《Faust》


 On the street

    It was blinding. The street, the people, their laughs, their looks, their clothes, fucking everything is way too shining, and how can we forget the neon lights. If you wave your head around hard enough or down a few drinks first the whole city transforms itself into a mimic of the rainbow. Sinister, overly decorated, unapologetically beautiful just like the vibe this city is trying so hard to conjure.


    It had many names. Officially it''s called Faust, unofficially-hell hole, nirvana, city of dreamers or dreamers, called by someone more cynical than me. As for me, Euforia is the right one.


    I walk past the seventh vending machine I saw tonight then turn left and descend the stairway (that is hard to find at first glance) to get away from the lights and for some other purposes. The wooden stairs make a little cracking noise with every step I take, it''s either the constructer of this building didn''t plan for it to survive this long, or some junkies or hobos are trying to build their paradise down there, I guess that speculations apply to everyone in the city too.


    The first-floor underground is sealed up and occupied by some of the local gang members; the door is half open and I see a glimpse of four tattooed-up Chinese playing mahjong before the well-dressed fifth one appears and closes the door silently, think I still own him the lighter I borrow on a raining day.


    On the second floor underground there is an elevator (not certain what kind of genius would build one at b2) if you go in there you will find out this small building right next to the main street has more underground floors than city hall parking spaces but my destination is next to the rusty elevator door so I¡¯m not gonna give you a tour yet.


    Next to the elevator door is an obviously modified blast door that somehow doesn''t look out of place in this environment and a neon billboard with "no kids, no dogs, no strangers" on it, and if you look closely the [a] on the last letter have a pinhole camera on it.


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    Few well-calculated knocks on the door and the peephole that''s visible from the outside opened, (I''ve learned the hard way that there is more than one on the door) the warm lights inside escape through the 5 times 15 little gap on the door to the diming basement outside "didn''t notice how much dusts are in the air until now", I thought. But the lights that escaped and the ones trying to got lock back inside as soon as the warden recognized me. A few seconds later, with a long drag, the door opened. ***


    Warden is kind of a nickname for the gatekeeper of this place, people I talked to don''t know his real name, I do not know his real name, I think the bartender told me before, but I was too drunk to remember it.


    ¡°Evening, warden.¡±


    ¡°Business or others?


    ¡°A bit of both.


    Good talk, he never was a talkative person, if I have to guess¡ªhe''s probably in his 40s, jacked up to the point even after he opened the door his figure can still block out all sights and curious peeks from strangers and brainless brats, he looks Hispanic but probably not from south Europe or South America, no, even the strong and silent type from those regions are way too talkative, he has a scar on his neck that is half hidden behind his collar if you''re observant enough you can also notice that he probably have full body tattoo but ruined by that scar. But the guy wears a jacket in all four seasons so there is no way to tell if my guess is right.


    Warden shifts his figure to the right to fully open the door(shitty design but it does the work) as he motions to the handle I take two steps forward and bypass him while facing right too, at that split second when both of our focus is on a blind spot.


    There is something behind me, the space is too crank for me to turn my head so I quicken two more steps forward through the security block (as we like to call it) then immediately turn back facing the entrance while my right-hand shifts toward the inside of my jacket there is no one there, following my line of sight and with a slightly more serious face the warden quickly turn his head the same way then throw me a troubled gaze.


    ¡°You need a drink fast, you''re even tenser than me.¡±


    Coming from him, this is kind of troublesome to hear, since usually he otters only single words and that was a fullsentence.


    ¡°It''s probably because the night¡¯s still young.¡± I shrug.


    He didn''t say anything, thank fuck. As he closes that steel wall. I walk inside The one and only {stynx}. It¡¯s a bar mixed with some business rooms and some small-time casinos (The big one is at b7 this one is not exactly approved by them, but since it is usually just some friends having something to do while they drink, the cutthroats on b7 don''t really care) and a little bit of everything, some say this place is the miniature of euphoria. I half agreed, for me, the body count in this place doesn''t resemble the city too well.

 Stynx

    I survey the surrounding and found nothing out of the ordinary, after the entrance and a short hallway the room expanded, and to the left, there are two pool tables; one is empty the other one is currently out of order because it is covered by medical equipment, scalpel, needles, a fucking meat pounder for hell knows what purpose it was used, lastly, the green carpet on the pool is now half brown which confirms that there was an emergency operation carried out on the table not so long ago, and the unlucky fellow lost lots of blood.


    To the right is the main area of this establishment-the pub; a few long wooden tables and some highchairs with crunching noises by the counter, and a few dozen of not so innocent-looking drinkers; behind the counter are the owner and the bartender of this place-lev.


    Lev is probably the politest Russian guy you can find in this city, around 1.85m or something close to that, with white hair but not to the age of having it naturally (one of the rumors is that he''s got albinism. That defiantly explained the hair and why he''s always inside, but personally I don''t buy it)got a face of a middle age man who has seen too much shit that he looks older then he actually is, physically he''s not as strong as warden, in fact, he looks skinny, but if you catch a glimpse of his forearm you''ll know he''s not some pushover, is just that his body fat is too low.


    Lev and I have known each other for as long as I''ve discovered this whole facility; the funny thing about our relationship is that every time we engage in a conversation, he seems to be able to get more out of me than I out of him (he called it bartenders'' necessary skill) which is impressive since is usually the other way around for me.


    At the right corner of the pub area there is a little unnoticeable curtain in dark red, first timers (not many of these) sometimes mistake it for the restroom. The consequences for this kind of action varied from walking out awkwardly to walking out holding their eyeballs in their hands, that area is restricted to staff and people who are trying to conduct serious business, gatherings that do not appreciate disturbance or someone who wants a drink without being disturb (the person got to be of high caliber).


    I duck inside the restroom, lock the door, wash my hands, then force myself to look in the mirror.


    I stare at the ghost in front of me, his Asian, no mistaking that, but from which part of Asian is hard to tell, about 1.75m tall, skinny figure with some muscle lines(not as visible as lev), small nose with a stitched scar that faded after time which now looks like a birthmark, narrow lips, eyes that are bigger than most oriental and seems to be a black hole of uncaring and hollowness. On top of that face is an heir cut that screams self-contradiction. The figure gives the impression of a person that cares very little about you, this world, and probably himself too.


    Hello you.


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    Hello me.


    ------


    I was rebellious, that, I''m certain, I remember I had parents, I remember they have lots of rules that I tend to ignore, I remember they care about me even though we fought a lot, I remember they were hard-working people, I remember instead of letting me go to school they decide to homeschool me, I remember my home was deep in the forest of pine trees, I remember they called me a dreamer because my head was always up in the clouds fantasizing about things that I could experience when I grow up one day, I remember I used to dream every night when I sleep, I remember despite the life back then was limited(by my family and myself).


    I was happy.


    I don''t remember how I got to Faust, I remember hearing loud noises while feeling dizzy, I remember waking up in a broken crate next to the city Sauer system, I remember the first time I walk inside the city, the street, the people, their laughs, their looks, their clothes and how could I forget the neon lights, everything fascinates me.


    I remember going into the police station alone seeking help, I remember that was the first time I saw an actual criminal, not some local teens stealing money from phone booths, I remember their infuriating eyes and raw body language of irritation, I remember staring at them till they stare back at me. The cops told me my home address does not exist, and my parents'' names have no match in their data, they ask my name, and I replied" Lee ". The cop raises his head and asks, " And last name?", I shake my head and said, " My parents told me that I''ll know my last name when I grow up, but I''m not old enough yet", I remember the cop got mad because he thought this is some idiotic kids'' escapade and drive me out of the station.


    I was 14, I remember walking out of the station feeling dreaded and anxious, with so many questions without answers, I''m in the most brilliant city in the world, alone, without my parents or anyone I know to guide me, without a penny to my name......... without limits, I dreamt of running away from home and try things that were not possible for me at home, I did not understand that my home and my parents were what defines me,I was young and frivolous, I had dreams, I was free at the cost of losing everything in my life, I''m a blank white sheet, and I was ready to write down my own story in this city of dreamers.


    I was ambitious and excited.


    I''m 26, I remember stealing, killing, betraying to survive, I know how gangs buying protection from cops is like feeding a tiger with unquenchable hunger, I know the biggest gang in the city is the fuckers at city hall, I know the Chinese only work with their own, I know Latino woman well felt blessed if their new born child was touched by the priests of La Vina , I know the Russians are harsh on strangers and Asians but they always keep their promises (even if those promises were made while drunk),I know that this "market"(the basement areas in this building) is the neutral area of this city and also the most mixed up place where practically everyone inside are affiliated or have some criminal records, including me, I know how to use pistols and rifles, I carry a gun on the back of my waist and another one holster under my right armpit ,knife in inner layers of my jackets'' sleeve and a few strapped on my ankle, I know how to fight, talk, slide away from tight situations, I learned people, I know everyone has an angle, an itch they need you to scratch, some lust they need you to fulfill; some grand, some low, some despicable; all are for themselves, and of all the things I could wish for, hope for , lust for, I choose two of the lowest of them all-money and survival. I''m a freelancer, a mercenary, a problem solver, a mediator sometimes even a translator.


    I don''t remember being happy for a good reason, and deep down I know.


    I''m not ''living''.

 Hiding in plain sight

    Reminiscing is not helpful for what I''m about to do. When I''m done washing my hands and face, I take out a small inhaler in my right pocket and push the strings on the top of it two times, should be enough for tonight I thought. The inhaler is costume made for my personal use, what used to be for people with asthma is now the quickest way to get high, it has two chambers on each side which can contain about 15ml of liquid, after the new year''s eve 6 years ago I always carry this when I''m outdoors, the combination depends greatly on the circumstances, tonight is opium mixed with weed, perfect for normal social activity and controlling mood swings.


    Two puffs, few head shakes, I look up in the mirror again I see a young fellow in his finest moment. A smirk on his face that reaches the balance between confidence and arrogance, hair waxed by water, and body language of someone who''s enjoying the moment, ''good enough for now'' I thought, at least it''s realistic; I crack my shoulder and with the drugs that are surging in my nerve system and some slaps on my face, I get into character and open the dressing rooms'' door.


    I''m hiding in plain sight, I stroll through the pub area making jokes along the way with familiar faces, patting on the backs, bragging about my latest works, asking how''s their wife, girlfriends, mistresses, side chicks, boyfriends, boy toys, dogs, cats, shops, businesses, themselves.


    " Fuck me, you haven''t bitten the dust yet?


    " Oi! When you''re done with whatever shit your cooking up, come by and have a drink, Christ, you look stressed out.


    "Hey lee, some stuff that needs you to step in.......


    "Haven''t seen you in a while, you good?"


    "Lee! Do I need clearance to see you? Bloody hell, you''re damn hard to reach nowadays."


    "Lee, how you holding up? Anything new under the sun?"


    "Well look who''s finally showing up...... the rock star of Stynx, you''re damn lucky that I don''t want to cover the cleaning fees for spilling your brains on the wall."


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    I talk to them all, no matter if Dailey gossip or job opportunities (I turned all of them down) or some girl that I forgot the name of. I responded to them in a playful, cocky manner.


    This is who I am to them, to most of the people in the city; a capable gun for hire with a silver tongue and an attitude of not giving a fuck.


    Finally, I reached the bar counter lev nodded at me and signal me that he will be with me in a moment, I cherish that precious time by surveying the customer''s faces again, killers, smugglers, dealers, male and female ones, and some girls in neon skirts (I really don''t understand why it is so popular), in other words¡ªa regular fucking day.


    ''Maybe she''s not here yet'' I thought while [Don¡¯t fear the reaper] is playing. Since I''m sitting by the counter, it is possible to block out people''s sound with music if you''re focused enough. I take a deep breath and smell cigarettes mixed with fusions, I closed my eyes and let the music take me away without losing the smirk on my face.


    "So, what''s it going to be?" lev pulls me back to reality with his words, I open my eyes and turn around" gin tonic for starter" with that he starts prepping, after he''s done cutting lemon, he raises his head again" I heard it is a business trip for you tonight ?" lev raise his eyebrows but didn''t avert his tension on squeezing the lemon.


    " It is always business for me when I am here, but I find ways to entertain myself." lev give me a subtle, almost sorry smile


    " Yeah, you have made that clear." Popping the tonic water, the bartender puts a spoon on top of the glass before he adds it so the top wouldn''t be covered by bobbles.


    After two quick stirs on the drink, the Russian puts the Collins glass in front of me and finally made eye contact.


    " So, are you booked or still open?" lev asked. "Lots of opportunities tonight."


    "Yeah, I noticed but I''m Booked, some old friend contacted me, and I was bored out of my mind on vocation."


    "And that''s what you were doing? On vocation? "He asks with an unreadable face.


    "What''s wrong with me taking a vocation? you should try it, good for health, good for the soul." I say with an amused expression and genuine curiosity. He works extra hard on fishing today.


    "Yeah, I think those things are beyond saving for us" still smiling and I still couldn''t read his face.


    I laugh out before finishing the drink in one swing. Drinking sparkling drinks that contain alcohol in one go is the easiest way to get fucked up, but since drinking is one of the first things I learned when I first enter euphoria and is also something I actually like to do, my endurance had built up in years of training so the gin tonic made me get into the best shape for work relating discussions, not to the point of tipsy but enough to loosen me up to be flexible in conversations.


    Time for the main reason why I''m here tonight.


    Time to work.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª-


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 Bus stop

    I met her about 5 years ago, and until this day I still remember vividly that eventful night. It was raining. I just finished my job, and the rain suddenly starts pouring down, I quicken my steps and get into the metal canopy of a bus stop, my apartment is about 40 minutes'' walk from here, but I''m not interested in getting wet just to go home a few minutes quicker.


    I sit down on the metal bench and made sure no one is following me, I didn''t kill anyone in that last gig, but someone did die, just not by my hands. Even so, it has become a habit of mine to check if I''ve been tailed after any sort of illegal activity (probably got this from stealing food in Chinatown back when I was even younger), I glance to the left and see nothing but darkness, the rain blocks out the last bit of light.


    At that moment I felt it. I''m being watched.


