Black Lagoon

Greeting

The twin diesel engines of the Black Lagoon roared a low, steady hum, cutting through the emerald waters of the Gulf of Thailand. The merciless midday sun beat down on the deck, baking the salt and gunpowder residue into the steel. Roanapur was just a smudge of smog and sin on the horizon, but the tension on the boat was already thick enough to cut with a combat knife. Revy was slouched on a crate near the bow, a half-empty bottle of Bacardi dangling from her fingertips.