Ziho stepped into the market, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic sprawl of stalls and wandering figures. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and something sharp—like a trace of burning wires. People jostled each other in the narrow lanes, the noise a dull roar of bartering, laughter, and occasional arguments. He moved through it all with purpose, barely registering the brush of shoulders or elbows. When someone bumped into him too hard, he shoved them back without a word, his eyes fixed forward. He could feel it—the watchful eyes of the gang, lurking on the edges of his awareness, sizing him up. They were everywhere in this place, blending into the crowd, waiting to see if he’d slip.

  He didn’t care. Not today.

  His focus narrowed as he scanned the vendors, each stall cluttered with mechanical parts, glowing screens, and tools of questionable origin. The market thrived on salvage and scrap, but buried beneath the piles of junk were treasures—if you knew how to look. Ziho, however, wasn’t here to sift through debris. He wanted a direct answer, and he didn’t have time for games.

  Eventually, he found what he was looking for: a vendor with a stall crammed with tech parts, cables hanging like vines, and metallic scraps littering the ground. The man behind the counter, older and hunched, had a gleam in his eye that spoke of years spent in this underbelly, knowing when to swindle and when to sell. Ziho approached, his voice low, cutting through the market’s din.

  “You sell prototypes?”

  The vendor blinked, his hands pausing in their work for a fraction of a second. “Prototypes?” He gave a dry chuckle, but his eyes flicked over Ziho, evaluating. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, friend. A lot of things can be called a prototype.”

  Ziho held his gaze, unmoving. “Something new. Stolen tech, maybe. I’m not here to browse.”

  The vendor's smile didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. “Stolen, huh? Well, if I had something like that, it’d be mighty expensive. Dangerous business.”

  Ziho didn’t flinch. He wasn’t playing into the vendor’s hands. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until the man shifted, realizing Ziho wasn’t about to offer more.

  “Alright,” the vendor muttered, his tone shifting to something more careful. He reached beneath his stall and pulled out a small, sleek device, its surface scratched but polished enough to look legitimate. “Maybe this is what you’re after. A real prototype, cutting-edge tech.”

  Ziho eyed it, trying to read the vendor’s face. The machine looked right—too right. The gleam of the metal, the slight hum it gave off, all crafted to look like something out of a corporate lab. But it felt off, like a piece of theater designed to dazzle the uninformed.

  “Go on,” the vendor said, leaning forward now, pushing his advantage. “You won’t find anything like this anywhere else.”

  Ziho narrowed his eyes, his gut telling him it was a trap. He wasn’t an expert on tech, and the vendor could smell that doubt. The man was testing him, waiting for him to reveal something—anything—that would give him leverage. Ziho’s mind raced. If he pushed too hard or showed his ignorance, he’d be taken for a fool, but if he played it right…

  “Tell me about it,” Ziho said flatly, his voice betraying nothing. He crossed his arms, letting the weight of his stare hang in the air. “How does it work?”

  The vendor grinned wider, clearly thinking he had Ziho cornered. “Oh, it’s quite advanced,” he began, talking fast now. “This baby? She’s equipped with next-gen sensors, can interface with neural networks, pick up biometric readings within a hundred meters. Perfect for covert ops. A real game-changer in the right hands.”

  Ziho listened, but the more the vendor spoke, the more certain he became. This was a sham—crafted to sound impressive but vague enough that it didn’t mean anything. Still, he kept his face neutral, letting the vendor dig himself deeper into the lie.

  “And this?” Ziho asked, gesturing to the device with a flick of his hand. “What makes this so special?”

  The vendor’s eyes gleamed with triumph, sensing Ziho’s apparent interest. He pressed forward, spinning more elaborate descriptions, adjusting his story based on Ziho’s questions, shaping it to fit whatever he thought Ziho was looking for.

  But Ziho saw through it now. He wasn’t here to be swindled. He stepped back, his expression hardening, the subtle shift in his stance enough to make the vendor’s grin falter. Ziho wasn’t the fool the man had thought.

