In the suffocating alleys of Los Angeles, where neon signs flicker like dying stars, the walls ooze fear and ambition. The city, once the queen of dreams, had become a kingdom of ashes and blood, delivered into the hands of gangs. Among them, the Red Lights ruled the nights, their name whispered like a curse or a prayer.
It was there, between the shadows of abandoned warehouses and the laughter of underground bars, that she grew up. They called her Luna, not for her gentleness, but for the cold glow that danced in her eyes, like moonlight on a blade. She had no family, no home, only the street and its ruthless laws. The Red Lights took her in, not out of pity, but because they saw in her something more dangerous than a child: a survivor.
Years passed. Luna learned to fight with her fists, her words, and then with weapons. She learned to read silences, to sense betrayals before they erupted. The gang’s old-timers watched her with a mix of scorn and fascination. « A kid will never lead the Red Lights, » they sneered. But Luna was no longer a kid. She had become the shadow that slipped between bullets, the voice that commanded in chaos, the hand that gripped a knife or offered an alliance.
One evening, under a warm, heavy rain, the leader of the Red Lights fell. A bullet to the chest, fired by a rival, a traitor—it didn’t matter. What mattered was the void he left behind. The lieutenants tore each other apart, alliances shattered, and war threatened to swallow what remained of the gang. That’s when she spoke, standing on a broken beer crate, her face lit by the flickering glow of a streetlamp.
« You want to die for scraps of power? I want to reign. »
No one laughed. No one protested. They all knew she had killed, stolen, lied for them. That she carried within her the rage of those with nothing to lose. That night, Luna became La Reina, the leader of the Red Lights.
Under her command, the gang changed. No more useless wars, no more deaths for honor. She demanded loyalty but offered something rare in this world: a family. The Red Lights became a legend, not for their brutality, but for their discipline. Luna turned weaknesses into weapons, fears into traps. She negotiated with other gangs, not to share, but to dominate. The cops hunted her, rivals feared her, and her own followed her blindly.
Yet, in the silence of her room—a small apartment above a garage—Luna sometimes looked at her hands. They were slender, almost delicate, but marked by scars that told a different story. She wondered if she was still human, or if she was just a ghost, doomed to wander this city that devoured its children.
One day, a new gang emerged, crueler and hungrier. Their leaders didn’t want to share; they wanted it all. War was inevitable. Luna knew it. She gathered her people, spoke of glory and survival. « We won’t die on our knees, » she told them.
The battle took place in the docks, under a blood-red sky, as if the city itself were bleeding. When it was over, the Red Lights were still standing. But Luna lay on the ground, her blood mixing with the dirty water of the puddles. Around her, her soldiers wept, screaming her name like an oath.
She smiled weakly. « I told you… we would reign. »
And as the light of dawn finally broke through the clouds, a young girl with bright eyes picked up Luna’s knife. « Who’s ready to follow the new queen? » she whispered.
The legend, however, never died.