Lucien shoved through the dive bar's warped double doors—doors that dared to stand firm but were losing the fight. The buzz of flickering fluorescents overhead carved uneven rhythms into the stale air, spitting red and blue light through a cracked plexiglass sign that barely spelled out "DRNKS." The joint reeked of spilled synth-liquor soaked deep into sticky floors, melted plastic that never cooled, and sweat layered thick from a dozen bad calls and fewer clean escapes. His crimson coat snagged on a rusty nail jutting from the doorframe. He didn't bother fixing it—just pushed forward with a half-scowl, like the pinch was just another cut he could wear.
Inside, the air was a stew of sour dimness, the kind that settled deep in your throat like stale smoke trapped under a heavy lid. Flickering strips of light hung half dead, and a ceiling fan groaned above, sparking like it had given up years ago. Two or three regulars hunched over their drinks, trying to shrink small enough to disappear—shoulders tight, eyes glazed with nights lived sideways. From a corner, blown speakers sputtered out a synth track, just loud enough to drown the whispers and simmering fights boiling in three booths. The bartender droid was a dented mess, faceplate cracked, polishing the same glass over and over like it owed rent or forgiveness.
Lucien's boots stuck on cracked tile—each step peeling off dried blood and regret. He met no eyes, and nobody held his gaze longer than a flicker. That was the unspoken rule here: stare too long, and you end up flat on a slab.
Ledger update: Environment—high risk. Local heat—elevated. Target proximity—immediate. Informant Rhea—waiting. Collection deadline—within 20 minutes.
In the back booth, Rhea was already sunk low, pressed into the vinyl like she wanted to disappear through it. She looked worn thin under the city's weight—dark curls tied in a sloppy bun, eyeliner smeared halfway down her cheek like a rough tattoo, her leg twitching with a restless energy trying to shake loose something fierce from her bones. In front of her, a glass filled with something thick and neon sat untouched, like a promise she wasn't ready to make.
Lucien slid in opposite her, no smile, flipping a sleek silver pen between his fingers. The pen hummed softly, alive in his hand. "Rhea, darlin', this bar's a dump, but you? You're a little gemstone stuck in someone's ashtray."
She didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just stared, jaw tight, eyes sharp beneath the flickering neon. "Blackmoore. Cut the act. You know why I'm here."
"Course I do." Lucien nodded toward the untouched glass. "That drink yours? Or just poison you're pretending to swallow while you figure whether you're running or staying?"
Her eyes dropped to the glass. "It's shit."
Lucien chuckled dry, gravel scraping boots. "Good instincts. Keep 'em."
He pulled a folded parchment from inside his coat, sliding it across the table. It was warm, as if it had rested too close to a fire. The edges smoked faintly, curling like a snake ready to strike. He tapped a finger on the spot marked "Signature," where the ink pulsed dim red.
"Debt wiped clean. Syndicate heat gone. You sign, you get to sleep with both eyes shut for once. Only catch: down the line, I call in a favor."
Ledger notice: Contract draft ready. Risk assessment—medium. Syndicate clearance—pending. Favor terms—ambiguous.
Rhea's eyes narrowed, lips pulled tight. "Favor like what?"
Lucien shrugged easy and loose. "Could be a whisper. Could be a bullet. Could be nothing at all. Depends how the dice roll."
"And if I say no?"
"Then the debt collectors come knocking. They ain't me, and they don't bring pens."
She stared at the contract like it might grow teeth. "You always make it sound like a choice."
Lucien leaned back, hands laced behind his head, letting the neon from the busted sign flicker uneven blue and red across his face. "Everything's a choice. Some ugly as hell."
Rhea didn't move for long. Then she snatched the pen, signed with a sharp flick. The ink curled like smoke, locking in with a faint hiss and snap of heat. Lucien folded it neat and slid it into his coat.
Ledger update: Contract signed. Debt balance cleared. Syndicate pressure—reduced. Favor activation—pending.
