No Halo
Second Life™ Destination:
Even superheroes have vices. No decent people
come to this part of town, so heroes who visit might
indulge in bad behavior, dance for cash in the red
light arcade, or stumble into (role-play) peril.
PRIMFEED: No Halo
**"No Halo for Mac"**
The rain didn’t clean the city—it just made the dirt slick. Mac lit a cigarette with fingers scarred from too many nights like this. No badge, no backup. Just him, a burner phone, and a girl in stilettos who walked like sin.
Her name was **Jenna**, but the motel regulars called her “Velvet.” Blonde, sharp-eyed, all curves and razor edges. She wasn’t a saint, but she wasn’t stupid. Mac didn’t like using people, but she volunteered. Said she was tired of watching girls OD while fat old men with Rolexes walked out clean.
**Room 108**, Motel Echo. That’s where the trade happened. Pills, coke, fentanyl—everything white and deadly passed through that hole-in-the-wall room like communion wafers in hell. The man behind it? **Lorenzo "Zip" Gallo**. A small-time punk with cartel ties and delusions of grandeur.
Mac had been chasing Zip for eight months. Knew he had to gut the beast from the inside. Jenna was the key.
The plan was tight. Jenna would go in wired, flirt, buy time. Mac would wait in the busted-out car across the street, eyes on the target, ears on the wire.
What he didn’t plan for? Zip pulling a gun before dessert.
---
**“You think I don’t know a setup when I see one?”** Zip snarled.
Jenna kept her cool, too used to danger to flinch. “You think I’d wear a wire in *this* dress?” she purred, arching a brow. The guy faltered.
Mac heard it all. He moved.
By the time he got to Room 108, the door was cracked open—like someone forgot what fear was. Inside, Jenna was standing over Zip. He was on the floor, gasping through blood. Her heel pressed into his chest like a final signature.
“He made a move. I made one back,” she said, voice flat.
Mac didn't speak. Just knelt beside the body, pulled a burner from Zip’s pocket, and texted the address to his contact at the Bureau.
Cleanup arrived in ten. Jenna disappeared in five.
---
Weeks later, Mac sat at a bar with no name, sipping something cheap and burning. His phone buzzed.
**Unknown Number**: *“He had friends. I’m not hiding forever. But I’ve got enough cash and stories to make it interesting. – J”*
Mac smiled. Just a twitch of the lips.
The city stayed dirty. But that night, at least, someone wiped off a corner of the mirror.
No Halo
Second Life™ Destination:
Even superheroes have vices. No decent people
come to this part of town, so heroes who visit might
indulge in bad behavior, dance for cash in the red
light arcade, or stumble into (role-play) peril.
PRIMFEED: No Halo
**"No Halo for Mac"**
The rain didn’t clean the city—it just made the dirt slick. Mac lit a cigarette with fingers scarred from too many nights like this. No badge, no backup. Just him, a burner phone, and a girl in stilettos who walked like sin.
Her name was **Jenna**, but the motel regulars called her “Velvet.” Blonde, sharp-eyed, all curves and razor edges. She wasn’t a saint, but she wasn’t stupid. Mac didn’t like using people, but she volunteered. Said she was tired of watching girls OD while fat old men with Rolexes walked out clean.
**Room 108**, Motel Echo. That’s where the trade happened. Pills, coke, fentanyl—everything white and deadly passed through that hole-in-the-wall room like communion wafers in hell. The man behind it? **Lorenzo "Zip" Gallo**. A small-time punk with cartel ties and delusions of grandeur.
Mac had been chasing Zip for eight months. Knew he had to gut the beast from the inside. Jenna was the key.
The plan was tight. Jenna would go in wired, flirt, buy time. Mac would wait in the busted-out car across the street, eyes on the target, ears on the wire.
What he didn’t plan for? Zip pulling a gun before dessert.
---
**“You think I don’t know a setup when I see one?”** Zip snarled.
Jenna kept her cool, too used to danger to flinch. “You think I’d wear a wire in *this* dress?” she purred, arching a brow. The guy faltered.
Mac heard it all. He moved.
By the time he got to Room 108, the door was cracked open—like someone forgot what fear was. Inside, Jenna was standing over Zip. He was on the floor, gasping through blood. Her heel pressed into his chest like a final signature.
“He made a move. I made one back,” she said, voice flat.
Mac didn't speak. Just knelt beside the body, pulled a burner from Zip’s pocket, and texted the address to his contact at the Bureau.
Cleanup arrived in ten. Jenna disappeared in five.
---
Weeks later, Mac sat at a bar with no name, sipping something cheap and burning. His phone buzzed.
**Unknown Number**: *“He had friends. I’m not hiding forever. But I’ve got enough cash and stories to make it interesting. – J”*
Mac smiled. Just a twitch of the lips.
The city stayed dirty. But that night, at least, someone wiped off a corner of the mirror.