    This stop is located between the residential area for low-income families and the night market in the red-light district so you can probably guess the city utilities in this part is not that great, more specifically the streetlights. On my way here I didn''t see more than 10 functioning streetlights, and on a night like this, the visibility is close to none. Not sure if it can be counted as good luck, but the lamp to the left of this bus stop is working fine which is good news and bad news at the same time.


    The good news is I can at least check if I got wounded by the little "misunderstanding" that happened minutes ago, being a mediator is not an easy job, but I can proudly say that I''m pretty good at it. But not when one side is hiding something from the other without telling me first.


    The bad news is since this lamp is working fine (finer than the others) and I''m currently at the bus stop, anyone in the dark within 50m can see me clearly but I cannot. It''s like being locked in an interrogation room made with one-way mirror.


    But that''s not why I felt like I''m being watched.


    The right corner of the bus stop is not illuminated either since the metal canopy blocks the light from the lamp to the left; it became a blind spot to me.


    "Hello, stranger."


    I skipped a heartbeat, then immediately turned to the right, there she sits, in the rain, smoking.


    Judging by looks she is about 29 to 32 years old, can''t really tell how tall she is since she''s currently sitting on the bench too, black curled hair, pale chiseled face adorned with old fashion makeup (shorter eyelashes, not overly decorated, without glimmers), black wool coat, and a pair of shiny red boots. Her face has expressions of both tiresome and amusement.


    "Miss," I said while giving her a little nod.


    There is something wrong, subtle but I can feel it, a feeling of uncertainty creeps up and sends a shiver down my spine, something is out of place in this scenario, but I can''t point my finger at it.


    I turn my head and check the left side again but still nothing, just the abyss of darkness, I turn my head back and realize the woman is still watching me, she takes another puff, and then passes the cigarette to me. Now I''m the one with an amused expression on.


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    "You seem tense, and this is my last smoke so might as well share it." She shrugs.


    I take the cigarette from her index and middle finger and take a deep drag, not my usual type but it does make me a bit more relaxed.


    I wait a few seconds to choose my words "If you don''t mind me asking, why would you be out on your own so late at night?" I ask before giving back her smoke.


    "I was waiting for someone. But I think I got stood up." With another puff, three fourth of the cig is burnt out now.


    "What about you? What business do you have here at this hour, I don''t think there is anything interesting for a youngster like you in this area." Then with a suggestive smile, she asks again "Or were you at the Avenue?"


    Glen Avenue is the main road for the red-light district, on the southern part of euphoria close to us and "piao jie"(China town). The government tried to limit the red-light district from expanding but is reluctant to touch China town so they decided to regulate that sex workers can only be allowed on Glen Avenue. When demand exceeds supply people tend to get creative, instead of expanding the red-light district they expanded the Avenue.


    After a few years of back and forth with authorities ''The Glen Avenue'' became one of the biggest, most depraved, and dense blocks in Faust, the stuff you can find there is truly astonishing......and scary.


    "Nah, that place is too extreme for me." I shake my head with a knowing smile. She let out a small laugh. "I was working overtime tonight, just finished my shift, trying to go home and get some sleep. But I guess that will have to wait" I gave the rain a quick glance; it''s still not getting any better.


    "And you? Were you waiting for someone special?" It''s My turn to give her a suggestive smile.


    She let out another chuckle and reply" No, nothing like that. I was actually working overtime too when we decide to call it a day my business partner suddenly told me there is an urgent matter that needs to be dealt with and asks me to wait here until it''s done." Another puff. "I guess the matter is so urgent that it has to be done without me."


    She casually flicks the burning cigarette end to the abyss. The initial strained atmosphere had disappeared. My shoulders more relaxed and my body stop being tense up. But still, my mind keeps telling me there is something wrong; the uneasy feeling did not leave.


    I inspect her again and notice a few more things; though the black coat covered most of her I can still see that she is wearing a dark red sweater, she crossed her left leg on her right leg which is strange since judging from how she holds cigarette she is positively right-handed, usually, right-handed people tend to cross their right leg on the left one; she does not have any visible tattoo; ignoring the red boots which are eye-catching in the extreme, I notice for the first time she''s wearing white pants but most of it is also covered by the coat. Most of the people in the city dress to impress, to gain attraction, even the criminals do too. That''s why it''s easy to understand a person by how he\she dresses.


    But this woman doesn''t, she sits in the corner of a bus stop covered by shadow, though she is pretty she dresses with the intention of being ignored; the only two eye-catching things about her are her face and the boots, but she sure as hell isn''t the shy type, on the contrary, she''s very confident.


    Now, why would a confident beauty wear a black coat in the middle of nowhere at late night, alone? And she said she''s here for work...... (assuming that is true) the only thing I can come out with is that she''s either one of those old-fashioned escorts or .........


    I hope I''m just paranoid.


    I check the bus schedule next to the bench, two more minutes before I can leave this weird situation and the peculiar woman behind.


    Just when I was drowning in thoughts "Hey can I ask you a more personal question?" with a genuine smile she asked while resting her chin on her left hand and her right hands-on waist.


    "Sure! We met for......7 minutes. We are basically old friends now!" I said while checking my watch to sell the act. She laughs out loud this time.


    "Okay, Friend." She said with a mischievous expression "What exactly do you do? I somehow got the impression that we might be here for the same reason." Mischievousness turns into curiosity.


    "Ha! I doubt that. I''m just a normal man trying to make an honest living." She grins from ear to ear.


    "Of course, you are." Where the hell is the goddamn bus? I check my watch again and find out that the bus should already be here.


    "Hey, can I tell you something that''s been on my mind for the past ......8 minutes?" She mimics me and checks her watch too.


    "Sure!" I said with a dull voice, every single muscle and nerve in me is on the edge.


    She leans towards me. Her face is illuminated and with a husky sound, she says.


    "There''s blood on your shoes."

 Dancing on thin ice

    I realize three things in that split second. First, now that her face is illuminated by the lamp, I know the feeling of something wrong comes from her eyes, when she shifts her line of sight the left eye moves a little bit slower. Second, her right hand is not on the waist but on the gun holster inside her coat; Third, I forgot to check my shoes when I first got to the bus stop.


    ***


    This is checkmate; she knows that she has the absolute advantage here since my hands are still on my lap. I need to think fast. I didn''t know I was going to be caught up in crossfire (or whatever this is) so I only bring the usual stuff: a pistol strap on the back of my waist and a dagger in my left sleeve. The dagger is not going to work she''s not close enough, the gun is too obvious, and with too much movement, she will put one in my head before I can even pull it out.


    Why the fuck didn''t I bring the armpit holster.


    So, violence is not the answer, and I don''t think dodging bullets at this distance is possible.


    I guess there''s only one option left.


    ***


    "Thanks a lot for telling me that." I give her the most natural smile I can muster, "Must have got it from work." She returns me an understanding smile.


    "You said you got the impression we are here for the same reason. To be honest I''m kind of under the same impression too." She slowly nods as if saying ''Keep going, I want to see what tricks you got.''


    "Go on." She gave me a confusing and interested look.


    "Let''s play a game, shall we? I don''t think the bus is going to arrive anytime soon." She raise her eyebrow.


    "It goes like this, you ask me a question, I ask you a question, and whoever guessed the others'' profession first wins." She shifts her left hand to the back of her neck and leans back.


    She is actually considering it!


    "And if you''re not comfortable with the question you have three chances of ignoring the it. But the answers have to be true. What do you say" Please work.


    "Yeah sure, why not. But I go first."


    Jackpot


    ***


    Without any other safer options all I can do right now is trying to dig more information out of her (pretty sure she has the same idea in mind, or she''s just toying with me) and if I''m lucky, we may find bloodshed unnecessary.


    "What''s your name?" I raise my eyebrow at the question. "You didn''t say the questions have to be related." She says with an innocent tone.


    I should have gone for the gun......


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    "Lee."


    "....... and?"


    "Just Lee." She was going to say something clever but noticed from my expression that I''m very serious.


    "My turn, how would you like to be referred to miss?" Being polite never fail me before and besides, I don''t have anything to lose.


    "Well, in business-related situations people call me Vel, other times people call me Vera." Well, that means there are still some chances that she''s an escort.


    "You said you were working overtime around here; do you usually work here?"


    Clever girl.


    "From time to time but not usually though."


    "When you said your business partner want you to wait here ...... does your business partner live nearby? Maybe in piao jie?"This is a gamble; her answer could go from absolutely useless to very productive.


    "No, not really. But that was a good try tho." She nods with appreciation like a teacher encouraging her students.


    This is delicate. The consoling job that I failed was between two Chinese in a plaza close to the avenue but outside of China town and I am certain the two of them and the few goons with them are all from ''piao jie'', now that I think back the honest one seems a lot more......nervous than the lying one. This is bad.


    "My turn again, what were you looking at when you first seat down?" Great! I created a rigged game and trap myself in it.


    "Pass."


    "Is the blood on your shoes yours or your coworkers."


    "My......peers."


    "Did you lose your eye during work?" Another gamble but this time I won. For the first time since I met vel, her smile froze, she lost her composure.


    "Pass." That confirms it was an occupational injury and one of her eyes is artificial.


    "How long have you been waiting at this bus stop?" Her smile fades away.


    "Pass." Shit, not good.


    I was trying to pinpoint if she could be the bodyguard of one of those two Chinese, but her hiding the answer made it more complicate.


    I carefully review all the information I gathered, trying to figure out what tricks I haven¡¯t use yet.


    Then.


    I remembered. A small little detail. Like a shade that¡¯s out of place in a huge mural. Ignored because of the adrenaline kicking in. But now that I recalled, it¡¯s like an itch hidden in the back of my head.


    "¡­¡­¡­¡­ Is there blood on your pants?" My last move, I''m out of options and ideas.


    "Pas.......... ha ha ha ha HaHAHA."


    Halfway through the sentence she suddenly cracks and starts laughing hysterically then cover her mouth with her RIGHT hand.


    Here it is!


    The moment I had been waiting for.


    I lift out my jacket with my right hand and pull my gun out in a swift motion then I point it firmly at the woman who''s still laughing uncontrollably.


    "Sorry I couldn''t help it. It has been a long time since I have had this much fun." Fun? So, she was indeed playing with me. "You haven''t answered me yet," I said not affected by her......mental breakdown.


    She now puts both of her hands on her lap and changes her position, more specifically she crossed her right leg on top of her left leg. I now see there is a blood handprint followed by a trace of blood down her right inner thigh. Though being held at gunpoint, she looks more relaxed than ever, it''s like she is more used to this rather than a normal conversation.


    "There, does this answer your question?"


    "It certainly does, now I think I know your profession."


    "Oh? Do tell." She makes a ''please'' gesture.


    "You were the bodyguard of one of the Chinese who was negotiating at the plaza 20 minutes walk from here."


    She looks at me like a predator looking at its next meal, or a kid who cuts off insects'' limbs for fun.


    "No.¡± Shit.


    ¡°My turn. You are the mediator for that little peace negotiation that is set up to fail, and judging from the way you think and act I would say you also engage in other types of business, so my guess is you''re a freelancing mercenary."


    If that was checkmate five minutes ago then this is smacking my face with a chessboard.

 Cleaners

    "What do you mean set up to fail?"


    "I mean it literally, even if the whole thing did not go sideways, there''s bound to be a bloodbath." She does a little stretch then continue "My guess is that Chinatown is about to be unified in the coming months, the power struggle is about to end, and my job opportunities will plummet."


    "So, what am I? Casualties for some fuckers'' empire?" My blood boils and my heart pounds hard like a war drum. I can accept being used as a gun but not as a pawn. Not when I''m completely in the dark.


    "Not exactly, The CASUALTIES were the two Chinese and all of the goons they brought." I froze. There were at least 20 armed men back there.


    "You''re telling me everyone died in that fight? There were quite a lot of people in that plaza."


    "No, the fight didn''t last long the winning side had a few survivors left. "She pauses "But I made sure no one leaves the plaza." She says in a plain tone, like describing how she takes out the trash.


    "So, the blood on your trouser...." "One of them that I thought I finished grabbed my thigh from the ground. Not sure what he was trying to accomplish, maybe tripping me?" She answers me before I finish the question.


    "How rude." I jokingly said while pretending to be angry.


    "Yeah, he was."


    ***


    For some reason, all of this made me very calm and stoic. When I''m facing someone whose motives and agenda are unclear, I get anxious, unable to think straight, I get chewed up by the beast named fear that''s caged deep in my chest.


    But now things are clear to me, I found myself collected and unmoved.


    "Now miss, I already know the answer, but I''d like you to confirm it. Your profession is a ''cleaner'', correct?" Cleaner is a dangerous line of work, when you want somebody dead precisely and quietly you get a hitman; but when you don''t care about precision and the target is more than a few, you get a cleaning group. They don''t really care about being discreet or putting themselves in dire situations. When the employer orders a cleaning group to ''clean the building'' they will do everything they can to achieve that and make absolutely sure anyone that leaves the place is carried out in a bag.


    And because of the characteristics of these people, the groups that last long are usually full of battle-crazed soldiers or bloodthirsty psychopaths; and in some special situations there might be some cleaners that survive many actions, but their groups didn''t. When that happened, the lone survivor has three choices, the person either quit being a cleaner or he switches to another cleaning group. But if the person survived enough times, he might get tired of switching groups (And groups might think he''s a ill omen and refuse to let him join) and he doesn''t really want to quit his job either, in these special circumstance the person might become a solo cleaner, those that did and remains become legends and the most expansive kind of mercenaries .


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "Toke you long enough."


    "Last question," there isno subtle way to ask this " should I call you vel or Vera?" She tilts her head to the side, frowning, deep in thought. I''m still pointing the gun at her just in case.


    "To be or not to be that is a question......." She turns her head and looks right into my eyes like she''s trying to fish out my soul. "The employer gave the instruction of killing everyone in the plaza." Her face is becoming very serious and tired all of a sudden. "That includes you."


    "I think your employer is already happy with the results, and since I don''t know the hirer''s name, I couldn''t snitch him to the others in piao jie."


    Her face is expressionless. A cold and weary feeling creeps up my nerves. It''s like someone is dragging a blade across my spine. Not just because of her, there''s something else. I''m being watched again. But who? She says no one survived the plaza then who is it? I force myself to stop wondering and focus on the problem in front of me." What do you think?"


