1987 - November 14th - 5:09 PM

Rain lashed against the tall windows of the villa while the palms in the lavish garden beyond swayed in the wind.

Inside, the air hung heavy with cigar and cigarette smoke as Sonny Fontanello sat hunched over his massive mahogany desk, a silver tray in front of him with two perfect lines of white powder.

He took a rolled-up bill, pressed it to his nose, and drew the first line.

The phone rang on the table, but Sonny ignored it.

He looked at the crucifix on the opposite wall, then at the pistol lying carelessly beside the tray.

“Holy Mother of God, just leave me the hell alone…” he hissed, yanked the cord from the phone, and the ringing died.

Screams cut through the silence.

Loud and chaotic, somewhere downstairs in the hall. 

Then the crash of something breaking, followed by furious shouting.

Sonny groaned, sniffed hard once more, and pushed his chair back.

“Goddamn it…”

He limped out of the room, his leg still injured from his escape last night.

The heavy oak door flyed open.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON DOWN THERE?!” he bellowed, his voice booming through the vestibule.

Down below, among shattered vases and an overturned side table, Morris stood, soaked from the rain, coat open, eyes wild.

Two guards with assault rifles had him in their sights, fingers tight on the triggers.

When Sonny saw him, he froze.

For a moment, all color drained from his face, like he was staring at a ghost.

“You’re alive…”

“We need to talk, Sonny!” Morris shouted, voice hoarse. “So call off your damn gorillas!”

The guards raised their rifles higher, provoked.

Sonny hesitated. 

Finally, he lifted a hand.

“Let him through.”

He turned without a word, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he walked back into the room.

Morris followed, dripping wet, breathing hard. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud.

Sonny lit a cigarette.

Rain hammered the windows. Somewhere outside, a branch cracked against the iron fence that surrounded the estate.

Inside, only the slow ticking of the grandfather clock broke the silence.

“Alright,” Sonny muttered, sniffing again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “What the hell do you want?”

Morris raised his head, voice rough.

“What do you think I want? We gotta do something. Now.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sonny snapped. “I don’t wanna hear it. It’s over. A goddamn nightmare, that’s all it was.”

Morris stepped closer. “The nightmare’s not over, Sonny. It’s coming for us.”

Sonny ripped open a drawer, pulled out a plane ticket, and slapped it on the desk.

“I don’t give a shit what you do. I’m outta here.”

Morris stared at him. “You can run from a lot of things. But not from what we woke up last night.”

“Enough of that mystic bullshit!” Sonny shouted, voice cracking.

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured a drink, his hands shaking.

Morris didn’t move. His tone dropped, quiet, almost a whisper.

“I’ve seen it, Sonny. In my head. Even now. Every time I close my eyes, I see it… that thing. I know what it wants.”

Sonny blinked, irritated. “What are you talking about?”

“It wants to rule again. To rebuild his unholy kingdom like before. It needs servants. And whoever woke it… serves it or dies.”

Sonny glared at him. “What the hell are you saying, huh? You’ve lost your fuckin’ mind.”

Morris’ eyes stayed cold, his voice steady.

“But there’s a way to stop it. Franky was right, that poor bastard.”

He paused, breathing hard.

“A Jap sealed it once... with a strip of paper. A talisman. The one that sticked to it's forehead before. I saw it in the visions.”

Sonny drained his glass, scoffing.

“Yeah, sure. And where the fuck are we supposed to get one of those, huh?”

Morris answered calmly, yet stern.

“…Chinatown.”

Sonny laughed dryly, waved him off, slipped the ticket back into his pocket.

“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind. You go play magic with the Chinks, I’ll take my chances in Panama…”

But before he could say more, screams erupted from downstairs,  this time full of panic.

Gunshots. A heavy thud.

Then a shriek, so high and raw it froze their blood.

Sonny jumped, cigarette falling from his hand.

Morris’ head snapped toward the door.

“It’s here!”

“Shit, shit, shit…” Sonny stumbled back, grabbing the pistol from the desk.

He looked around wildly, then pressed against a panel in the wall. 

A narrow passage opened beside the bookshelf.

Without waiting for Morris, he limped inside.

“For raids…” he muttered as Morris caught up.

They ran through the stifling dark, past bare concrete walls, until a metal door loomed ahead.

Behind them came the crash of the front hall door tearing off its hinges.

That inhuman scream followed them down the corridor.

“Go! Move!” Morris shouted.

He yanked the door open. Behind it, the garage:

Rows of gleaming sports cars under cold neon light.

Sonny snatched a key from the hook and dove into the nearest car, Morris slid in beside him.

Seconds later, the engine roared to life, tires screeching over the wet concrete.

“Chinatown, right?!” Sonny yelled as they shot out of the driveway.

“Chinatown,” Morris confirmed, eyes locked on the rearview mirror, sweat dripping from his brow.

His head pounded and he clenched his teeth, trying to push back the visions clawing at his mind.

Outside, rain streaked across the windshield, lightning splitting the sky.

And for a brief moment, as they sped down the hill, the villa slowly vanishing behind them, Morris saw a dark figure standing motionless in the driveway.

And he knew, it wasn’t over.