  Without warning, Ziho lunged forward, his hand clamping onto the vendor’s collar, yanking him out of his seat with a force that sent tools clattering to the ground. The vendor’s eyes widened, hands flailing in shock as Ziho lifted him effortlessly with one hand, his feet barely grazing the dirt beneath the stall.

  “You think I’m stupid?” Ziho’s voice was low and dangerous, every word sharpened like a blade. The vendor gasped, clawing at Ziho’s grip, but there was no escape. With a quick, brutal motion, Ziho slammed him into the ground, the impact reverberating through the stall as the vendor let out a pained groan.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Ziho growled, kneeling over the vendor, his fist still gripping his collar, eyes locked onto his prey. “Something stolen. From the corporates. A prototype.” He leaned in closer, his face inches from the vendor’s terrified expression. “Now tell me everything you know, or I swear I’ll break your lying face.”

  The vendor coughed, panic overtaking him as he scrambled to speak. “Wait—wait! I know some things—just—just give me a second, alright? I don’t—don’t want trouble!”

  The crowd around them had already started to disperse, giving the scene a wide berth, but Ziho barely noticed. He had the man right where he wanted him. The vendor’s hands trembled as he began to talk, spitting out half-sentences, trying to buy time.

  But time was something Ziho didn’t have.

  Before the vendor could say anything useful, Ziho felt a strong hand grip his shoulder, yanking him back with surprising force. He spun, his muscles tense, just in time to see the enforcer—one of the gang's heavyset guards—push him away from the vendor, who was now coughing on the ground.

  Two more enforcers closed in, their eyes fixed on Ziho with predatory suspicion.

  “What’s the problem here?” one of them asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

  Ziho straightened, shaking off the enforcer’s grip, his eyes flicking between the three men.

  “What’s the problem?” Ziho echoed, his voice calm but laced with challenge. “I should be asking you the same thing. Or maybe your little friend here has more to say.”

  The enforcers exchanged glances, their hands hovering near weapons, eyes narrowing as they sized him up. It was clear they didn’t buy his act. To them, Ziho was now a wild card—someone who might be corporate, a cop, a rival gang member trying to extract information. They didn’t like that.

  “This is our market,” one of the enforcers said, his tone thick with warning. “People don’t just walk in here and start breaking heads unless they’re looking for trouble. Who are you?”

  Ziho didn’t blink. “I’m looking for something. That’s all you need to know.”

  The tension between them hung like a blade. The gang was suspicious, circling like sharks, and if Ziho made one wrong move, they’d close in, no questions asked.

  Without warning, Ziho struck. His hand shot out like a viper, seizing the nearest enforcer by the face. A sickening crack echoed as Ziho drove his knee upward, slamming into the enforcer’s skull with brutal precision. The man crumpled instantly, his body folding like wet cloth.

  The others barely had time to react. Their hands were already moving for their pistols, instincts kicking in—but Ziho moved faster. He was a blur, a rush of violence that their minds couldn’t track, only their bones feeling the aftermath. One enforcer was knocked sideways with a vicious elbow to the throat; the other, a sharp twist and a blow to the temple, sending him sprawling unconscious into the dirt.

  Ziho didn’t even glance at the fallen men. He ground his boot down onto the nearest pistol, metal squealing and snapping beneath the pressure, then the next—crushing them into useless scrap. Only then did he turn back to the vendor, who was halfway into a desperate, pathetic attempt to slither away through the piles of junk.

  Ziho caught him easily, his grip firm but not cruel this time. He pulled the man up by the collar like a parent scolding a wayward child. His voice dropped to a low growl, dangerous but almost...disappointed.

  “So you don’t know anything, do you?” Ziho said, his tone a blade pressed just shy of the skin. “Don’t lie to me. You saw what happened to them.”