    "......."


    "You aren''t one of those cleaners that take their orders like is a decree, right? Why don''t we all just call it a night and avoid further confrontation."


    She looks into my eyes again. I don''t know what she is looking for. I''m not a saint nor a person worth saving, in this city we''re all drowning in our own heaven, blinding our sights with this land of milk and honey so we don''t see who we truly are when we look in our own reflection. But somehow the woman next to me seemed to have a clear view of this world. When she has her eyes fixated on me, I can feel that she sees through who I am deep down, after an eternity. She speaks again.


    ***


    "I suppose I''m not obligated. Alright, you have a deal, let''s call it a night." The joyful expression and mischievous smile return to her face. She looks like a child stealing candy without being caught and is bragging to her friend, I thought to myself.


    "Nice meeting you, lee." She extends her hand toward me....... There is the possibility of she''s lying, but somehow my intuition is reassuring me that she means no harm now. I holster my gun to my back waist (only now do I realize my arm is so damn sore) and shake her hand.


    "Nice meeting you Vera."


    "This feels long overdue, doesn''t it?"


    "It sure does. By the way...... When you say you were waiting for your business partner did you mean you were waiting for your crew? Or were you just lying?" She acts offended and says.


    "How could you assume that? Ever since we met, have I not told you the truth, the whole truth, and only truth?" (So, help me, God ......)


    "My apologies. So, you were waiting for them?"


    "Yeah, I was, and to be honest I was only here for a couple of minutes before you came. Strange, she told me there is something urgent needs taking care of right after we finish cleaning the plaza and just ran into one of the allies after she told me to wait for her at the nearest bus stop." She seems as confused as I am.


    "Or maybe......" she pauses for a second then stands up, and with her left hand she does a gesture of wiping tears.


    A shimmer appears on the right side of the bus stop around 100m away, then it gets brighter and brighter till I realized it''s the headlight of a vehicle. An unremarkable black car stops in front of us. The window rolled down. A woman that resembles Vera greatly is in the driver''s seat.

 Unruly sister

    She''s slightly younger than her sister (23 or 24), Same pale chiseled face but with a much more enthusiastic expression on it, black straight hair, eyes that are a bit bigger, and is much more energetic than her partners. She wears dark makeup with red lipstick and long eye lingers but her eyelashes remain untouched (a practical choice). A black leather jacket covers her white office shirt......... and she wears a tight one for some reason. I also notice there is a heavily modified rifle on the passenger seat.


    "Lee, meet my unruly sister Vix......or Viviane when she''s off duty. She''s the only crew in my cleaning group."


    "Pleasure." Viviane gives me a little wave and a smile (without any implication unlike her sister).


    "Viviane this is Lee......"


    "The mediator and the one that got away."


    She finishes the sentence first and turns her attention back to me "I saw you in the crosshair and told my sister there''s an outsider in the party. She was skeptical about letting you escape the scene you know."


    "No hard feelings?" Vera asks.


    "None" I shrug. "Wait so you were at the plaza too?"


    "We both were there before you guys show up. Vel was on the driveway I was on the fourth floor of one of the buildings giving her covering fire and scouting the place. We had a debate on the radio about whether we should kill you or not, and for the record, I vote for you to live." She gave me a wink at the end of that.


    "Thanks a lot for that." I can survive close confrontations but a sniper and a bullet out of nowhere will put me six feet under without question.


    "And what did you vote for when you know I was there?" I put on a curious face and pick on Vera.


    "I voted ''if he shoots me, I will count him in the contract''." Reasonable.


    "Guys I don''t mind chatting in the rain since I''m in a car but shouldn''t you two get in already?" the younger sister stops for a moment then look at me and adds. "That includes you, lee."


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Where are you guys heading?"


    "East, to the main road. We got a little ritual every time we finish a job. "Vera replies.


    "Ritual?"


    "Code name for getting drunk." Viviane rolled her eyes and explained, "Is our way of celebrating that we''re still alive after a job."


    I can almost hear the idea ''pops'' out of Viviane''s mind as her face is lit up by excitement, "Want to join us?"


    I''m too tired to say no, and I had already given up the chance of getting any sleep tonight. Besides, I need a ride back home. The bus is still missing.


    ***


    I glance at the older sister next to me and find her waiting for my answer too with her signature ''curious'' expression.


    "How could I say no to an invitation like that? Besides, I think I fill the bill for ''celebrating being alive after work'' too." Don''t make playing with fire a hobby. A voice in my mind warns me.


    "Nice, you wouldn''t know how long it''s been since I have had a drink with a normal human being."


    Vera rides shotgun, I took the back seat. As I look out the window the bus stop and the streetlight quickly disappear in the night. So much happened in such an unremarkable place I thought. Viviane sped through the empty road of the neighborhood, the streetlamps and the scattered rooms with lights on in public housing along the way all became blurred in my eyes.


    A light show performs by poverty and desolation.


    "Where did you get the car?" Vera asks while taping the glovie like she just realizes she doesn''t recognize the car.


    "Yeah, remember that ''urgent matter''? There was a sniper on the roof who took off as soon as you started swiping the place, I chased him down the block and nailed him a second before he got into his car. The key is still in his hand, so I thought ''The universe grants me a working automobile. It would be rude not to take it." I got a feeling this woman is a lot easier to be with than her sister.


    "And after that, I drove to that bus stop of meddlesome and saw you flirting and laughing with the guy you want dead 10 minutes ago......."


    "Considering killing him," Vera broke her sisters'' monologue halfway through. "And I was just trying to know him better." She adds.


    "Alright, as I was saying. I saw you two talking and thought ''it would be rude to disturb the moment'' so I switch off the headlight, park the car, and got nice and comfortable to enjoy the show....... Until you pulled a gun on her, not gonna lie I had your face in crosshair and was ready to blow your head off." So that''s why I felt like I was being watched again.


    "But then, I saw neither of you caring about the fact that one of you is pointing a gun at another and just carrying on flirting so I thought'' If none of you cares then why would I?''." Vera sighs again at the word ''flirting''.


    It really was a fucking miracle I survived.


    "Not long after I made the decision, lee put the gun away and you gave the ''all clear''. Then here we are, two cleaners and a mercenary in the same stolen car. Fuck, that sounds like the start of a bad joke." Vivianne ......This girl is a blast, and the fact that Vera has a poker face on just makes it funnier.


    "You do know we can''t keep this car, right?" Vera asks.


    "Yeah...yeah, I know. But is not like there is any taxi around. And lee proved the city''s public transportation sucks" No shit. That bus schedule was a scam.


    ***


    "So where to? We''re almost at nochnaya."Viviane asks.


    "Take the highway around the city center. Let''s go to the usual place."


    ---------------------------------------------------------


    I hope you enjoy my story, pleases leave a comment or suggestion on how I can better my story.

 Land of milk and honey

    Crowds on both sides of the road reappeared and the familiar sights of neon lights, clubs, and the dark alley between concrete buildings. Feel like the car window is a TV and I''m watching some third-rate cop show. The car had entered ''Nochnaya''(noch).


    Nochnaya is the Russians'' territory, located in the southwest of the city right next to piao jie and a few blocks away from the end of glen avenue (or the start of it depending on your perspective).


    Much different from Chinatown''s landscape, noch has the most popular nightclubs and pubs in town. And of course, any lucrative businesses in this area are owned, run, protected, and blackmailed by the Russian mobs (they have a name, but I can''t pronounce it).


    Before Faust became the city it is now, it used to be one of the biggest transfer stations for smugglers. Back in the day, they use uninhabited islands close to Faust and the city''s geographic location to switch, guns, drugs and people, from cargo ships to local fishing boats in order to bypass inspections from customs on the continent. Then some genius decided to build a giant canal.


    Now that Faust became one of the most developed cities in the world, the illegal trafficking business become even easier to operate than before. The cargo on freights can go straight through the canals without needing to switch contrabands to fishing boats. Without needing to use any other coastline cities or inland smuggling routes on this side of the continent, Euforia single-handedly takes over the task of delivering happiness for half of the world.


    ***


    In the initial confrontations between all the criminals wanting to get a slice of the second American dream. The Russians were blood-bathing with the Latinos, both sides lost a lot more than they were willing to sacrifice so at the end they come to an agreement. They share the trafficking business of this city (guns by the Russians, drugs by the Latinos)


    The west side of the canal belongs to the South Americans, the east belongs to the Russkiye''s as long as no one oversteps the other side of the river. An agreeable peace was made. But that doesn''t mean they like each other.


    If the Latinos were the old nemesis of the Russians, then the Chinese is the new rival.


    Chinatown used to be a simple migrant community; they weren''t here for riches they were here for honest work. But this land seems to be able to drag the most primordial instincts out of its inhabitants, people begin to ask themselves: what can I do to earn a few dollars more?


    The answer is simple, you sell your soul and dignity, they started engaged in illegal business but since both guns and drug business are already taken and the other two players in town, they are not keen on sharing, they have to come up with their own game.


    And since people in this city always have a thing for exotic, new things. And what''s more exotic than having a Chinese girl by your side or more over, by your arm? Thus, the red-light district and glen avenue were created.


    Over the course of years, the Chinese in the city had built their own kingdom using opium den, badger game, tricking young Asian women to sell love in this city of dreams, controlling the prostitution business with highly addictive drugs, and many more.


    People often speculate where the Chinese get their hands on so much opium and drugs but since china town is an ecosystem of its own (a very EXCLUSIVE one) so no speculations were proven right yet.


    ***


    And why would the sex business got anything to do with gun trafficking? Because both sides overstepped.


    Recently the Russians are planning to get into the prostitution business since they already have their supply of clubs and girls so creating a little side business seems like a reasonable choice, but in the process of these ''expansions'' they notice some Chinese girls that come to Nochnaya for the party were actually prostitutes from ''piao jie''. (Glen Avenue goes from Demand exceeding supply to oversupplying)


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    This action wasn''t much of a deal, but the Russians also find out that there have been Poor quality firearms circulating in Faust, and those were factored by none other than, The Chinese.


    That pissed off the Russian mobs. (In their own words ''they went from tingling the sleeping bears balls to leaving a bite mark on it.'')


    They started blocking Chinese women from entering their clubs and beating anyone caught with weapons made in China town and confiscating(destroying) the guns.


    In return, the Chinese starts blocking the Russians from entering their establishments and keep making self-made guns. Both sides are unwilling to speak another''s language (figuratively and literally) small conflicts across the city start happening more and more often.


    Piao jie and noch are like minefields for the opposite sides.


    ***


    After leaving the neon garden of nochnaya, Viviane made two left turns onto the highway, to the right, skyscrapers at the city center reshape the skyline and down there is ''via martinase'' the main road that cinctures city center and its many branches that leads to all the corners of Faust.


    To the left is the root of all evil conjured in here in the past half a century, the great canal. 300 meters wide, glistening under the moonlight like a silver choker necklace worn by royalties of old dynasties.


    Viviane wasn''t a Sunday driver to begin with, and now on the highway, she drives like she''s trying to send this car to an early grave. Does she always drive like that, or does she really want a drink?


    300 meters width canal is behind us in no time, and on the west side of the river, there''s something very different from all the high-rises at the city center right next to it.


    ***


    A bunch of relatively smaller and lower houses came into view. Churches, schools, basketball courts, and streets are painted with graffiti. A couple of hours later the plaza will be full of kids playing soccer and religious citizens will swarm into the many churches in the area for mass and to pray.


    The whole neighborhood seems to be in perfect harmony, a specimen of a much simpler time. If you''re able to overlook the gang members of la vina patrolling the streets on the back of a truck or walking with semi-autos in their hands without care, giving children dope and teaching them how to hide it properly.


    ''Desalos'' is the hometown of ''la vina''. The primary Latino gang in Euforia. Imagine a place where people put Honer, creeds, and family before law and morality. People there can be considered the aborigines of this place before the others show up to escalate and complicate Faust, the good people of desalos are very familiar with daily lives messed up with drugs, bullets, and gang wars.


    They''re the only ones who see through the lies this city told so they stick together. No matter how bad life is back home at least is already something you''re used to. Drugs and guns aren''t all the problems they have to deal with, there is also the problem of poverty.


    If you inspect the neighborhoods closely you will understand the reason desalos don''t have any notable slums or impoverished areas is that the whole place IS a huge slum; even with the lowest housing price in town, people still choose public housing at suburban over desalos.


    With the lowest per capita income in Faust, there are only two options for people to make a living here. By joining la vina and engaging in drug dealing and drug trafficking; or you lower your head and keep doing physical labor, either way, you are destined to visit the church a lot.


    La vina is a strange gang. They claim to be the most honorable thief in Faust, while in reality, they''re responsible for 80% of the drug abuse cases in town and further escalate any possibilities of yet another all-out drug war. The higher rank capos in la vina live their bountiful life in Monclea in the north, and the others stay at this hellhole they call home for control, recruiting new members and of course, making sure the cargos are shipped on time through the canal and distributed to the world.


    The highest-ranking officer in desalos is ''the priest'' he was here with la vinas before the place changed dramatically, as a trusted subordinate and bosom family friend for the cartel he has the executive power for most matters in desalos.


    The only time I met him is at one of the churches'' Sunday masses, (I wasn''t there for religious purposes of course) an old Latino man in his 50s with a gray stubble beard and a reassuring smile, wearing clerical clothing and surrounded by armed gang members.


    According to the locals, he is ''the most caring and generous person in the world.'' As a highly respected individual in desalos he has full control of the citizens there. I even saw graffiti of him standing next to Santa Maria.


    I don''t have many connections in the Latino community nor am I familiar with the la vina members, but in one of the jobs I did for them I manage to gain the trust of a sicario; when I ask him about the priest. He said.


    "Be sure to taste your words before spitting them out. He is not as ''Forgiving'' as the lord."


    -------------------------------------------


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    please comment what you think of the story and how I can improve it.

 The lanes

    Viviane turns right and gets off the Interchange entering the financial district; this place and moclea to its north is the safest area in the city with the shortest police response time (it''s not like they have the guts to patrol other areas) even at this hour you can still see people working at their cubical farm through French widow, working on re-export trades and keeping this citys'' malevolent heart running.


