Hard lights flashing bright shades of red and blue sprouted around an unpopular pier in Manhattan. In the distance, blaring sirens echoed each other as officers rushed to the freshest crime scene; eager to poke their noses in anything that so much as budged. The Willowsburg Pier, one could say, was in the quietest part of town.  Always peacefully standing as waves crashed into the shore down below while a few stray younger folk tossed some loose stones into the wading water, challenging one another to see who can make their rock skip the longest.

Other than the pier, there was generally no activity to be found in that particular part of town. At least, that was the case until there was a shoot-out consisting of several men on January 18th, 1967. It was a Wednesday, beginning as any other throughout the afternoon, until a call stirred the police department. As soon as authorities had arrived to the scene, officers, unsurprisingly, were swift to scavenge the area in search for anything. They identified the deceased criminals, picked up loose scraps of matted clothing, as well as finding broken shards of glass scattered all around the dock. What followed, was forged ink clumped in messy, watery puddles; which was the biggest red flag of the scene. A few cracked, but still intact bottles were lying innocently in the ink, while the rest of them were shattered to pieces.

Through the light-flaring police vehicles, a low-grounded car pulled up by the sidewalk and parked neatly behind all the authority cars. Shortly afterwards a long-coated canine stepped out of the car, gnawing aggressively at a bundle of sunflower seeds in his maw as he began to walk down the sidewalk. Weaseling his way under the police tape, he slipped past the crowd of fumbling, baffled cops as they searched the deceased bodies. The labrador's eyes darted left and right as he strode, keeping a calm pace as he sunk in the area.

"Hey Doug, good to see ya." One of the officers called from afar, said labrador twisting his head towards the holler in acknowledgement, giving a gentle wave in reply. As the detective neared the middle section of the pier, his peripheral vision spotted even more officers searching on the other end, obviously far too busy to even notice the detective as he passed. The labrador began to feel a little underwhelmed by the scene, there wasn't much out of the ordinary, it seemed as though it were just another shoot-out. Although just as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a hollow clank resonate from below him, indicating that one of his shoes had nudged something at ground-level. The labrador's gaze snapped to the noise, blinking as his eyes met with a minuscule, glass container by his jet black shoes.

Doug hesitated for a few moments before slowly lowering himself to the ground, wrapping his fingers around the small jar. Though he was welcomed with a sticky, messy cloud of black beginning to sink into his gloves, the labrador disregarded it, narrowing his eyes on the container as he twisted it in his grasp. There were a few cracks here and there, leaking the dark substance of ink onto the edges and staining into the paper of the label that slung itself all around the glass. The first thing that popped in the labrador's mind was that another amateur ink manufacturer somehow managed to lose a few cases of their ink. But as Doug's glare hardened on the barely visible symbol positioned in the center of the jar- smeared from the rain and splattered by the inky liquid- the labrador felt his heart stop. The curve of it, the wave of its horns, how they swung from the sides of the head and left a hollow circle at the center.

Doug took in shaky breaths, feeling himself stumble back a bit as he recalled how many horrific memories tied with that marking. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't tear his gaze away, it almost seemed as if it was taunting him. The detective swallowed dryly before tightening his grip and curling his fingers around the container. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, waving it around gently to shake whatever lint clung to it. Laying it as flatly as he could in his palm, he neatly placed the messy container in the handkerchief, wrapping the folds around it tidily. After gently sticking both items in his side pocket, Doug took a gander at his gloves, his nose wrinkling in distaste as the markings of ink still clung to the fabric. The labrador huffed through his nostrils at the sight before clenching his fists and shoving them into his pockets, nonchalantly twisting in his steps and slipping out of the crime scene. As swiftly as he could manage without seeming to be in too much of a rush, the detective made his way to his vehicle so that once again, for the fifth time, he could head back to his post and open up the Devil case.