"Congratulations. You just sold your soul for a little peace and a lot of maybes."
"Yeah?" Her voice sharpened, raw and tight. "Then why do I feel like I just signed up to die slower?"
Lucien stood, coat tails flaring. "Because slow death's a luxury most folks here can't afford."
Before she could answer, the front door slammed open hard, silencing the room for a breath. A man staggered in, bent and bleeding from a hole punched clean through his side, blood leaking hot and thick like a fresh wound on the city's ugly face. His jacket was charred in patches, chest heaving in ragged bursts, eyes wide and blind with panic.
Ledger alert: Incoming threat—imminent. Unknown victim—severe trauma. Location: dive bar. Possible syndicate hit.
Lucien tensed. So did everyone.
The man collapsed against the bar. His pistol clattered across cracked tile, spinning until it stopped at Lucien's boot.
A heavy silence stretched long, ragged as no one breathed.
Then a scream broke loose.
The bar exploded like dry kindling catching flame. Tables flipped, drinks shattered on walls, and one guy bolted through a side door like hell was at his heels. Another lunged for the pistol and caught a bottle smashed across his head.
Lucien ducked, dragging Rhea down with him as the chaos ripped apart the room.
His eyes locked on the dead man's jacket. Near the left pocket, burned into the fabric, was a sigil—half melted, crooked, painfully familiar. Curves like broken chains, runes smeared and half washed away.
The same mark he'd seen at the bazaar, on that soul-fire crate in the ash alleys.
Cassian.
"Drunk bastard's scribbling sigils across the city like he's lost his damn mind," Lucien muttered through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing.
Rhea yanked her arm free, voice sharp. "You know him?"
Lucien nodded, one hand already pulling her toward the back exit. "Yeah. Unfortunately."
They slipped out through the kitchen, smelling burnt soy-meat and desperate hopes. A dish drone beeped, then died, like even it had given up on this shithole.
Outside, the alley hung thick with smoke—not the burning kind, but a chemical haze clinging to skin, leftover from bad magic tangled with worse tech. Something had gone sideways nearby.
Ledger status: Elevated magical interference detected. Nearby drone activity—hostile. Recommended evasive action.
Lucien glanced up. Drones circled two blocks north, blinking angry red eyes into the dark.
Rhea coughed, pressing her sleeve to her nose. "You dragging me into something worse?"
Lucien didn't answer. His gaze sliced the alley like broken glass. He spotted another sigil—not burned this time, just smeared black ash across a rusted power box. Fresh.
"Cassian's not just making noise," Lucien muttered. "He's leaving a goddamn trail."
Rhea pointed. "Someone's watching from that roof."
Lucien looked up. A figure stood silhouetted against the haze, long coat fluttering, head cocked with sharp precision. The figure vanished—not running, just gone, like smoke sucked through a vent.
Lucien exhaled, teeth clenched tight. "This city's turning into a goddamn chessboard, and Cassian's playing with dynamite."
Ledger update: Surveillance detected. Unknown entity vanished. Threat level—critical.
Rhea leaned back against the alley wall, voice low. "You got a plan?"
Lucien lit a cigarette with a flick, the orange glow casting shadows across his face. "Always have a plan. Half of them even work."
He took a slow drag, ash glowing bright, then pointed down the alley. "You take that way. Lose the jacket, change your hair, keep low. If anyone asks, you've never heard of Lucien Blackmoore."
She shot him a look like she wanted to argue, then nodded and disappeared into the shadows.
Lucien turned the other way, boots hitting cracked pavement with a slow, steady rhythm—not hurried, not lazy, just the beat of a man who knew the game was far from over.
Behind him, the bar's neon flickered once, then blinked out.
Far off, barely caught beneath the city's hum, a laugh—thin, mean, and damn familiar—echoed.
Cassian had left another message. This city was going to burn, and Lucien Blackmoore was still the only bastard trying to balance the books before it all came crashing down.