    I remember a joke between two office workers that goes like this.


    : do you know who''s the big shots in this place?


    : who?


    : the ones left office before 6.


    Both of them laugh while the clock on the wall hits 12.


    ***


    With another left turn, we leave the skyscrapers and business buildings at the city center and financial district behind.


    In the middle of the main road, desalos, the business center is ''the lanes.''


    The lanes is located on the eastern side of desalos but since it''s too close to the city center and business area the cops are still responsive in this area.


    On paper, la vina still controls this area but they''re putting little to no focus on this part because there aren''t many business opportunities in the lanes, only suits who worked overtime trying to get back to their small apartments. So, considering the pros and cons are not difficult to understand there''s no point in stationing here.


    Between cops and Latinos, the lanes became a gray area of the city, a neutral ground with no affiliation or occupation forces.


    Heaven for mercenaries and freelancers like me.


    Dark Allies, empty restaurants, unlicensed clinics, and of course, bars. The lanes have many places for people like me to take jobs from their employers or their proxies (or their proxies'' proxy) so this place isn''t the best for wandering in the night ether.


    And because of the characteristics of the lanes; freelancers, gangsters, and criminals of all races and gangs come to this place from time to time just to chill and conduct business without having to worry about the agendas of different factions.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Is not like the area is free of conflicts, but people here are more lay back than in other places.


    ***


    The car stops in front of a featureless dark alley next to the main road.


    Viviane leaves the car to open the trunk and retrieve a soft rifle case to conceive her gun while I and Vivian lean against the wall to wait for her.


    "You know, when you said having a drink, I thought you mean somewhere more public."


    "Wait, you don''t know the place?" Viviane jerks her head off the trunk and stares at me in disbelief.


    "I take jobs at the lanes from time to time but usually I do that at noch." I shrug and add. "And I have never been to this alley before."


    Viviane finished packing her gun and went downstairs while murmuring "Boy, your horizon is about to be expanded" Vera follows and motion me to come with her.


    Oh, what the hell


    The wooden stairs make a little cracking noise with every step I take. probably just because it''s old.


    On the first floor underground, some Russians are playing pokers, one of them glances at us before shifting his focus back to the last two cards in his opponent''s hand. Another dozens of stairs down, on b2 there''s an elevator (who the fuck would of build an elevator at b2?) next to a giant steel gate.


    "Welcome to the market! " Vera turn around and open her arms like a child showing off her secret base. " That elevator can go down to b8. B3 is owned by the Russians to sell guns, b4 is a clinic owned by a Norwegian but.... a word of caution, he charges a lot; b4 and b5 are owned by the Chinese to sell trinkets and use as opium den respectively, b6 is own by the Italians as an exclusive club, b7 and b8 is the casino own by the Japanese. I''m pretty sure there is more but the rest is inaccessible by the lift."


    My horizon indeed expanded, such a facility with so many different people in the same basement without starting a war with each other is only possible at the lanes.


    "What about this floor?" I point at the steel gate curiously.


    "You will see." Viviane knock on the steel gate (three short, one long, three shorts. I made a mental note on that.) A peephole on the gate slides open, warm light cast on Viv''s face. She gives whoever is on the other side a big smile.


    The peephole closes, and the gate opened. A Latino hombre stands tall, blocking the entrance.


    La vina owned this place?


    "Vix. Vel." He gives both of them a nod.


    "Business or celebration?"


    "Celebration and induction." Vera takes a step closer and signs at me with her left hand.


    I take a step closer too and stand within arm''s reach of the Latino.


    He sizes me up and down, burning the image of me deep into his mind.


    "You vouch for him?" The hunk asks.


    "I do too. Don''t worry this one''s not gonna cost trouble." Viviane joins her sister too to reassure the gatekeeper. He takes a second to look at me again with a small trace of respect on his stoic face.


    "What''s your name, lad?"


    "Lee"


    "You kill anyone in there on accident, the consequences of killing and cleaning fees are on you; if you kill anyone on purpose, you lost your token to enter this place. We clear?"


    "Cristal."


    "Welcome to Stynx, lee."

 Land of thieves and killers

    "Lev! Two plates of tequila shots. " Viviane raised her voice at the white haired Russian behind the counter.


    "Celebration ?"


    "Fuck yeah. Oh and meet lee. The guy that almost killed Vera." Not even a single drink yet Viv already sounds tipsy.


    " You''re damn lucky that you still have limbs, kid. Welcome to stynx. " Lev mocks while pouring a skull-shaped tequila bottle.


    The first time meeting lev I didn''t get too much chance of knowing him. It was much later that I know he was not just the bartender and the owner but he also got eyes and ears all over the lanes.


    12 shots of tequila in front of us, Viviane made a toast. "To Faust, land of thieves and killers!"


    "To Faust!" To Euforia. Me and Vera both join in. The hot liquor burns down my throat and made my eyes a little bit bloodshot.


    "So. Lee. What do you think of this place? Pretty cool right?" Viviane asks. I can see her eyes are a bit red too.


    "It''s a bar." I shrug before downing another shot. "But I gotta admit, I can''t figure out who owns it. Is it the Russians or Latinos?


    " Dude, you''re in lanes. Affiliation and all that is not important here. And as far as I know lev''s the owner and his not with the mobs."


    "This place is more than a bar too, jobs and opportunities in this place are much more lucrative than in other places. The best thing is you wouldn''t be seen as some gang''s personal merc." Vera adds.


    "Oh and see that curtain next to the counter? Don''t open it. Trrrrust me." Viviane is definitely not a good drinker. Three shots and she''s already talking to my face way too closely. Nonetheless, I made a mental note on the curtain.


    " Alllllright, enough about business. That''s talk about something else." After that Viviane squints her eyes while looking me up and down.


    " You look Asian." She says as if she just solve a mystery. "Where are you from? Lee."


    "Viv you just know the guy for 30 minutes, stop prying on him," Vera says in a tone like she''s lecturing her kids before she finishes the next shot.


    "Nah, it''s fine I don''t mind."


    Not anymore.


    "And weren''t you prying on me 7 minutes after we just met?"Tequila is taking effect on me too. I feel like I''m caring less and less by the second.


    "Anyway, to be honest I don''t know where I''m from either. I''m an orphan." I say as a matter of factly without any emotions. At this point, I stop caring about my life before Euphoria


    Is not like I remember much anyway.


    "Looks like you already work yourself around, Good for you. And believe me. Sometimes kids wish they were orphans." In normal circumstances that would''ve been rude. But the way she said it it''s almost like she''s describing herself.


    ***


    Downed another shot, the plate is almost empty.


    "Lev, I''ll have a Monte Carlo for my next."


    " I''ll have a white lady." Then Vira adds.


    "And an aviation for me!"Viviane quickly follows up.


    I''m not in my best state but I can certainly tell Viv is already tipsy. Now that I think back, ordering that drink is definitely not the right call for either of us.


    "Hey sis, what were you chatting with lee at that stop? You two look like you were gonna kill each other or make out."


    " (signs) I was trying to figure out who he is, then he suggested we play a game to kill time. And I won." In the end, Vera looks at me with the smallest sign of smug. She better not be holding this on me in the future.....


    " By the way, you didn''t say it." Mischievous is back in Vera''s eyes again.


    " Say what ?" I can''t help but smile and think what she is up to now.


    " What''s my prize for winning your little game ?" These two really are a blast. To be honest. I feel like I''m enjoying their company more than I was supposed to. Usually when I''m drinking is always about work, or some alone time for myself (sometimes for picking up girls too)


    But never like this. Just having fun with friends.


    And it feels good.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    "Alright, alright. What do you want Vera ?"The older sister looks at me with a cheeky smile.


    " Your numbers. " What. In The Fuc......


    Viviane is sitting in her high chair giving me the " I knew it ! ".


    " Miss Vera, I''m flattered. Didn''t take you for the type. But guess I was wrong." Welp, I''m not gonna say no to that.


    " Don''t get any funny idea, you''re a capable guy. You can talk and you can fight, and most of all you can think. Working with you should be a nice change of pace, and make work easier." Still, with that smile, her lips now remind me of the devil''s horns. She knows damn well that was a tease.


    " Yeeeah. Remember to Keep it professional sis." Viviane looks like she''s having the time of her life " Lev comes back to our table with the drinks. "Leeeeeev I want b55." That''s a bad idea. Should be crossing my mind at that moment but no. All I want was for this moment to froze. So I can live in it as long as I want. Lev frowns at Viv for a second then shrugs.


    "Bills and cleaning fee is on you anyway."


    "And a side car for me, no sugar rim" Vera adds.


    ***


    I take a sip of my drink. Not too much bitter and just the right amount of d.o.m.


    "Hey Viviane, you sure you don''t want to slow down a bit? Your drink had just arrived." I point at the purple color cock tail in front of her.


    " Nah, it''s nothing I can do this all day! Watch." With that, she finishes her aviation in one go.


    "Wow. Would''ve never guessed you''re a heavy drinker, Viv." I said, amazed by this girl. That drink does not count as a ''soft'' cocktail.


    "Come on, Lee. Your turn."


    "I think I''d like to take it slow."


    "Come onnnnnnn."


    I look at the girl sitting next to me. Her face is still pale but her eyes are bloodshot. Shoulder-length straight hair drags on the table (so is her tight) she leans close to my face. Green pupils with a bit of gold in them, expanded. Youthful exuberance, not giving a damn, someone that doesn''t care if she could live till down as long as she had fun after dusk.


    I take my glass and finish the whisky cocktail in one go too, the sweets, the bitters, the hot liquor; all kinds of paradises exploded on my sense of taste. And I swallow them down my throat enjoying the burning sensations that came a second later than usual since I''m drunk.


    "Woooo, no wonder you can impress that stone-cold sister of mine. You really are one of a kind!"


    "Viv. Oh, so dear sister of mine. Do you remember the last time you were drunk ?"


    "Nope."


    "Exactly. So tone it down would you?"


    "It''s fine. It''s Finnnne. Do you remember the time that I quickly draw the target while I was drunk?"


    "Wait. Did she actually do that?" I ask.


    "I.....don''t know. By the time I get there, I saw two bodies shot in the head, and Viv passing out on the floor." Vera looks a little embarrassed to admit it.


    "Oh. I definitely Did that. Those fuckers from piao jie were talking about selling me to some underground workshop at the avenue." She stops to take a breather, her face is a bit red from all the excitement. At the same time lev serves side car to Vera.


    "One of them injected me with some shit before I break free, elbowed him, grab my 357 then hip-fired both of them like one of thoseClint Eastwood movie. And when I woke up doc told me my BAC is insanely high." She told the story without even hiding how proud she is.


    I turn around and look at Vera. She rolls her eyes like she has heard the story ten times.


    "You don''t believe me?" Viviane look at me disappointed.


    "I don''t know Viviane. Sounds a bit too.......... cinematic ?" The portion of my brain cell that haven''t gotten poisoned by alcohol took hold.


    "Don''t be skeptical just because you''venever seen a miracle."


    "Oh, and you know what? I''m actually carrying the exact Smith&Wesson right now!" Viviane pulls out the revolver from her thigh holster. And slams it on the table.


    Short barrel, black handle, probably a 66 model. A few Patrons sitting close to us glance at us with interest. They probably think we''re playing Russian roulette.


    "Viviane, I know what you''re thinking. Pleases don''t." Realizing what her sister''s about to do. Vera sober up.


    "Too late!" She quickly holsters the gun back next to her thigh.


    "Hey, lee!"


    "Uh, what''s up?"


    "See that toilet sign next to pool tables?"


    "Shit. Viv. Don''t."


    "Oh fucking hell, lee you might want to find cover."


    Viviane stands up and put her right hand on the handle. Shifting her body weight to the right her shoulder slightly sag down. She stares at the toilet sign like it''s her dueling opponent.


    Some customers silently change their seats.


    Vera rests her face on the table, murmuring "Not this shit again......"


    Me and the rest of the people look at her in horror.


    All eyes were on her, but Viv''s unfazed by it. Her only focus is the 30 times 30 piece of plastic.


    Time seems to slow down seconds before she makes her move.


    Then. It happened.


    With an incredibly smooth and fast motion (for a drunk) Viviane draws the six-shooter with her right hand, and with her left palm, she cock the hammer 0.6 seconds after the gun is drawn and aimed.


    At that millisecond a white shadow rush past me and the crowd without bumping into anyone or slowing down.


    1 second after the gun was drawn, Viviane pulls the trigger.


    But nothing happened, no shots were fired.


    Standing right next to her. Lev is holding back the hammer from colliding the magnum round in the cylinder With his left thumb and index finger. You can see his knuckles are pale even from my position.


    Viviane was the last one to realize it. When she sees the Russian bartender''s dead serious face and the blue vein on his forehead all she can do is muster an awkward smile.


    Without a word, Lev confiscated the 357 and make his way back behind the counter to continue his work.


    The crowd scatters back to their table. Some complained to lev that he ruined the show but most just carry on with whatever they were doing.


    Viviane falls back on her high chair as if Lev also took away her meaning of life.


    "he took my gun......." Viviane murmurs with a lost expression.


    "Well fucking down, lev. Can you babysit her for me sometimes too?" Vera''s head is still resting on the table while saying that.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    I hope you enjoy my story, Please leave a comment or suggestion on how I can better my story.

 Sisyphus and Odysseus

    Few minutes after the incident. Lev comes back to our table with 4 b-55 shots on a plate. Viviane looks at lev with anticipation in her eyes and embarrassment on her face.


    "You can have it back when you''re sober or leaving my bar." Lev is completely unmoved by her begging eyes.


    "Finnnne."


    "Hey Viv, for the record. I think you were going to hit that sign." I said. Trying to cheer her up.


    "I know... I was so fixated on that bloody plastic plate that I didn''t see him rushing towards me......" I doubt that would make a difference. Even if I''m on crack I still don''t think I can see him coming. (Of course, I keep those thoughts to myself.)


    "Uhhhh, I''m getting too sober." Viviane blew off the flames on one of the shot glasses, throwing her head back dramatically and down that shot to forget the unpleasantness.


    Vera finally raises her head off the table. Stares at the shots for a second then down one too......and rests her head back. What''s up with her? She was fine just a while back. I thought while motioning toward the brown, white, and green shot.


