Distinguished Wakamba Club Ring

Wakamba Ring The year was two thousand, and the city shimmered like a cheap dame's sequins under the Broadway lights glare. Eight Avenue, five-forty-five, the Distinguished Wakamba Cocktail Lounge. Amber light spilled onto the bar, the air thick with smoke and the ghost of a thousand spilled whiskeys. That's where I found him, Captain Morgan. Not a real captain, of course. Nobody's a real anything in this town. Just a guy with a name that smacked of rum and a glint in his eye that could cut glass. He held up a ring, a hunk of metal that caught the dim light. Tungsten, he said. Solid. Like his head. Eight millimeters wide, two thick. A fistful of cold, hard steel. "Let this ring," he barked, his voice rough as sandpaper, "be the symbol of our fellowship." Fellowship. Like he was running a damn fraternity for Wakamba bar patrons. This is a weapon-grade statement. Back in the days of gladiators and emperors, a black ring meant something. It wasn't just decoration; it was a sign of power,