What any toon that has a mental grasp of reality would know is that ink is a very special substance to them. Only allowed to be used by hospitals and trained professionals; legally. It keeps toons happy, it keeps everyone healthy, but more importantly, it's what keeps them all alive. But with something so wonderful, there is always a catch underneath; the toon must have no criminal record backing them up if they ever wanted to get their hands on any. The government can take away the benefit just as easily as they can give it out, it's as simple as the snapping of fingers. Although to authorities' dismay, slimey lowlives have managed to dodge the law by making their own. Delinquents could now get their hands on ink quite easily if they have a good dealer and a certain amount of money- a few grand, as authorities had heard. Though with further inspection and testing, it was realized that there were minimal, but important faults in this bootleg concoction. For one, the only real healing power it bares is embedding gashes or tears in the flesh. Meaning, it can't bring back lost limbs, it can't fix broken bones, and it most certainly can't bring a toon back to life. Whatever mixture criminals are using on the streets is far from organic toon ink, but nonetheless, it's been circulating and evolving, which is something that the authorities don't like in the slightest. Merely the thought of all these vicious trouble-makers figuring out how to make themselves virtually untouchable could make anyone's skin crawl. A more specific example for this 'breed' of criminals would be a fellow by the name of Benjamin, or as everyone tends to call him; Bendy.  There's one rule that every toon in Manhattan abides to; never speak of Benjamin Damian Devil.

On the streets he may be known as just another low-lived lawbreaker, but to Doug, he may as well be the devil himself, as even his own name suggests. He's been the one behind all of the major off-brand ink hullaballoo for nearly a year now, and it's been driving the detective nuts. Benjamin is not a solo criminal; oh no, he's far too intelligent to run around causing mischief on his own. He works in a pack, and that pack is the farthest damn thing from amateur. With Devil being the ruthlessly clever leader of such a vigorous gang, it's considerably easy to make thousands in merely days; an amount that a toon with a stable job could only dream of gathering in years. Devil's been bouncing around from place to place with his mob for months, willing to move forward even when his comrades drop like flies.

They were first discovered when they started to rowdy up Los Angeles; robbing banks and breaking into popular establishments just to cause up a stir. After getting raided by the FBI, they fled to the city of Victoria, and this was where Devil first began dealing ink. It wasn't so popular when he first started making it, unsurprisingly, but it was still selling by a reasonable amount. Gained a couple grand or so every week or two; not too bad for a rookie. Though what customers didn't understand at first was that the mixture was incredibly thin and it wasn't as effective as advertised. It didn't aid gunshot wounds too well, but it could easily fix a scratch. Devil didn't tell consumers that, but boy did they find out eventually. He gathered quite a few enemies over those few months and eventually escalated to the point where Devil had to flee, losing a handful of comrades in his escape. Ever since then, he was out of police radar... until ink began circulating in Manhattan.

As far as sources reeled in, Devil was back in his hometown ready to cause more mischief. He's been spotted here and there, but not a single officer has been able to come anywhere close to catching him. There were plenty of officers that claimed to have seen him at one point or another, although the occasion is very rare considering the sneaky son of a bitch often flees from the scene without a second to spare. Most of them haven't seen him for longer than a few moments. As much as authorities wish it were so, there is no possible way of tracking Devil's activity; or as Doug calls it, his 'Trouble Trail'. He jounces all over the place with no schedule or routine in mind. Popping into different speakeasies and bars, more often than not wearing something to cover the top of his head as his 'disguise'. Working with what witnesses have mentioned, he doesn't really seem to care if he's out in the open having barely anything to hide his identity. As far as authorities are concerned, he goes wherever he pleases whenever he feels like it and doesn't seem to pay mind to the repercussions he may have in doing so. Although, his tactic- if you could even call it that- seems to be working, because by the time authorities arrive to where he was spotted, he's already gone. Doesn't leave a single speck or trace of evidence behind.  Toons of the town were beginning to think that Devil was just a myth; a fairytale brought up so that everyone would be more careful outside their homes, but police knew fare and well that Devil most certainly was real. Most of them haven't seen him any longer than a few moments before he disappears into the night, but they knew he was far from a folktale.

The streets of New York are almost always full of traffic, occupied by a crowd of irritated drivers blowing their horns at more close calls than one could ever count. Drivers; whom of which would hate to have even a slim second brushed off their usual schedule, were always in a hurry as they raced around the town. Although the roads aren't as clogged when the sun sinks under the horizon, there are still plenty of cars to count; toons exhaustively steering their vehicle towards their final destination for the day. More often than not their homes. On the sides of those very roads stood many, many buildings, which held long alleyways that separated them. One of the most popular establishments in the area was a small bar; just a few blocks away from the entrance of the town. Though insignificant in size, it had brought constant attention from visitors and citizens alike, keeping the business alive and well. Crescent Tavern- with a seeming sense of tranquility- not only brought in regular everyday toons, but it was also rumored to serve wanted felons. And as many sources had mentioned, Devil was one of them. 

