunker said with steady eyes—. I'm committed to proving my worth, even if it takes time.

—Alright then, wait here. The Sheriff will be here in a few minutes —Ethan said, shaking his head slightly as he turned to walk away.

Suddenly—BANG! The glass door burst open. Brock stormed in, dragging Proctor by the arm and shoving him inside. His nose was swollen, his face bruised, and his white shirt spattered with blood. Hood followed behind him, muttering to himself, looking even worse.

Ethan and the others stared in shock as Brock crossed the office without a word. With a grim expression, he opened the holding cell, threw Proctor inside, and slammed the metal door shut.

A heavy silence filled the station. Wasn't there supposed to be an attack at Savoy? Why the hell was Proctor the one being brought in?

Siobhan frowned, visibly confused, while Proctor kicked the cot in the cell with fury.

—What the hell happened?

—Isn't it obvious? —Emmett murmured, scratching his nose—. The sheriff got into a fight with Proctor at Savoy.

The glass door swung open again.

—This is a fucking outrage! —Proctor's lawyer, Jackson, shouted, raising his arms—. I have witnesses! They can testify you shot my client! This is a clear attempt at murder!

—Shut up or I'll throw you out myself —Hood growled, stepping toward him—. Until you have a judge's order, your client stays right here.

This time, the outburst didn't come from Jackson but from District Attorney Alison Medding. Her voice boomed like thunder, defying her small frame.

—What the hell were you thinking, Hood? —she exclaimed furiously, planting herself in front of him—. Do you have any idea how bad this makes the DA's office and the station look?

Proctor, though previously released on an exorbitant bail in another case, still faced multiple charges. But thanks to Hood's impulsive actions, Jackson could now easily move to dismiss all evidence gathered by the Banshee County Sheriff's Department.

Hood fully understood the implications... and didn't care. His only regret was not killing Proctor when he had the chance. Now things had gotten much more complicated.

If everyone left, he'd shoot Proctor that same night, locked in that cell. Without flinching, he shrugged and replied to Alison:

—Whatever you say. I don't give a damn.

The DA froze in place, stunned by the coldness of his response. Hood dropped the ice pack with a thud, walked over to the cell, and grabbed the bars with both hands. The intent in his eyes was unmistakable—and terrifying. He wasn't planning on holding back.

No more words were needed. With just a few gestures, everyone understood what had happened. Brock exchanged a look with Ethan and, without a word, gave a resigned shrug.

At that moment, the roar of several engines shattered the air. The sound approached at full speed, impossible to ignore. Within seconds, the once-dark street was violently lit up by the headlights of numerous vehicles.

Ethan turned toward the window. His pupils contracted instantly.

More than a dozen cars skidded to a stop in front of the station, surrounding the building in seconds. Armed men began to pour out of them, one after another, as if stepping out of a nightmare.

Without hesitation, Ethan's eyes darted to the red emergency button, mounted next to the glass door. It was large and round—once pressed, it triggered the contingency protocol: lowering the metal shutters and locking down the station in seconds.

He tensed his arm and, without a second thought, hurled his mug straight at the button. The glass shattered on impact, and a soft but piercing alarm began to sound inside the building.

Even as the cup was still midair, Ethan roared with all the strength in his lungs:

—Everyone get down, take cover!