    "Hey Viv, what''s up with her£¿ I ask, pointing at Vera.


    "Oh, she''s drunk as fuck." V¨ªvame says while playing with one of the empty shot glasses all over the table.


    "But...... didn''t she drink the least amount?" How many was it? Two? Maybe three?


    "Yeaaaah, shocking. I know. She beats me at almost everything except vision and drinking."


    "And causing mayhem." I add.


    "Screw you, mate." Viviane smiles and takes the last shot glass but before drinking it. Her movement stops.


    "Lee ?"


    "Yes ?"


    "Did I say b52 or b55 ?"


    ".........55 ?"


    Her eyes widened at the realization. with a terrifying expression, she immediately puts the shot down.


    "Something wrong ?"


    "Fuck! I can''t drink absinthe!" She says with a very desperate voice.


    "What will happen if you do?" Now I''m panicking too.


    "I''ll get really REALLY fucked up." Oh shit ......maybe she''ll be alright? It''s been a minute or so by now.


    Right after the thought came over my mind as if punishing me for jinxing it. Viviane hunched over, her whole body leans forward. She''s now covering her mouth with both of her hands. Her face looks paler than usual.


    "Viv? Can I get you a water or something?"


    With all of her will. Viviane fought back nausea and spoke. "No....... I need you to get me outside."


    I helped her make the way out as carefully as I can without too much motion or walking too fast like I''m carrying a ticking bomb. I can feel a few drinkers looking at us, I pay them no mind. I got better things to do than care what others think.


    Warden watches us slowly move towards the exit. Without a word he opens the steel gate, I gave him a thankful nod. He returns me the same.


    The lack of lights in the basement makes the road back to the surface even harder than it was. I glance at the brunette I''m supporting my arm. Her face is even paler than before, though her lipstick is still there I can see her lips are unnaturally white too.


    The stairway up feels like a malicious challenge created by the devil himself.


    Is this what Sisyphus felt while pushing the boulder to the top of the mountain? Does he know the rock will inevitably fall?


    Halfway through the stairway towards b1.


    The boulder falls.


    She pukes with both of her hands on the wall, holding herself in place. I avert my eyes for the next two or three minutes and do my best not to pay attention to the sounds of digests hitting the floor.


    "Do you need a minute or......" I ask her after she''s done.


    "No, I think I''m fine now...... but I still want to catch some air...... company me would you?" She looks almost identical to her sister with that tiresome expression.


    "Sure viv. Take your time." Slowly but steadily, she gets back on her feet.


    ***


    The Russians are still playing poker at b1. The same guy glanced at us again and shift his focus back just like when we first arrived.


    The last set of stairs that leads outside seems...... magical in these circumstances. The sound of late-night partygoers making their way back, the Neon lights, signboards, lamp posts, and cars passing by. All of them got concentrated into a vague imagination of a world just out of reach by us still trying to slowly climb up the stairs.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Thirteen stairs later. We''re back at the alleyway.


    Viviane sits by the wall and starts rubbing her eyes. I''m by the opposite wall, also sitting on the ground. Wordlessly, both of our attention got drawn to the street outside of the alley. We''re still close to the main road therefore even at this hour.


    The sounds and sights of other people''s lives can still be heard and seen from the 3-meter width thread of sight that is the entrance of this alley.


    The dark and deserted alley with rubbish on the ground, marks of somebody''s vomit, and pipelines crawling up on the wall that leads to AC of buildings next to it, and two people sitting by it; the brimming road that''s full of life and pedestrians committing at making themselves look desirable, professional, cool, to shine, to captivate, to be seeing.


    Two different worlds, neither can see the other''s full features unless you decide to step into it.


    ***


    "Do you think what we do is ok?" Viviane asks without looking at me.


    "You mean our line of work? "


    "No, I mean being used to it." She turns her eyes back to me.


    "Killing, associating with violence, disobeying moral codes of the public. And don''t feel a goddamn thing about it." She continues.


    "... viv...... I can''t represent anyone but myself when I say this but.......When I first got to Faust I had dreams, large childish dreams of writing my own stories like the protagonist of legends and fairy tales."


    "And?"


    And I got fucked hard by reality.


    "..........and it didn''t even take six months for euforia to annihilate them."


    "Euforia?" Viviane looks puzzled.


    "It''s just ...... someone used to call this city ''Euforia'' and I picked it up from him." I pause............ I shouldn''t. "My first kill was back when I was 16 or 15. The funny thing about it was. I didn''t feel regret, remorse, disgust, thrill, or any emotions at all. All I thought about was I should get out of the scene quick and make sure I don''t look suspicious. In the years to come that''s all I think about whenever I''m about to kill or harm someone. Consequences."


    Viviane tilts her head and frowns. For a while, she didn''t say anything. I don''t know if she''s judging me for it, and to be honest. I don''t have anything in defense either. Earlier today if I have enough reasons, I would''ve killed Vera too.


    After a while, she speaks again.


    "A man, reduce to the single instinct that was gifted to every living soul in this world. Survive."


    "I felt terrible the first time I kill someone. I couldn''t move. If it wasn''t for Vera I would probably stand there until the cops come and arrest me. For days I couldn''t sleep. Not because the victim was hunting me, but because of how easy it was to end a life. I was shocked by the insignificance of life. Everyone has their own coping mechanisms for this kind of stuff. Yours is letting your reasons and intellect take over. Mine was believing how unimportant it is."


    "And does that make us........ a horrible person." I ask. Unironically. I want to know it. Because I can''t tell.


    "I''m not sure if it does for you. But I''m pretty sure it does for me...... kill people for a living with your sister........ what kind of sane and not-horrible person would do that ?"


    Don''t do it you stupid fucking fuck. Don''t tell her.


    "I''m not an orphan........ I had a home and a family. And one day is all gone. All I have left is this...... terrifying city towering over a little kid who lost everything and couldn''t even remember what happened. Day by day, the little kid cares less and less about his family and old home. All he thinks about is how to get his next meal. And before he knew it. He abandoned the search for a way back to his parents, to his past. Then the city took him, just like the countless dreamers it devoured. It forces him to fight against and enjoy himself at the same time."


    "One night, the kid realizes there''s no point in staying here and struggling. And also, he misses having a home, a safe shelter in a storm, and relying on someone else except himself. Then........" Why the hell not, you''ve talked too much anyway.


    "Then the same night he understood. He has no home, no one to rely on and he has to face the storm alone. Nothing that happened to him makes sense anyway. Why should he? He might as well stay in this ''city of dreams'' and see how fuck up it will make him become."


    Is that ..... no. Nono not now, not here....... Don''t pity me Viv.........please.


    "The world is an irrational, unhinged place. There''s no need to care about being ''sane'' or ''right''. So, Viv my answer to your question is.


    Yes. It is ok to not feel a goddamn thing."


    Viv looks at me with her sister''s unreadable expression. I wouldn''t dare imagine what she''s thinking.


    After an eternity. She slowly crawls across the alley, towards me. Her green pupils shine even in dark. She''s getting closer. So close that I can see the gold in her eyes again. Her hair falls down, her makeup is ruined, but blood seems to rush back to her cheeks so it''s not so pale now. She''s closer than ever. And I''m up against the wall. There''s a war in my mind.


    so close I can smell the booze and sweets radiating from her. I look her in the eyes, she does too. What are you looking for? What is there to give you? Five centimeters away from her.


    There. She stops.


    Who will jump first? Down the rabbit hole.


    The world is an irrational place.........


    Don''t remember who goes first, but that last line of barriers is gone. Her lips touch mine. Hers are softly relaxed, mine are stiff and surprised. Out of pity? Fake signs of love? Going with a whim? I don''t care. In the back alley of lanes, a small piece of me stays, he wouldn''t leave. And she does too, I''m certain.


    After it ends, she slowly backed down and sit next to me by the wall. With a smile she otters.


    "Odysseus."


    "That''s who you are. This city is your Aegean Sea. And you''ll find your home again eventually. Guessed you have become the protagonist of legends and fairy tales after all."


    "And I hope one day you can have a proper ending to your story." She pulls out a pack of cig. Takes two out, puts one on my lips, three tries on the lighter before the fire were produced, she lights mine then her own. I take long drags; she takes small puffs. Before both of our cigarettes burn out, neither of us speaks. It''s only after she throws away her cigarette end that she breaks the silence again.


    "Hey, lee."


    "What''s up?"


    "Do you think we could be one of them?"


    She motions her head towards the street outside, a world that I briefly forgot.


    I look at them, then look at her.


    "I don''t think we need to."


    Her smile and joyful expressions are back on her face.


    "Let''s go back. Vera should be awake now and I still need my guns back."


    ***


    On the way down Viviane starts giggling.


    "What''s so funny?"


    "It''s just that... you just kissed someone who was puking ten minutes ago." She starts laughing loudly. I really did. Didn''t I.


    "You know, you REALLY don''t have to remind me that." I start laughing with her. While we descend back into the dark.


    The world is an irrational place........ Why care about being sane ?

 Author note

    Writing is something I never thought I would enjoy this much. What used to be a fun little attempt evolved into a part of my daily life. I''m having a great time framing my dreams and imaginations with words.


    And to all the people that are willing to check out this novice writer''s work, I am very thankful to y''all. And I will continue doing this.


    Just a forewarning, I''m deeply sorry if any grammar mistakes were made. (English is not my first language.)I will make sure to double-check my work in the future.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    As always.


    thanks for checking out my story!


    Please comment on what you think of it and how I can improve.


    ***


    I don''t care where my body could take me as long as my soul is embarked on a meaningful journey.


    ¡ªDante Alighieri

 Reunion

    The rest of the night was a blur, we went back downstairs and wake Vera up, Viv apologized to lev and got her gun back. Then the three of us drink like there''s no tomorrow. I''m pretty sure I blackout at some point. Because the next thing I know everyone''s gone and lev is shaking my shoulders.


    "Morning lee. I''m about to close. It''s time for you to leave." Every single word that came out of his mouth feels like a rusty nail drilling my head. The hangover is kicking in.


    "Oh. Fuck. Uh, what time is it?"


    "6:30."


    "Okay, I''ll just...... get my stuff and.... uh how much is the bill?" I try to stand up slowly to not worsen the headaches. I failed.


    "No need. The cleaners took care of that for you. Here. A little something on the house for you to hit the road." He hands me a weird-looking drink. To be honest I can''t even be sure it''s a drink. I look at Lev, frowning.


    "It''s for the hangover. Trust me it works even better than Bloody Mary."


    "......There''s a raw egg floating on it."Floating on what looks like someone''s hematuria.


    "Yes, it is necessary for prairie oyster."


    "Ah! Fuck it." It''s probably gonna taste like piss but at least it''s free. I finish the whole thing in one go. Pepper. Salt. Chili. Egg yolk.


    Then. I''m awake.


    "Motherfucker!"


    "Glad you like it," Lev says with a devilish smile. "Alright, now you finish your last drink it''s really time for you to hit the road."


    "Yeah, yeah. I''m going." Standing up now is not as painful as before. I check my clothes and belongings to make sure there''s nothing missing, and if I got hurt during the blackout. In the process, I find a crumbled-up note in my right pocket.


    Opening it up, it reads: Figure it''s only fair that you get mine too. (A serial of numbers) We will be in touch. -Vera


    On the opposite side, it reads.


    ps: Viviane insisted you have hers too so here it is. (Another serial of numbers) then at the bottom of the note, there''s the slightest hint of a red lip print. pps: I haven''t had this much fun for a long time. -Viv


    What a night.


    "Goodbye, lev."


    "Goodbye lee, and I hope I''ll see you around. Anyone that could handle those two is worth my respect."


    ***


    The rising sun reactivates a part of my hangover symptoms and also makes it hard for me to open my eyes. Some poor grassroots office workers are on their way to work. Most of the shops aren''t open yet but their Neon signs shine like always. Two fire trucks rush past me and make a left turn towards the smoke about two blocks away close to desalos.


    Since the metro is in that direction too, I decide to check it out. A few minutes later. I see what used to be a car burning, its parts scattered on the pavement some parts of the skeleton are melted. A small group of firefighters and bystanders forms a semicircle around it.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    It''s the car Viviane stole last night.


    Vera really doesn''t like loose ends huh?


    ***


    After that night I started working with vel and Vix from time to time. Sometimes they outsource the more ''delicate'' work to me, sometimes I hired them as a ''last resort'', and other times we do joint operations together for the same employer. Me and vel are on the frontline and vix is our guardian angel.


    I find myself in stynx more and more after I met them. For taking jobs and celebrations. Me and lev got acquainted after a while, but deep down, we both know that neither of us will be honest with the other.


    Vel was right. The power struggle in Chinatown ended in the next 7 months. The initial families that built piao jie and all that comes with it, rival each other for control, there once was a time when Chinatown is like the western frontline in WW1, fighting for a few inches of dirt on the table or off the table. New Betrayals and alliances happened every day.


    This ''warring states'' goes on and on for at least two decades, no families or gangs were able to gain the upper hand, and even the ones that did were soon crushed by the others in union. Until now.


    That night at the plaza wasn''t the only failed ''negotiation'' that happened. Instead of trying of fighting against the others in town, they planned to create confusion and anger among everyone. And their goal is to make every single faction in Chinatown declare war on each other so there will be no alliances. Just conflicts. 8 months of bloodbaths and assassinations later (Vera told me the job opportunities in piao jie during that time is like none other)


    In the end. The smallest family in piao jie, the one that orchestrated everything took over. Chinatown is United. And they''re not stopping. The manufacture of self-made firearms didn''t seize. It grows, and some speculate that the guns were made by that family even before they took over.


    The Russians and the Chinese are now in the blink of a war, over the past few years nochnaya to the Chinese is like a death zone and so is piao jie to Russians. Both sides are just waiting for an excuse.


    Nowadays I strap an armpit holster on my right collarbone to hold my second pistol every time I go out. For my own safety and to make sure the bus stop situation won''t happen again.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    Smoking on the used-to-be empty pool table, Vera raises her glass to me.


    "Old pal for my next drink, please." I turn my head back to lev.


    "Sure thing." Lev takes a quick glance at the pool table confirming where he will be giving me the drink.