  The vendor’s entire body shook, his face pale and slick with sweat. His hands fluttered uselessly at his sides, like he couldn’t decide whether to beg or bolt.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “No, sir... I—I don’t know any ‘prototype’ that’s been stolen, I swear it!” he stammered. “At least... not anything important. If there was something like that, something big, I—I would’ve heard. I would’ve known...”

  Ziho held him there a moment longer, reading the fear in his eyes, the way the man’s pulse hammered in his neck. Genuine. This wasn’t a con—he truly didn’t know.

  With a grunt, Ziho released him. He brushed the dirt from the vendor’s shoulders in a mockery of kindness, straightened his own jacket, and said coolly, “Alright. I believe you. Go back to selling your crap.”

  He gave the vendor a light shove, sending him stumbling backward into the remnants of his stall.

  “But if you hear anything—anything—you tell the boss immediately. Understood?”

  The vendor nodded so fast he looked like a broken machine. “Understood, sir. Understood!”

  Ziho turned away, the matter already forgotten. The vendor collapsed back onto his stool, hands trembling, muttering to himself as he tried to gather the spilled remnants of his dignity.

  Around them, the market’s rhythm cautiously began to stitch itself back together. The space that had cleared around Ziho like a wound slowly began to close, people shuffling in, pretending not to have seen anything, eyes averted or flicking sidelong with furtive curiosity. The roar of commerce returned—but it was thinner now, wary.

  Ziho felt it before he saw it: a pressure in the crowd, a ripple of tension parting the bodies ahead like a slow, deliberate tide.

  He turned, already knowing.

  Through the thinning ranks, three figures emerged. The crowd gave way as if pushed by an invisible hand, faces turning away, shoulders hunching. In the center strode a massive man, shoulders like a battering ram, flanked by two leaner enforcers who moved with a predator’s patience.

  Ziho’s mouth curled into a smirk. He stepped forward, arms spread in mock welcome, his voice slicing through the market’s noise.

  “Mitch! I was wondering when you’d show up. I was getting bored!”

  The big man, Mitch, wore a smirk of his own—a small, tight thing that didn’t reach his eyes. His boots crunched over the dirt and debris, steady and unhurried. The two enforcers flanking him stayed sharp, their hands twitching near their belts but holding back.

  Mitch came close enough that Ziho could smell the leather of his jacket and the metallic scent of old blood ground into his gloves. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused.

  “Ziho,” Mitch said, voice rough like gravel dragged across steel. “Been a long time. Guess you were real bored if you thought stirring up my boys was a good idea.”

  He glanced at the unconscious enforcers sprawled behind Ziho, then gave a short, humorless chuckle.

  “You know we got fighting pits for that,” Mitch added, a glint of something dangerous in his eye. “Plenty of ways to burn off that energy without breakin’ my merchandise.”

  He jerked his chin, signaling for the two enforcers to stay back. They obeyed, hovering on the edges like wolves kept barely on a leash.

  Ziho tilted his head, grinning like he hadn’t heard the warning stitched into Mitch’s voice.

  “Pits are for dogs, Mitch,” he said lightly. “I’m looking for something a little more valuable today.”

  The market seemed to hold its breath around them, waiting for the next spark.

  Mitch took a step back, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. There was even a small, dry chuckle tangled in his words when he spoke.

  "You didn’t change a bit, did you?"

  Ziho just shook his head, the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips, but said nothing. His stance shifted too—no longer coiled for violence, but casual, almost lazy, like a blade sheathed but still within easy reach.

  "I’m looking for Junker," Ziho said after a beat, his voice light, almost playful. "Got something I need to find... and besides," he added, a flash of mischief crossing his face, "I’ve been wanting to punch his fat face again."

  He paused, the words trailing off as a flicker of old memories passed behind his eyes—half-forgotten brawls, late-night raids, the smell of engine grease and cheap whiskey thick in the air. Good times, if such a thing existed here.

  "It’s been a while since I saw him. Or you," he said, his tone softer for a moment. "Watchu say we go for a drink?"