It had been two days since the scene at Willowsburg Pier. Since then days were beginning to go by very slowly for the police department, meanwhile Detective Doug had been quietly collecting information on the streets to find the whereabouts of a certain, undeniably immortalized demon. Doug's desk was already cluttered with plenty of photographs and sightings of Devil, none of which were even that relevant anymore. Although with the constant name of, 'Crescent Tavern' being brought up by one witness after another, Doug was beginning to believe that the 'Trouble Trail' has a route, he just had to figure it out.

Doug parked his car in a shopping mall's parking lot, exiting his car in a fatigued state, barely even recalling to lock his door as he departed from his vehicle. Turning, he took in a breath of the cold, dewy air before intuitively shoving his keys in one of his pockets. Soft drops of rain tainted his coat along with the top of his head, but it wasn't much of a bother. The gloomy attitude of the weather was no surprise to anyone that lived in the area, it was almost always pouring in the fall. Though the citizens didn't seem to mind, the police sure as hell did. Most of the time the rain would wash away potential evidence, sometimes causing a bigger uproar than necessary, but Doug didn't need to worry about that at the moment, his target was Crescent Tavern; and there was nothing to get in his way. They had said that Devil couldn't be recognized right away, and he tended to come in during late hours, more often than not around midnight or very early in the morning. The detective checked his watch. 12:43 AM.

Doug may not be able to catch the bastard, but maybe he's already visited. There was only one way to find out. The rain was delicate, not harsh pelting droplets as the weatherman had predicted earlier. Luckily for the unexpected change in weather, the detective could swiftly and confidently walk down the sidewalk with nothing slowing him down. His thin, black shoes resonated soft clicks as he walked, his gaze up ahead. When he could finally make out the wording on the sign he was looking for, he quickened his pace, eager to get a word with the owner. His feet came to a halt as he stood in front of the door, his eyes flicking up once more just to be sure he was at the right place. Yep, 'Crescent Tavern' bolded in a neat shade of light blue, as he had been told. The paint was crumbling and flaking off at the seams, needed a new coat by the looks of it. The walls appeared to be matted and some parts were visibly rotting, everything seemed to be left as it were first built. Doug's gaze trailed back to the door, peeking through the small window for a moment to see that not many toons were huddled up in the bar.  The detective took in a breath of the cold air once more before opening up the door and mustering a warm expression.

There was a soft chime of bells as Doug entered the tiny bar, a coat rack standing neatly to the right of him as he walked in. Without much hesitation, the labrador removing his coat and stuck it neatly on the rack beside him. As Doug walked towards the counter, he felt himself grow uneasy as an unfamiliar bunch of toons mumbled quietly to one another as he passed.

"Oh would you look at that," One of them muttered under their breath, another one speaking shortly afterwards, "How much you wanna bet he's here about..."  The rest of the conversation was inaudible as Doug seated himself in one of the chairs by the counter, tapping anxiously as the toon to the other side of the counter calmly washed the inside of a wine glass. It was quiet in the bar for a long while, before the toon behind the counter slowly glanced towards the detective in front of him.  "I have a feeling you're not here for a drink this evening." The owner murmured in a hush voice, not pausing in his cleaning. Doug faked a grin, "Yeah, the wife wouldn't be too happy if I downed anything this early." The labrador replied, chuckling dryly. Moon simply hummed softly as a reply, understanding the circumstance. Doug glanced behind him slowly, pausing to spot the same toons from earlier staring at him with pure interest in their gazes. Doug swallowed before turning back to the bartender, "I hear Bendy's been visiting you a lot lately." There were creaks in the chairs behind the detective after he spoke the words, but Doug paid no mind to it, keeping a close eye on the toon before him. Moon didn't even flinch, keeping his eyes on the glass as he dried it. "Bendy?" The owner repeated softly before turning and gently placing the now cleaned wine glass on its designated shelf.