    Through the crowd, across the room, to the blind spot of everyone. She''s still the same, hiding in the corner, even after knowing her for so long I still have no idea how a beauty like her can goes under everyone''s radar.


    "Been a while. Old friend." She smirks. I return her with the same. Nowadays her smiles and smirks no longer make me paranoid. It''s a welcoming sight.


    "A while indeed, sorry about the radio silence. My phone was off during vacation."


    "So, you were on vacation?"


    "Yeah, is it really that hard to believe? You and Viv should try it too." So, is that oblivious huh?


    "Lee, neither of us are the ''vocation'' type. And the next time please give Viv a call first. She''s been thinking about all kinds of explanations for your missing. She even thought you got killed." She emphasized the word ''killed'' like it''s the punchline of a joke.


    That''s who we are.


    We''re the type to Believe we can cheat death. Not the ''vocation'' type.


    "Don''t worry, I''m not planning on doing this again soon. It was pretty boring anyway." My thoughts drift to Viviane. She called me at least 20 times in the past few months. I thought about returning the call but never actually do.


    "Lee, your old pal." Lev came out of nowhere with my drink and then vanish in the crowd again. A busy night.


    "Anyway, enough about me. You said you have a job for me?"


    "I do. In fact, my employer designated you for the job. But since no one could reach you, the person came to me and ask me to find you and inform you of the job opportunity."


    Not good. Proxy of a proxy.


    "And is there compensation on your end?"


    "We wouldn''t be talking if there isn''t."


    "As your usual rate of charge?" Vel smiles in silence. I take a sip of my drink. Cleaners aren''t cheap. Especially an experienced one like her. Why would anyone pay that much money just to ask me about a job?


    "Look, I know this whole thing is insidious as hell, but can you reject after I tell you the job?" Why the hell not? It would hurt to hear her out. The illusion of choice fools me again.


    "Fine, what is the job?" Vel smiles and passes me her half-burned cig.


    "Delivery."

 Delivery boy

    ".........I don''t like human trafficking works."


    "From what I heard it''s not a person you''re delivering, just a package."


    "From who ?"


    "They didn''t tell me."


    "Send to who?"


    "Don''t know either." Vera, what the hell are you doing? I look at her wordlessly.


    "Look, all the person said was to have you go to the jiu lou in piao jie. They''ll fill you in on the detail of who you''re delivering the package to." I finish half of my drink.


    "There''s lots of jiu lou in piao jie, which one is it?"


    "The biggest one."


    Fuck. Vera, you''re smarter than this. What were you thinking?


    jiu lou is a facility that can only be found in Chinatown, it''s like an old-fashioned Chinese restaurant that serves people in groups or more specifically gangsters in groups. Such establishments are all over piao jie. But the biggest one of them all is owned by the ruler of Chinatown for the past four years, the Qin family.


    "Vera......you know damn well, what will happen if you get tangled up with them. And now you expect me to walk into the dirtiest pit in hell and be a delivery boy for the qins?"


    "It''s not like the first time you do jobs for them." Vera shrugs and snatches her cig back from my index and middle finger.


    "Yeah. I did some small-time gigs. But those weren''t the same caliber as this. If I walk into that building it practically means I''m affiliated with the Chinese. "


    "You afraid that will ruin your relationship with the Russkies?"


    "My relationship with them build solely on the fact that I''m neutral and on good terms with the brigadiers. And what you proposed could potentially destroy both."


    "I still don''t understand why you''re so fixated on staying in that powder keg, what you save up over the years...hell even the jobs you''ve done with me and vix are enough to buy an apartment in the city center."


    It''s true, I have enough in my bank account to get myself a suite there. Maybe even a cottage close to monclea.


    "I like nochnaya." I finish my drink.


    "Lee, you and me both know you hate it there." Vera rolls her eyes and leans back close to the pool table while saying that.


    "Lev! One B&B and take it easy on the d.o.m!" I..... think I saw lev give me a thumb up next to the counter and a bunch of other patrons.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "Hate it or not, it is a bad time to lean towards or piss off any factions when war is on the corner." I turned back and face Vera. Her cig burned out. Her face seems a little more serious now. She knows I''m not even considering taking the job.


    "Lee, they''re paying you 30k for this.And all you got to do is walk in there, get the package, and deliver it. You don''t even have to kill anyone, if I''m in your position I wouldn''t even be considering if I should take it."


    Something''s up. She never pushed me to take any work before. And she knows I''ve turned off more lucrative jobs than this.


    "Vera. We''ve known each other for what? Five years now? You should know I can see there''s something else going on here. I don''t want to go back to testing each other''s agenda like before. So, tell me why you are trying so hard to have me work for the Qins?"


    She stares at me furiously. If looks can kill, she would be a weapon of mass destruction. But I know her. If she wants to kill someone, she wouldn''t give them this look. No. She''s just angry that I''m tearing off her disguise. So I stare back.


    ".......fine. I''ll tell you." A glass of liquid, in the color between golden and copper with an ice cube floating on it is sitting on the carpet of the pool table that I''m sitting on. Looks like lev did hear my order.


    "Couple of weeks ago when they first told me to tell you the job, I laughed, said you''ll never do that. Five days ago they contact me again and told me if I don''t convince you to take the job they''ll expose the fact that I let you live and didn''t finish the job five years ago."


    They''re blackmailing her using me.


    A cleaner that spares their target on purpose will be considered a disgrace to their work. The reason why cleaners are so expansive and feared is because unlike mercenaries, they always finish the job. They don''t quit until either the targets or themselves are all extinguished.


    One man spared, during a job five years ago is enough to destroy her reputation and anyone''s interest in hiring her. Casualties happen, but no one like loose ends. And no one wants a killer with their soul still attached to their body.


    "...... They knew all along, Huh?" Vera nods.


    "Having you as my friend is one of the best and worst decisions I''ve ever made." She gives me a bitter smile.


    I feel like I''m back at that bus stop, the second before she decided to count me out of her contract. I still don''t know why she made that choice. Or what she saw in me.


    "I''ll take the job."


    "....... Guess I''m in your debt now." She says with a voice lighter than feather. She doesn''t want me to do it either. Especially not after I know the truth.


    "You don''t owe me anything. I was the one in your debt. I''ve been in your debt for five years. This is just me, paying you back."


    Vera is at a loss of words. Well. Ain''t that a sight to be seen.


    "Who''s my contact in jiu lou ?"


    "They said someone will come to you when you enter the place."


    "Did they tell you how urgent is the matter ?"


    "......They want you to go there as soon as I finished debriefing you." I nod slowly.


    Can''t fucking wait, can you?


    "Guess I''ll be going now." Noticing Vera''s whiskey glass is empty. I drag my B&B across the pool table and stop in front of her.


    "I''ll give viv a call when I have time, tell her I''m alive and well." I stand up and survey the room one last time. Nothing out of the ordinary.


    Nothing at all.


    I walk past Vera and head toward the exit.A strong hand suddenly grips my shoulder. I immediately grab the person''s thumb, before I twist it off, I turned around and see Vera standing next to me. I let go of her.


    "Thank you."


    Warden opens the gate for me like always. I thank him. He returns with a hum. I step outside and the smell of mold and the basement fills my nostrils. Just before he closed the door.


    "Guess the drink didn''t help." I heard him mumble.


    Two floors up and 10 steps east. I''m back on Main Street again.


    And everything is still too goddamn shining.

 Ye who enters......

    Metro got me two blocks away from piao jie. Since no bus stop or metro station is located inside Chinatown, I have to finish the rest of the road on foot.


    Piao jie is a strange place, imagine overdosing an 8 years old kid with growth hormone, and now imagine that kid as a district.


    Tall multi-story buildings and apartments that look like a prison from the outside are all you can see when you look up at the sky in this place. Rusty pipes, old air conditioners, windows with iron railings, peeling white paint, and escape ladders, decorated the neighborhood and residents'' home.


    When the population grows so fast that you can''t even bother with quality because quantity is way too much of a problem. Though the upper floors are concrete and iron sheets, the ground floor of these buildings are traditional-looking shops made out of wood, glass, and various posts and commercial signs, speaking of which. The number of billboards and signs in this place can put the neon lights of nach in shame, it is impossible to see what lies 100 meters away from you because signs with giant Chinese words written all over them block out all sights. Not to mention the lanterns hanging in the air next to somebody''s laundry.


    At the edge of piao jie people treat asphalt roads as pavement since cars aren''t the most popular choice. Most people travel by bike or bicycles since the road is usually narrow and filled with people, only when you''re leaving the district or you if live at the center of piao jie will the automobiles be of any use.


    ***


    I always tried to avoid walking on the streets of Chinatown. From an outsider''s perspective, they may think I look apart because I''m Asian. (The Russians had asked me to be their scout in piao jie many times)


    But the truth is I look more obvious than a hooker in a monastery. People of Chinatown have known each other for decades, if any families in town have a newborn the whole town will know that within a week. That''s why it''s so hard for other gangs to place their eyes and ears in town.


    It''s only been 5 minutes since I entered the place and I can already feel the glances and stares coming from all directions. Some were interested, some hostile, and some skeptical. I''ve spotted two members of The Qin family following me. (they''re literally the only two wearing suits in this town)


    I pay them no mind.


    You want me. Here I am.


    ***


    30 minutes later, I''m in the central area of Chinatown.People in suits and serious clothes became more and more common. The average height of buildings on both sides starts getting higher. Neon signs( still with giant Chinese words on them) replace plastic signs at the frontier of the district. Roads expanded. Cars appeared, and at some point pedestrians starts to move sideways for cars on the asphalt road to pass.


    The last time I was this deep in piao jie was ages ago. Although I''ve heard many things about the giant jiu lou at the heart of Chinatown, I''ve never been there before. Not knowing which way to go, I look back and find the two men that have been following me. Even in the midst of well-dressed Chinese, they''re still too obvious.


    I casually walk towards them, one tense up and frowns. The other one stands still with a poker face.


    "Would you two gentlemen be so kind to point me in Chen Xiang jiu lou''s direction ?"


    They give each other a glance. Then the stoic one speaks.


    "Turn right at the small square up ahead two more blocks and you should see it, it''s hard to miss."


    "Thanks a lot."


    After following their direction for five minutes a giant building on a slope catches my eye.


    It looks like a fortress.


    Buildings and buildings, houses and houses stack on top of each other, about seven Storeys high, and five times the width of a normal store in piao jie. From the outside, it looks like the palace from the ''Tang'' dynasty and the Osaka castle from Japan combined.


    Wooden balconies, stone walls, kiln brick on gable roofs. High ranks in the Qin family and other powerful individuals are smoking and laughing on the balcony of the fifth floor, the lanterns hanging on the column makes half of their face visible. I can see the wrinkles form with their smiles, and the cocky expression on their faces while they enjoy the view from above.


    They have total confidence that they''re in control of everyone and everything here.


    On the top floor, just a few inches from the rooftop, a woman stands there, lights coming out from the room behind her so I couldn''t see her face. But I can feel the familiar coldness that shivers my spine, She''s watching me.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    There''s a giant plaque signboard on top of the front door. ''Chen Xiang jiu lou''. Three not so friendly looking men in suits are standing on the left side of the front door, and a female receptionist with a slim figure is on the right...... I approach the receptionist and she puts on the most professional smile I have ever seen as soon as she sees me.


    "Evening, mister." Not bad, she didn''t even try talking to me in Chinese.


    "Evening, I''m supposed to meet someone here tonight." I give her the most professional smile I can muster too.


    "Yes. Of course. Do you have your friend''s reservation details ?"


    "No, not really. She just told me to come here." The receptionist turns her head to the right in a very subtle motion. She''s checking the security guards.


    "Sir, may I have your name please ?"


    "Lee."


    "Sir, I''m sorry but I need your full name."


    "You already have it."


    ".......Sir, I''m sorry but I don''t think... You''re in the right place." She frowns at my answer.


    I''m losing my patience. Every single cell in me is telling me to stop wasting time here.


    "Miss, I assure you, I''m just as confused as you are, how about you let me in and I''ll find my friend myself ?"


    "Sir, I can''t just let you in and......"


    "Miss ?" I''ve had enough.


    "...Yes sir ?"


    "Do they speak English?" I point my finger at the three men in suits that''s been staring at me this whole time.


    "A little. Sir I wouldn''t recommend you to...."


    "Duo xie." I leave the receptionist at a loss and walk towards the security. They look like they''ve been waiting for some actions this whole night. Well.


    Look no further boys.


    I size them up first. The one on the right has good physic, his left leg moves back half a step to prepare for any trouble, though the other two looks less experienced and not as physically strong as the first one. But since they''re leaning on the wall their suit naturally falls to both sides. They pay the left side no mind but put their hand on the right side of their waist. Perfect positioning for drawing or hiding a pistol.


    "Evening, fellows." I put my right hand in the inner pocket of my bomber jacket. The two in the back get off the wall and take a step closer. Stupid choice. Their former position can shoot me as soon as I tried something, but now they gave me a chance to post a threat to them. The first one doesn''t move but I can tell he''s ready to kill. I search through my inner pockets and what I''m looking for. A pack of cig.


    I slowly take the pack out, flick the bottom and pull one out.


    "Got a light ?" They look at each other for a second. Than the big one pulls out a cheat plastic lighter. Two tries before the flicker was formed. I lower my head to light up the cigarette. His hand grips the lighter so tight that his knuckles turned white.


    Still on guard, very good.


    " Thanks a lot." I take a small drag. Not much of a smoker nowadays, few years ago I love the pungent smell and the energy boost that comes with it. Now the inhaler does most of the work, smokes are just for social fares or ice breaking. But nonetheless, the familiar tastefeels good.


    "Now. I have some business to conduct, either you take me to your boss or let me in this building." He let out a chuckle, which sounds more like a hum.


    "I don''t know you. Boss don''t do work with strangers........"


    "Yeah, that''s what I thought an hour ago. Now. Please let me finish this so we can leave each other in peace."His arms folded


    "What''s your name ?"


    "Lee."


    "Lee from where ?"


    "Nowhere. I''m a freelancer." He frowns at the word like his trying recall what it means.


    "You''re a........ merc?"I nod.


