The Apollo Twins

Snowman

The bass thumped through the underground basement, the trap beat pulsing like a frantic heartbeat. In the dim, smoky light, a group of topless girls worked at a feverish pace, their nimble fingers bagging and sealing neat piles of white powder. They moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, their faces blank, their eyes focused on the task at hand.

Around them, young men lounged on tattered couches and mismatched chairs, some smoking, some counting wads of cash, all of them exuding an air of cocky invincibility. In a back room, separated by a thin curtain, four men sat around a table, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the acrid tang of weed.

"You sure the buyer's gonna keep his gob shut?" the leader, a wiry young man with bleached-blond hair and a heavily tattooed neck, asked.

"Yeah, bruv, it's all sorted," one of the others replied, his voice muffled by the joint dangling from his lips. "Transactions untraceable, everything's on lock. Ain't no way this comes back on us."

The leader nodded, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. This score's gonna set us up proper. We'll be kings of the ends after this."

Just then, a loud crash echoed from above, cutting through the throbbing music like a gunshot. The men froze, their eyes darting to the ceiling.

"The fuck was that?" the leader hissed.

Another crash, louder this time. The girls stopped their work, huddling together in a corner, their eyes wide with fear.

"Oi, kill the music!" the leader yelled, his voice tight with panic.

The room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the muffled thumps and bangs from above. The leader motioned to his crew, his hands shaking slightly as he grabbed a makeshift weapon - a length of rusty pipe.

"Spread out," he whispered. "And stay sharp."

The men crept forward, their makeshift weapons clutched tightly in sweaty palms. For a long moment, the only sound was the creaking of floorboards overhead, the ragged breathing of the men below.

Then, with a sudden, violent screech, the hatch leading down to the basement burst open. A body tumbled through, landing with a sickening crunch on the concrete floor. The men recoiled, their eyes bulging at the sight of the mangled limbs, the jagged shard of bone jutting through flesh.

Before they could react, another figure dropped through the hatch, landing with cat-like grace. He was tall and broad, his muscles straining against the fabric of his hoodie. He straightened slowly, his face obscured by a deep hood, and surveyed the room with a cool, almost disinterested gaze.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The air crackled with tension, the men's fingers tightening on their weapons. Then, with a guttural yell, one of them charged, swinging a metal pole.

The hooded man moved with blinding speed. One moment he was standing still, the next he was in motion, his arm lashing out in a brutal arc. The metal pole clattered to the ground as the attacker flew backwards, his body slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, and lay still.

The leader's mouth went dry, his heart slamming against his ribs. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form a word, a voice drifted down from above.

"Oi, Jamal, you dumb blud! Use your head for once, yeah?"

A second figure descended the ladder, moving with a slow, almost lazy grace. He was leaner than the first, with a shock of white-blond hair styled in a mohawk. He wore a tracksuit, the same as his companion, but where the other man was all coiled muscle and barely restrained violence, this one moved with a cool, almost arrogant confidence.

He sauntered over to the table, his eyes flicking over the piles of drugs. With a casual motion, he dipped a finger into the powder, then rubbed it distastefully on his tracksuit.

"A-Alex," the leader stammered, his voice cracking. "Bruv, I can explain..."

Alexander Blackwood, known on the streets as the Snowman, silenced him with a look. His eyes, pale and piercing, seemed to bore into the leader's soul.

"Jamal, Jamal, Jamal," he tutted, shaking his head. "You're making me look like a fool, you know that?"

"I'll get your money, I swear down!" Jamal pleaded, his hands held out in supplication. "Things just got a bit sticky, yeah? But I'll sort it, I promise!"

Alex laughed, the sound utterly devoid of humor. He clapped a hand on Jamal's shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh.

"Jamal, my guy, I ain't stupid," he said, his voice soft, almost friendly. "And I don't like being taken for a dickhead."

Jamal's eyes flicked nervously to the hulking figure by the ladder. Alex smiled, a cold, predatory thing.

"Oh, don't mind Ethan," he said. "He's just here to make sure we all stay... civil, like. Nah, bruv, this is between you and me. All you gotta do is give me a straight answer, and my brother won't have to get involved."

Jamal swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "I... I'll get your money, Alex. I swear on my mum's life. I just need a little more time..."

Alex sighed, stepping back. He motioned to one of Jamal's men, a scrawny kid with a face like a weasel.

"You. Bag up the gear on the table. Quick time."

The kid scrambled to obey, scooping the drugs into a duffel with shaking hands. Jamal watched, his face slack with shock.

"Alex, bruv, come on," he wheedled. "That's all we got, fam. You can't just..."

But Alex was already moving, sauntering back towards the ladder. Ethan followed, silent as a shadow.

At the base of the ladder, Alex paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Seven days, Jamal," he said, his voice cold as ice. "You got seven days to get me my money. Don't make me come looking."

And with that, he was gone, vanishing up into the darkness. Ethan followed, the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

In the sudden, ringing silence of the basement, Jamal slumped against the table, his head in his hands. The girls emerged from their corner, huddling together like frightened rabbits. The men stared at the ladder, their faces ashen.

Seven days. They had seven days to come up with the money, or face the wrath of the Blackwood twins.

In the gloom of the basement, with the stench of fear thick in the air, it felt like a death sentence.

***