The canine gave a brief nod.  "I'm here to confirm whether that's true or not." Doug murmured, ringing his hands cautiously. Moon turned his head towards the detective, his expression firm. "If you tell me what I wanna hear and let me know where he's headed this morning, I'm willing to hand off thirty thousand, courtesy of the FBI." The labrador insisted, feeling his heart race with anticipation as the toon behind the bar inched closer.  Moon blinked slowly, as though he was gathering his thoughts, not speaking for a long while as he stared. When he seemed to have pondered for long enough, Moon pressed his palms to the counter and leaned forward, "As generous as that offer is, I can't lie to you." The owner mumbled under his breath, "I haven't seen that thing step anywhere in my bar, and I plan to keep it that way." Moon stated nonchalantly, his eyes narrowing. "I don't serve criminals, and it's rather insulting that you think I would, Teter." The bartender muttered, bitterness in his tone. Moon stared intensely at the detective in front of him before straightening his posture and awaited a reply. But Moon didn't receive what he was patiently waiting for, as Doug refused to waste his breath. Slowly, the labrador rose from his spot, scooting the chair beneath him aside. With that, the detective twisted in his steps shortly afterwards, walking towards the coat rack as he grit his teeth in rising annoyance. Doug plucked his attire from the rack, slipped into his coat, and fixed his lapel tidily before exiting the bar without another word.

The detective stood outside of the door, taking in calming breaths as he felt his blood boil. He just wasted his time driving all the way up here and in the end, he had gathered nothing to the case. Absolutely-

~CRACK!

Thunder struck with a sudden clash. Doug jolted in his place as he heard the loud sound, his eyes instinctively locking to the sky. Only now did the canine realize that the soft rain from before was evolving into big, tough drops of liquid, splashing down and pelting his freshly drying coat. Huffing with pure aggravation, Doug began walking in the opposite direction down his original route, trying his very hardest to ignore the raindrops that slid down his head and drenched his clothing. Through his rage soaked stroll, the labrador noticed a fellow calmly leaning against a building, their face completely overshadowed by their hood. Doug silently watched as the downpour slid off of their hood and plopped onto their chest, the toon not even seeming to mind. Gathering up whatever kindness he had left in his very soul, Doug grinned and waved a greeting as he passed. The hooded toon simply nodded in acknowledgement before mumbling something that Doug didn't quite catch.

The hooded toon watched as the labrador walked away, sinking in their own thoughts as the visibly angered canine strolled out of sight. Slowly, they got up from their spot, turning in the direction that the toon that had just past came from, walking casually to the same exact location that the labrador had visited. Nonchalantly they opened the door, receiving the familiar jingle that all guests had received when they visited. All of the remaining customers turned their heads, their gazes locked with the newcomer, whom of which didn't even bother to remove their coat. Even though the toon was soaked, they refused to discard their dripping attire, calmly walking over to the counter and slowly seating themselves in one of the tall chairs. Moon looked him up and down, "How many I help you, sir?" The owner greeted, holding his gaze on his newest customer.

"Scotch." The toon mumbled under his breath, not muttering so much as a syllable more. Moon grinned before turning and abiding to the order. Every toon in the bar couldn't help but stare, their minds obviously racing, but not as fast as their hearts. Moon placed the short glass of scotch neatly on a coaster and scooted it towards his hooded customer before leaning his weight on the counter. "Anything else?" Moon asked.

"I'd like to use your telephone, if I may." The mysterious toon replied quietly. Moon nodded, mustering a gentle grin, "Sure thing, there's one right on the wall over there whenever you're ready."

Placing his fingertips on the rim of the glass, the hooded toon gently twisted his drink left and right, watching as the ice hit the sides. This continued for a few moments longer before he finally picked up the glass and pressed the rim to his lips, taking a long sip before placing it neatly back on the designated coaster. The covered toon gave a sigh of satisfaction as he stood up from his place, casually dusted off his coat before reaching into his pocket. After a few moments, he lifted up his glass ever so slightly before slipping an incredibly hefty tip underneath. "Keep the change." The toon mumbled, walking over to the telephone shortly afterwards. Every single eye in the bar was completely captivated by this mysterious toon, unable to tear their gazes away from him even for a moment. Picking up the telephone handset, the toon swiftly typed in the number he wished to call, each press giving a soft sound in reply to the digit. After dialing all the proper digits, he pressed the receiver to the side of his head, listening to the ring for a short period of time before whoever was being called picked up the phone. "Seventeen." The toon on the other line muttered in a husky voice. Not too long after the single word was mumbled, they hung up without another sound. The hooded toon placed the handset back in its place and turned in his steps, giving a gracious nod towards Moon.  "Thanks." The toon murmured simply as he made his way for the door.

Moon grinned, "Anytime, Devil." The owner replied, watching as the mischievous delinquent slipped out of the bar.

A/N:
Hey y'all! For those of you who are unfamiliar with me and my work, I'd love to give you the warmest welcome. I've been working on this project for a nearly two years now, and I'm so excited to finally share it with you!  It's been a wild ride, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3