    "Leave. This is not where you should come." The two behind him have their hand inside their suit now.


    "Believe me I wish I could but I can''t. So how about this, you tell those two to calm down and go tell someone who isn''t a fucking ''ma zai'' that the delivery boy you''re looking for it''s at your doorstep." He might not understand the full sentence, but he sure as hell understands


    ''ma zai''.


    He takes another step forward.


    "Last chance, leave."


    Just when hell is about to break lose. The door opens, and a man strides out and walks directly toward us. All three man stand straight and greets him.


    "The fuck is going on here ?" The man asks in Chinese. Calmly.


    "Nan. This son of a dog was trying to see the boss." He responds in Chinese too.


    Before I come to euforia my parents taught me both English and Chinese. Even though I seldom use the latter, I can still understand what they''re saying.


    Nan turned his head and look me up and down. Same as I.


    He''s wearing a tailored suit with black shirt(first two buttons undone)and leather shoes. His skin color looks a bit darker than the average piao jie citizen. Slicked back undercut. He has a visible scar from temple to the side of his head. Slightly higher than me about 178 cm. Average physic but I can tell by the way he walks this guy is confident in his ''problem-solving skills''. Lastly, his eyes. They burn like wild fire but are restrained by his discipline. Anger, irritation, are all locked inside of him as fuels to keep him going. He''s the kind of man that can transform his wrath into sheer will.


    "Who are you? "


    "Lee, mercenary. Here for the job."


    One step forward. He stands just a few inches away from me and looks down slightly to meet my glares. I raise my right hand and bring the cigarette up to my mouth again. After a small drag, I puff out the smoke in front of him. His eyes didn''t even flinch, gray chiffon drifting between us. A few more seconds later he nods in satisfaction. And grin ear to ear like a vicious dog.


    "Mr. lee. Sorry for the inconvenience, please follow me."


    He leaves the three security guards and the receptionist bewildered and strides back towards the front door. As he pushes open the handle of the double door. Noises of a load of people talking loudly, chopsticks clinging to rice bowls, whisky bottles colliding with glass flagons overwhelms my senses. Nan gives me a ''after you'' gesture. Still grinning and I can see blue veins on his wrist.


    I look at the entrance for a second. Take a deep breath. And follow him inside.


    All hope abandon, ye who enters.........

 Good luck

    The first floor of jiu lou is full of normal customers, citizens that are in good turns with the Qins, they might not be the richest or the most influential people in piao jie, but they all have their own capabilities and reasons to be able to have a seat here. Since this is a very private establishment and only selective customers can enter.


    When I walk inside with nan a few eaters give me a curious look but turn back to dine after they saw nan walking beside me.


    This floor is currently half full. I survey the surroundings to get a better understanding of this place. There are at least 80 to 100 diners, and about 10 of them are goons of the Qin family, they have finished all the meals on the table and are surveying the place like me, Same as the others as soon as they saw nan walking next to me, they avert their eyes.


    I see guards with neckband headphones standing next to the stairs at north corner, end of the hallway, and entrance. So there are about 20 possibly armed guards on this floor.... plus, the one walking next to me. Fat chances of me escaping or fighting a way out of this place.


    I take a closer look at the diners. They''re all families, sitting around round wooden tables with a rotating tray on them. Mullet roe, prawns, sweet pork ribs, steamed fish. Typical delicacies in a Bando. Some families brought their kids too. One of them is playing knife fingies with a chopstick before his parents stop him.


    ***


    Nan leads me to the end of the hallway where two guards quickly step aside. He pushes the door open and enters the kitchen area.


    "Sorry, but we have to take the freight elevator. The guests above the first-floor value their privacies greatly."


    "Makes no difference to me. But I can''t help but felt unwelcome at the front gate."


    "My apologies, those men were not informed that you''re coming because my employer would like to keep this whole thing on a low profile, as for June....... It''s her first day at work, surely you can understand."


    "June is the receptionists name?"


    "A nickname...... invented by me." He looks.... proud of it?


    At the back of the kitchen area, nan opens another set of doors that leads to a small break room. An old man is smoking next to the freight elevator with a bored expression. After Nan gives him a small tip the old man opens the life with a key and leaves the room. Didn''t even look at me.


    Again, Nan gives me the ''please'' sign.


    The freight elevator is clearly a bit old and probably hasn''t been used for a long time. Nan follows me inside and pushes the ''6'' button. The door slowly closes and with a concussion, it starts moving up.


    He really doesn''t want people to find out I''m here.


    "Care to explain why we''re sneaking around in your own house ?" Might as well see what I can fish out of him.


    "Like I said, Mr.lee. My employer wants to keep this a low profile." The numbers on the display screen slowly go up.


    "To the point, you got to bride your colleague to pretend he didn''t see you?" He grins again.


    "People gossip. My employer, and soon to be yours, don''t like gossip."


    Get the package, deliverer it, and get paid. That''s it. The rest can go fuck itself for all I care.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "And who would that be ?"


    "You''ll see. Mr. Lee. You''ll see." Still grinning. The display screen flickers as we reach the sixth floor. Exiting the lift, I found myself in some kind of storage room. Nan leads us to the western corner of the room where he opens an emergency exit that leads to stairways.


    Greenlight barely illuminated the place.


    Nan silently leads me upstairs to the top floor of jiu lou. He pushes the emergency door of the eighth floor open with a bit of effort. Warm yellow light poked into the emergency stairways.


    ***


    The eighth floor looks like a palace. That''s the only way to put it. The emergency door behind me closes and became a part of the wall. Camouflaged by the same red and gold paint as the rest of the hallway. Old Chinese paintings with ''gewu shenping'' theme hangs on the wall. Blue and white porcelains are placed along the hallway, and the ceiling is painted with a giant golden dragon coiling in the sky.


    I''m in the lair of dragons.


    Three wooden doors on the left side of the hallway. Nan pays them no mind and leads me to a double black door with copper handles on the left side, near the end of the hallway. I''m a little disjointed but if memory serves me right that room is facing the street.


    Nan stops before opening the door. And turn his head to look at me.


    "I''ll inform my employer that you''re here. Please. Take a seat." He gestures at the wooden bench by the wall that looks more like a decoration than an actual bench.


    "And please, don''t go wandering around." His grin disappears. Now I see why he''s always smiling. He looks like a demon when he''s serious.


    I nod. I already have enough on my plate. Got zero interest in more trouble.


    Nan takes a deep breath before opening the doors and quickly closing them.


    I seat down on the wooden bench.


    Yep.


    It''s so damn uncomfortable.


    I take another drag from my half-burned cig. Now that I got nothing to do I start reflecting on this whole thing. Vera was blackmailed by the fact that she spared me five years ago, people that was aware I was at the plaza that night was the two Chinese that I was concealing and possibly Vera''s employer too.


    Vix and Vel took care of the two Chinese (which includes my employer), which leaves only the possibility that their employer somehow finds out the fact that I was there, and I survived, or my employer told someone about me.


    I shake my head. And take another smoke. How the Qins knew doesn''t really matter. What matters is why don''t they use their own people instead of finding a freelancer if it''s just a delivery job?


    And furthermore. Why me? Sure having dirt on my friend can make it easier to force me into working for them. Most of the mercs that are willing to take jobs from the Qins are piao jie oriented, which means they only take jobs from them (the so-called personal mercenaries).


    Everyone else knows the Qins are fucking sharks and they hate working with outsiders. So why would they want a total stranger for the job?


    As I was deep in thought a crackle came from the room behind me. Then a woman storms out and stops in front of me. She''s in a red cheongsam which emphasizes her well-pronounced figure. Some parts of the dress are clearly converted, with a shorter hemline and sleeveless design. She''s wearing a set of black fingerless long leather gloves which somehow don''t look out of place.


    I estimated she''s about 170 cm. Her skin is extremely pale, maybe paler than Vera, She could be considered pretty if it weren''t for her eyes and facial expression. Her brown eyes are sharper than the dagger hidden in my sleeve, they look angry at everything in this world. The way she walks, the frowning, and the tense expression all tells me she''s a violent person.


    A well-trained killer and she''s having a bad day.


    She stares at me with the full intention to kill.


    "Is this a nonsmoking area ?" I raise my burned-out cigarette and ask in Chinese.


    She snatches my cigarette with the speed of lightning and then finished it in one deep drag before flicking the end into one of the porcelains. I watch her disappear into one of the rooms on the right side of the hallway.


    Seconds later, nan walks out.


    "Mr. Lee." He nods at me. His grin is back.


    "Sorry for my colleague''s behaviors." He motions his head towards the doors to the right.


    "It''s fine. We all have bad days. So, may I meet my employer now?"


    "Yes, of course." He opens the double door completely as I stand up from that uncomfortable bench. Just before entering. Nan grabs my arm. Grinning ear to ear as he speaks.


    "Good luck. Mr. lee."

 Dynasty

    The first thing I see is my own reflection. There''s a wooden porch with a round mirror in the middle. After Bypassing it, the room expanded. On the right side, there''s a small living room area with three leather sofas with a wooden coffee table in the middle, and there''s a small door next to it.


    On the left side are the bookcases that cover the whole wall. At the end of the room is a row of French widows that leads to the balcony when opened. Except for some paintings on the wall and small Chinese trinkets on the shelf the office is fairly simple compared to the rest of this floor. I estimate the whole room is about 70 square feet.


    Nan closes the double door and locks it behind me. He puts his hands behind his back. Waiting for me to proceed.


    Alright, let''s meet the devil.


    At the end of the room, in front of French widows. An executive desk, walnut wood probably. Few documents on the table, and a map of Faust on the side. A heavy-looking imperial jade seal on the edge and an old banker lamp at the corner of the table, currently on. A few fountain pens are scattered on the left side.


    Behind the desk, on a classic leather chair sits a stunning young Chinese woman. Small figure, about 170 cm tall, she''s wearing a suit and a black tight with collar buttons up, unlike nan. Messy low bun with hair even darker than mine. A Jade earring on each side. She have the face of a typical Chinese beauty, oval face, narrow chin, small nose, and cloudy gray eyes bigger than most around here. Noticeable eyeliners, red lips and long eyelashes. I estimate she can''t be older than I am.


    Overall her face gives out an extremely feminine, gentle vibe. But her eyes..... I can''t see through it, observing someone''s eyes is the easiest way to understand a person, they don''t lie. But when I try to study her storm-colored pupils nothing came out of it.


    She watches me slowly make my way across the room and stops 1 meter in front of her desk. Nan is behind me on the right.


    "Mr. Lee meet miss Qin Yan of the Qin family." Nan nods at her. "Miss Qin. Mr. Lee has come as you requested." A small smile forms on her face as I see a hint of interest sparks in her eyes.


    Well, I''ll be fucking damn. The emperor''s daughter in the flesh.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    The known family members of the Qin family consist of: The head of the family and the emperor Qin Cunhua, his daughter Qin Yan, his deceased wife Xie Yan, his deceased older brother Qin Shang, and his younger brother Qin Wen.


    Living in Euforia and especially in my line of work, you''re bound to know a bunch of gossip about the influential people in town. Rumor has it that mostly it was Qin Cunhua and his older brother that conquered piao jie. They were strategists and ruthless gangsters.


    Qin Cunhua is the emperor that united piao jie and put an end to the power struggle which had been going on for decades.


    People regard him as a terrifying and intimidating man. A smart and ruthless leader.


    But he''s also a family man, as someone that runs a sex business he was surprisingly very loyal to his wife Xie Yen, words has it that she is one of the most beautiful woman in the era. But there haven''t even been rumors about her cheating on her husband. The two of them were deeply in love, that part almost everyone can agree on.


    But about 12 years ago Qin cuanhua''s beloved wife died in a ''car accident'' which devastated him. What''s worst is that at the end of the ''warring state,'' his older brother Qin Shang died of assassination in his own bed alongside his wife. No one in that house survived. The guards, the servants, and even his two-year-old son were smothered to death while sleeping. Only his oldest son got away because he wasn''t at home that night. He was adopted by Qin Cunhua afterward.


    There were many speculations about who orchestrated the slaughter, the most popular theory was that a Hail Mary of one of the other families in piao jie.


    After his second closest family member died of unnatural causes, Qin Cunhua became paranoid and irritable. He almost never leaves piao jie. Even after he gained full control of the situation he''s still surrounded by personal guards when he''s in public which is a rare sight even in Chinatown. And even rarer for his daughter. Not many people know what she looks like those that did say she''s the most gorgeous girl in piao jie. And most people believe she will inherit her father''s legacy.


    As for their younger brother. People say that he''s an ....... eccentric person. Some say he''s fuck in the head, always mumbling some weird stuff, and spends most of his time in opium dens. He didn''t participate in the family business much and he''s not close to his two older brothers either.


    Inside Chinatown, the Qins are like royalties, people fear and respect them, some want to join them others try to fawn over them.


    But outside of piao jie people don''t really like the Chinese since the start and the situation escalated after the Qin family rules Chinatown now.


    Most of the gangs will hire freelancers to do some jobs for them from time to time but the Qins hate doing business with outsiders, therefore the Chinese market is practically none existent for the mercenaries. Plus the fact that an insane amount of self-made guns are manufactured here and sold for low prices doesn''t just piss off the Russians but also makes it easier for brats on the street to get their hands on iron easily, therefore, making it harder for gangs to control their territories.


    Lastly, they''re a bunch of fucking sharks. Making money out of the most devious, dishonorable(I know it''s ridiculous for me to say that) way possible. The badger games in the avenue, the extortions at the city center, the loans, taking advantage whenever they can. And not just towards civilians but criminals too.


    And now I''m at their house. Standing one meter away from a core family member....

 We reap what we sow

    I feel like she''s trying to devour me with those gray eyes. It feels like they see me as who I am better than I do..... No, stop thinking. The most important thing about negotiations is having ledgers on your opponent. On that part she already got the upper hand, what I can do now is try to figure out her agenda and twist it towards my benefit. To do that. I can''t let her see me as an inferior person. She believes that she controls the situation, and me.


    I need to prove her wrong.


    "Can I use my inhaler ?" I put my hand in my jacket. She nods and gives a ''please'' gesture while that little smile remains unchanged.Nan doesn''t move or make any sound as I pull out my drug inhaler.


