It took over ten hours for Sullivan to arrive on the hidden island, which housed one of the Underground's many quarters. To get to the island, Sullivan was brought through several detours to ensure the island's location remained a secret. Sullivan wouldn't tell them it was of no use since he already knew.
The island was called Crimson Island, named after its owner, Crimson. Crimson was, of course, not his real name, but no matter how deep Sullivan dug, no information could be found about his background or past. Stepping down from the helicopter, Sullivan surveyed the array of guards with narrowed eyes. Dressed head to toe in dark shades of red, they made quite the intimidating sight. But Sullivan was no ordinary man.
He scoffed at the garish display and sauntered into the castle. That's right, Crimson's headquarters was a literal castle. Sullivan found it extremely tacky, but Crimson had a fondness for medieval times. The castle had everything it needed to be called one: high walls that were impossible to scale, watchtowers that overlooked the small island, and Sullivan was sure there would be a dungeon somewhere. The only thing it was missing was a moat and chainmail soldiers.
"This way," a crimson-clad guard gestured.
Sullivan was led through the portcullis, brought past the grand entrance hall, and into the drawing room. The drawing room was spacious and ostentatiously decorated in crimson and gold. Priceless art and furniture occupied the room. It was a vapid display of wealth.
The castle was old; at some point, it even looked ready to crumble, but Sullivan knew that behind its picturesque facade was an impenetrable fortress.
The heavy gilded doors groaned open. Sullivan, who sat with his back to the door, didn't even turn to see who had entered.
"Tsk tsk tsk," a soft lilting voice spoke. It was deep yet beguiling, so one could not tell the speaker's gender. Soft footsteps drew closer to Sullivan until he could perceive the scent of flowers. He frowned.
The footsteps stopped right behind Sullivan, and the soft rustling of clothes indicated that the speaker was leaning over. "It's been six months, did you miss me?"
Sullivan suppressed a shiver and a sneer. He clenched his hand and resisted the urge to smash his fist into Crimson's face.
"Oh, how time flies," Sullivan replied dryly.
There was a second of silence, then came deep laughter. The tall man stepped into Sullivan's view. He was as tall as Sullivan but more slender. He was dressed like an old medieval lord, a gold-gilded mask covered his face, eerily matching the décor of the drawing room. The mask had curved slits in place of eyes and red lips frozen in a mocking smile.
"Still as charming as always, I can see," Crimson languidly leaned into a luxurious chair. He tilted his head and leaned it against his fist. The movement made a lock of his long red hair fall out in a soft wave. He exuded an air of seduction.
Sullivan hid his impatience behind a thin smile. "I got your summons, what do you want?"
"Sigh, why do you have to be so cold to me?" Crimson's voice was downcast, and he affected a hurt disposition, but the fact that his expression could not be seen, coupled with the mocking mask, made his statement all the more infuriating.
"I have no time for games," Sullivan growled.
The air seemed to thicken with the growing tension. Barely a few words had been exchanged, but hostility and intolerance were tangible in the air. Sullivan shifted in his seat. He could feel Crimson's gaze on him like a snake. Still, it was hard to return the glare because Crimson's eyes were rather difficult to locate through the mask. A muscle twitched in Sullivan's cheek.
"Tch," Crimson scoffed. "You're increasingly becoming a bore." He stretched in his seat like a cat and rang the bell on the side table. A small inconspicuous door at the end of the room opened, a guard entered with a brown envelope in hand.
He walked past Crimson and held out the envelope to Sullivan. Sullivan accepted it with a frown. He didn't expect anything good. As he read the documents it contained, his expression grew increasingly dark.
"What do you mean by this?" Sullivan hissed. The hand holding the documents clenched, rumpling the paper.
Crimson chuckled. "Oh, I thought it was about time you got what you deserved."
Sullivan scowled.
The document came directly from the Underground. It was an appointment notice that promoted the Narok Family from a mere member to a commander. The Underground's main headquarters island was surrounded by seven small islands. These islands were inhabited by 'commanders' who were in charge of certain aspects in the running of the Underground. Crimson was a commander.
Another member would be ecstatic, even honored, by the promotion, but Sullivan wanted to pull out of the organization. This promotion was all bad news!
With or without a mask, Sullivan could hear the mocking smile in Crimson's voice as he said, "Your family has been with us for decades. It was only a matter of time before you became a commander; I merely hastened the process."
Sullivan could not show much displeasure. He nodded with gritted teeth. "I'll have to thank you later for this opportunity."
"Oh, what are friends for," Crimson shrugged. He sounded upset; clearly, he had expected Sullivan to have a more dramatic reaction. He pressed the small table bell again. This time the large doors pushed open, and a row of maids walked in.
"Perhaps a late lunch before you go? And maybe indulge in a little fun after," Crimson chuckled.
The maids carried trays laden with food. They were dressed in plain white frocks that didn't cover much and black lace socks that were rather inviting. If Sullivan had met them elsewhere, perhaps he would have had a little fun, but they belonged to Crimson, which in itself disgusted him.
Sullivan narrowed his eyes and looked away. "Oh, a pity I am not interested."
He stood up and straightened his shirt. "I'll have to trouble you to send me out."