  For a fleeting second, Mitch's face cracked into a real smile, one that almost made him look younger, almost human. But just as quickly, the wall went back up. He glanced at the two enforcers beside him—silent, watching everything, hands never far from their weapons.

  "Don’t talk about the boss like that," Mitch said, voice low but not without humor. "Or I’ll have to wash your mouth out."

  Ziho laughed under his breath and turned on his heel, already walking, expecting the others to fall in line.

  But Mitch didn’t move.

  "Ziho," he said, voice sharp enough to stall him mid-step.

  Ziho stopped and half-turned, his smile fading.

  "We’ve got a situation," Mitch continued, stepping forward until his shadow brushed against Ziho’s boots. His voice dropped to a near whisper, low enough that only Ziho caught the words over the din of the market. "Our little drink’ll have to wait. But you’re coming anyway. We need you."

  He leaned in closer, and the air between them tightened with something heavier than just old friendship.

  "We bagged ourselves a pretty important corporate scientist. The boss is up there now, arguing with Rif and the other captains about what to do with him. Thought you might enjoy the show."

  For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow down to a point.

  Ziho’s casual posture vanished like smoke. His whole body stiffened, his eyes flashing cold and sharp.

  "What did you do to him?" he snapped, his voice low but lethal. "He’s alive, right?"

  Mitch hesitated a fraction too long.

  Ziho took a step closer, his voice hardening to iron. "He better be alive, Mitch. If you fuckers messed him up—"

  "He’s alive," Mitch said quickly, holding up a hand. "Relax. Beat up a little maybe, but breathing. C’mon. Let’s move before the boss makes a bigger mess."

  Ziho didn’t wait for any more assurances. Without another word, he broke into a jog, cutting through the thinning market crowd like a blade through fabric.

  Mitch grunted and motioned for the two enforcers to follow. They moved swiftly, shadows in Ziho’s wake, slipping through alleys clogged with rusted machinery and neon-splattered grime.

  On a rooftop nearby, Ony crouched low beside a battered ventilation pipe, sharp eyes tracking the market below. Beside him, Jake leaned against the rusted ledge, arms crossed, tension etched into every line of his body.

  Far below, they watched as Ziho, Mitch, and the enforcers disappeared into the market.

  A moment later, hurried footsteps clattered behind them. Ony turned just as De emerged, panting, sweat beading his forehead from the long sprint up the endless stairs.

  "I’m here," De said between breaths, moving quickly to the edge to join them. He wiped a hand across his face, scanning the streets below with keen eyes.

  Ony pointed with a slight jerk of his chin. "Good to see you. We haven't seen Hart since he was taken in... but the place is crawling with gang muscle now. Heavy hitters, too." His voice dropped lower. "There was a fight a minute ago, but it got handled fast."

  De’s gaze snapped to the alleyway just as Ziho disappeared. He caught a glimpse—lean frame, quick brutal movements.

  "That man... the one running with the gangsters at his heels—was he in the fight?" De asked.

  Ony nodded. "Yeah. Tough one. Dropped three enforcers in the blink of an eye. Didn’t even look winded."

  De exhaled slowly through his nose, the gears behind his calm expression turning.

  "He’s with me," De said finally. "I mean—he’s not officially part of us. But I know him. He’s a friend of Hart’s. Said he could persuade the gang to let Hart go." His brow furrowed. "I just hope he doesn’t mean through violence..."

  Ony studied De’s face—a calm mask, but the sharp flicker in his eyes betrayed the calculations running just beneath the surface.

  Jake stood off to the side, silent, brooding, until finally he spoke, voice tight.

  "So... you're part of the organization too, huh?"

  De's gaze flicked over to Jake, cold and assessing.

  "And who’s this?" he asked Ony without taking his eyes off Jake.

  Ony kept his voice level. "Jake. Met him down in the market. He wanted to join up with us."

  Jake was quick to add, a flash of bitterness creeping into his tone, "Not anymore... not after learning Rif’s one of yours."

  The name hung in the air like a bad smell.

  De narrowed his eyes slightly. "You know Rif? Why is that a problem?"

  Jake’s fists clenched at his sides, his voice rising despite himself.

  "He stole and sold my sister’s ring." He spat the words like venom. "The only thing I had left of her. That fucking rat."

  The rooftop was silent for a moment, the distant hum of neon lights buzzing in the background. De and Ony exchanged a long look.

  Then Ony spoke, his voice heavier now. "De. You need to hear this. According to Jake... Rif killed one of our own. A member."

  De instinctively stepped back, shock flaring across his face.

  "You sure?" he asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

  Ony’s eyes didn’t waver.

  De stepped closer to Jake, his expression sharp, dangerous now.

  "Is that true? Why would I believe you?"

  Jake swallowed the anger bubbling up and forced himself to stay steady.

  "I saw it," he said. "Here, in the market. A while back. He shot one of yours. Didn't even try to hide it." His voice cracked slightly at the edges, but he pushed on. "I don’t know why. Maybe a message. Maybe just because he could."

  De turned his head slowly toward Ony. Ony nodded once, grim.

  De began pacing in a tight circle, one hand rubbing at the stubble on his jaw, the other clenching and unclenching.

  Down in the streets, nothing looked out of place. Neon signs flickered. Vendors shouted. The market crawled on like a wounded animal trying to pretend it wasn’t dying.

  But on the rooftops...

  Ony’s eyes caught a flicker of movement—shadows shifting, figures slipping into vantage points with predatory stillness. Lookouts. Twenty, maybe more. Well-armed. Well-positioned.

  He turned back to De.

  "I see you called for backup," Ony said quietly.

  De didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, voice grim.

  "Yeah.” His fingers tapped nervously against his thigh. "We’ve got about twenty men in place. Waiting. Watching. Ready to move if needed."

  He stopped pacing, planting himself squarely before Ony and Jake. His voice was low, but the weight of command was unmistakable now.

  "What should we do?" De asked, almost to himself. His eyes flicked toward the bar. "What’s the play...?"

  The night tightened around them, every breath thick with coming violence.

  And somewhere below, the fuse on the powder keg was already burning.

  One of the shadowy figures was not like the others. He didn’t wear the signature black jackets, just ordinary, faded clothes and a long brown coat that brushed against the rooftop as he moved. He watched the scene unfold, but not for the same reasons as the others. His eyes shifted, slow and detached, from the bustling market to the shadowed soldiers hidden on the rooftops, then finally to De. His gaze lingered a second longer than he meant to. Something stirred inside him when he looked at De. Not pure anger—at least, not all of it was directed at him anymore.

  He tried to shake the feeling off, but the memories clung to him like a sickness. He remembered that night too vividly. The man, the fall, the impact. He had visited him later, in that suffocating hospital room where the machines beeped softly against the sterile air. The man was alive. But at what cost? His body was broken beyond repair, trapped in a state of endless pain, bound to a bed with only the mercy of doctors and machinery keeping him breathing. He should have been glad the man had survived. Maybe he was, a little. But deep down, he feared the truth. Was the man who jumped glad to be alive? He hadn't dared to ask. He had been too much of a coward to face it.

  The anger he once felt toward De had spread wider since then, poisoning the edges of his thoughts. He was angry at the world now, at the cruelty that left people no choices, at the endless, grinding cycle that trapped them. And he was angry at himself—at his own weakness, at the guilt that stained his hands no matter how much he tried to wash it off. He looked down at them now, rough and scarred. Maybe... maybe it would have been better if he had never tried to save him at all. Maybe sometimes mercy meant letting go.

  He shook his head, forcing the thought away, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. His boots ground against the rooftop as he stomped once, quiet but full of barely restrained rage. He would not stay weak forever. One day, he would have the strength to do what needed to be done.

  Whether that meant saving...

  Or..