    She''s the one that has the say in this room. He wouldn''t question her decisions.


    I push the string on top just one time and take a puff. In this situation, I can only allow myself that much. This is a ''working'' scenario, not a ''social'' scenario. That one puff is just to stop me from overthinking.


    I slowly puff out, there''s no way they don''t recognize that smell. Nan let out a little chuckle.


    "I didn''t know you like opium, Mr.Lee. If you want we can provide you with more here."This is the first time I hear her voice. It reminds me of wind chime in summer breeze.


    "Thank you for the kind offer. But I believe anything free of charge will have you pay in other ways." I smile back at her.


    "Mr.Lee I apologize for any discomfort or hostility you feel on your way here. I would like this work to be done in private as you probably know our organization is very xenophobic."


    "That, I do understand. But what bothers me is why you want to use a stranger for such a work if your people dislike it that much."


    First move.


    "I have my reasons, and I''m afraid those are not for you to know."


    Straight-up denial. Huh?


    "Usually I value my employers'' privacy as much as they do. But this one is a bit too strange and personal for me to look the other way."


    Small push.


    "I assured you this fair although as strange as it is, will not influence you in any way personal."


    Well, that was a fucking lie.


    "Miss Qin, maybe our definition of ''personal fair'' is very distinct. But blackmailing my friend to have me working for you seems very personal to me." Nan shivers at that sentence.


    Weird.


    She looks..... annoyed, she turns her attention to nan. He lost his grin and have a poker face on.


    "Miss..... you did say get him here at all cost." Motherfucker. So it was your idea. Qin Yan stares at nan for a second before she softly signs.


    "Mr.Lee I am deeply sorry for my man''s means to have you here. As a token of my apology, I''ll double your payment for this." Wordlessly I stares at nan, who still got his poker face on. Well. That doesn''t explain much but is good that I know now. And as for the money......


    60k...... That''s about how much I''ll charge if the job involves me getting shot at.


    "I came here for my friend''s sake. Miss Qin if you want me to consider taking the job. Then on top of cash payment, I need your words that after it''s done my friends or myself will not be blackmailed again neither by you nor anyone in your organization." I say the last part while looking dead into nan''s eyes.


    "Deal."That sorts out one of the problems. But makes the fact that she specifically asks for me to do the job more suspicious.


    "Mr.Lee, I''m glad the problem is sorted. Surely we can discuss business now ?"She asks with a small sign of impatience.


    "Surely."


    "Splendid. The job is simple. I''ll only need you to deliver this package to Ivan at Nochnaya."


    Oh fuck.


    "Miss Qin, do you mean the Ivan of the icebreaker?"


    "Indeed." She looks deadly serious.


    So that''s why they want me.


    "Well, thanks for inviting me to your marvelous establishment. I''ll see myself up."I turn around and quickly move towards the exit.


    Coming here is one hell of a mistake.


    The sound of a wind chime came from my back again.


    "Mr.Lee, did you forget our deal ?"


    "We don''t have a deal."


    Almost at the porch.


    "Your friend''s secret will only be save after you did the job."


    I stop in front of the one-way mirror on the wooden porch.


    Like father, like daughter.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    I turn my head and glare at her so hard that I can feel the blood rushing to my eyeballs. Her smile disappeared but there''s something in her eyes I can see now. Determination. Nan stands exactly where he was.


    I stride back to where I was standing and then take two more steps as I put both of my hands on her table and lower my head so that me and her are at the same eye level. Nan silently moves to my right in case I try some very tempting ideas.


    "So it finally comes to this huh? Threatening me with my friend."


    "Mr.Lee, I''m simply explaining the situation. If you don''t deliver the package, I won''t be obligated to keep your friends secret." I getting really sick of that voice for some reason.


    Calm down. Don''t let her control you.


    "If you want me. Then come after me but leave Vel and Vix out of it." I put on a fake smile and try my best to hold my temper.


    "I never wanted it to come to this, Mr.Lee. But we reap what we sow. For Miss Vel and her sister to disobey their orders, and for you to spare Miss Vel''s life and became her friend. Everything we did, and every decision we made comes with a price, and sooner or later we all need to pay for it. No matter if it''s you, Miss Vel, or me."


    For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but silence. We stare at each other. In the last part of her monologue her defense cracks, and she showed her emotions. I saw desperation and hatred in her eyes. The former is because of her situation, the latter is hard to tell if it''s because of me, herself, or the world. But it doesn''t matter. I got what I want.


    "What happens if I still refuse?"


    "I already told you that......"


    "I talking about you, I refuse the job, and you expose Vel, then what? What will be your next move?" She knits her eyebrows tight. But didn''t say anything.


    I got you.


    "Are you going to find some other merc to do this toxic fucking job? Do you have another merc that you can force to do this? " She bits her red lips but still nothing.


    Deeper.


    "Is there even anyone else that can do what you just asked me to do?" Her eyes now only reflect hatred.


    Twist the knife.


    "No." Her head lowered, but the eye contact and the fire in it are still there.


    Finish it.


    "I''m the only one that''s capable. And you know it, that''s why you''re doing everything you can to find me and force me to do it."


    For one full minute. She remains silent. At the end of that minute her frowning stops and she gently raises her head. Her smile returned, she looks tired but her eyes shines like she just finds a treasure.


    "Your reputation speaks truly of you. Mr.Lee"


    "Reputation?"


    "Nan says you''re pretty famous in the mercenary business. They say you''re a crafty individual, a silver tongue devil that can see through people and sway them with your words."


    She stands up and strides casually toward the bookshelf. I didn''t notice her figure is so svelte.


    Between two thick books with red ridge, she retrieves a delicate wooden box. Her slim fingers caress the lid before removing it and picking up a cigarillo and placing it between her lips. Nan pulls out a lighter out of nowhere and quickly lights it for her.


    "My first smoke of today." She walks back to the table and leans against her desk while looking outside of the window. With her back against my side. "The habit stuck with me since the first time I taste tobacco." Taking a quick puff before she continues. "I remember I used to sneak to the balcony for a quick relief before my father came home."


    "He used to play chess with me and often purposely let me win. But after my mother passed away he stops letting me win. He crushed me every time we play it, called me a failure, and walk away every time I lose. But the interesting thing is, I felt joy when I lose because that means I don''t have to be in the same room with him." She takes another puff, and her cigarillo''s end burns brightly and becomes a part of the piao jie''s view at night amongst all the other lanterns and signs in the air that shines outside the window.


    "And as I grow older these two habits merged together. I always sneak to the balcony for a smoke after I lose a game with my father."


    She turns around and put both of her hands on the table like me on the opposite side of the table. The cigarillo between fingers, smoke slowly rises, being so close at her I can smell the nitrogen between us. Her red lips looming behind smoke.


    "Mr.Lee. I know you value your friends greatly, I respect that and quite frankly, envy that. If my situation is not as it is I would never use your friends against you. But as you have figured it out yourself." Another drag. She blows off the smoke with her head to the right side.


    "These are desperate times, and you''re the only one that can do it." Within her gray eyes, I see determination again. And after she lowers her defenses they look even more captivating than before.


    Taking the job and risk dragging more people into this shit show.


    Or refuse the job and doom the ones that are already in it.


    I have no idea what will happen to Qin Yan if I refuse, honestly, I don''t care. But I do think she''ll expose Vera if I refuse.


    Damn myself to hell.


    Why haven''t I learned anything since then? Why do I still make the same fucking mistake?


    Having you as my friend is one of the best and worst decisions I''ve ever made......


    she had no reason to do that but she did. Is this what she felt back at that bus stop? Knowing that either way, you''ll be ok but others will suffer. And she chooses me over herself. Unlike all the other selfish souls in this city that only care about themselves. Unlike me.


    I really have been in her debt, haven''t I?


    "What''s the package?" Qin reads my face carefully before opening one of the drawers under the desk and taking out a yellow kraft envelope.


    "After you deliver it to Ivan and make sure he checks what''s inside. Please burn it and bring back his answers to me." She places the envelope in the middle of the desk, right between us.


    "And please don''t open it. Believe me Mr.Lee it is best for you to not know what''s inside." Have no intentions to do so in the first place.


    She slowly pushes the package to my side of the edge of the table. I remain in my position and didn''t reach for it.


    "Few things before I''m taking that thing."


    I point at the Kraft package. "First of all after I''m done with this job I want you to never bother me or my friends again." She nods.


    "Deal."


    "Swore it."


    "I swore it on my family''s name."


    "No. You swore it, to me." She takes a deep breath.


    "I swore it......to you." She means it.


    "I will hold you to those words. Remember that." I pause before continuing.


    "Second. My rate of charge had just risen because of the unnatural nature of this job and its importance, so it would be 20k on top. Then there''s the part where you threatened my friends so 30k more. Last, the job will potentially complicate my relationship with the Russians and drag another friend of mine into this mess, therefore another 30k is in order."


    I can see Nan''s right eye twitch, but miss Qin doesn''t even flinch.


    Might as well rob them since I''m doing this.


    "So that will be 140 grand in total." I grab one of the fountain pens on the desk and write down my bank account on one of the blank sheets.


    "Miss Qin this is......" Nan''s sentence got interrupted by his boss.


    "Deal. Half as a down payment, you can have the rest when you come back."


    "Good. Lastly," I point at the delicate humidor she brought. "I want one of that too." She froze for a moment. Then moved her gaze toward where I was gesturing. After realizing it she let out a genuine, ringing laugh. And pass me a cigarillo from the wooden box. "You truly are, one of a kind Mr.Lee."


    I smell the cigarillo before putting it between my lips. Good stuff.Than.


    I look at nan.


    Who looks back at me.


    I slightly tilt my head.


    He doesn''t move.


    After 20 seconds, he gives up and fishes out a lighter from his pocket then reluctantly lights the smoke for me.


    "Thanks, chief."


    I finally reach for the envelope and place it in the inner pocket of my bomber jacket. Next to my inhaler.


    "Well. Miss Qin, I''ll be back as soon as possible. But you can consider it done." I head for the porch.


    "Mr.Lee. One last thing." I stop and turn my head once again.


    "I have no doubt of your capability. But if for some reason you''re unable to finish this job. Please do everything in your power to destroy the envelope. And report back to me" Wordlessly I nod and continue my way out.


    As I bypass the porch from the left, Nan appears from the right and quickly unlocks the door and opens it.

 Colleagues

    Feels like I''ve been in that room for ages but the truth is I''ve only been there for 20 minutes. Nan leads me towards the same emergency exit that we came from.


    The woman in the cheongsam is leaning against the exact camouflaged wall. She looks like she''s been waiting for us for a while.


    "Fuck does she want now?" I heard nan whispers to himself in Chinese.


    "Xiao. Do you mind?" Nan asks in Chinese.


    She doesn''t react to nan. She just keeps switching her gaze between my face and the cigarillo in my mouth.


    "Missy really thinks this fucking Bie San can do it?" She asks nan in Chinese while sizing me up and down like she''s thinking about which part of me she''s going to break first.


    "Yes. And so do I. Now would you piss off please ?" She doesn''t say anything but steps away from the wall and moves to in front of me, within arms'' reach. The air is so thick it feels like I can cut it with a knife.


    Try me.


    I start chewing the end of the cigar until a small bit of it detached from the rest of the smoke. I positioned it on my tongue.


    She smoked my cigarette with her left hand before.


    "Xiao. Take it to miss Qin again if you want but....." Mid-sentence, I see her pupils expand slightly which gives away what she''s about to do.


    Her left-hand moves in a blur, trying to strike my throat with her purlicue. I block it just before it hits me with my right hand while my left hand went for the gun under my right armpit. But before I can pull it out I realize the former strike was a decoy. In the corner of my eyes, I see a thin dagger in her right hand approaching fast.


    Good move.


    Right before she pierce my skull with the dagger I spit out the end of the cigarillo in her face. No matter how well-trained you are, when a moving object is about to hit your eyes. Your eyelids will automatically shut. And that one blink gave me just enough time to dodge her attack and put a gun barrel under her chin.


    The whole process didn''t last longer than 3 seconds.


    "Nan, you need to enhance the security. Even a fucking Bie San can whack a personal guard of miss Qin." I said the whole sentence in Chinese. It''s been a while since I last spoke mandarin but I''m pretty sure they get it.


    I move the gun away from Xiao''s chin. She''s rubbing her eyes so hard that I''m afraid she might do more damage to herself than me.


    Nan gives Xiao a small handkerchief and sighs deeply. He then opens the emergency door and leads me back into the stairways.


    ***


    "Never know you can speak Chinese," Nan says while we''re walking down the stairs.


    "I thought you did a whole background check on me?"


    "I did. But you take little to no jobs from piao jie so wouldn''t assume you can speak mandarin."


    "In case you forgot. You folks despise outsiders. The only jobs in piao jie are either toxic as hell or pay way too little for me to care."


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Nan let out a laugh. His grin is back.


    "Yeah, we can be a bunch of cunts sometimes."


    Nan pushes the elevator button while I take another drag of the cigarillo.


    The taste is growing on me.


    "What else do you know about me ?"


    "Ha. Not much to be honest. Just some normal stuff. Where you live, who you associate with, and what people in your line of work think of you. And....... that''s it. I don''t even know your full name." He stares at me, waiting for me to give him an answer.


    "I don''t know yours either," I answer him dryly.


    "Nan Shi Pei."


    "........."


    "........."


    "I''m not going to tell you mine just because I know yours."


    "You son of a dog........" He rolls his eyes and curse in Chinese.


    A notification came from my phone. Qin Yan sent the down payment. Exactly 70,000 dollars.


    "That. Right there is more than a month of my income." Nan signs. Who would have thought this guy likes to chat this much?


    The elevator door opens. I followed nan inside.


    "And did you find out I survived that negotiation during the background check ?"


    "Na. I was the one that paid the cleaners to kill everyone that night. For what it is worth, I didn''t know you were there."Nan shrugs.


    I watch the elevator door close while thinking if it''s possible to shoot him in the headand escape this place alive.


    "Then how did you find out I was there?"I take another drag to calm myself down.


    "I took a guess. I know you guys became very close and starts working together not long after the thing. So I have some of my guys in the station trying to pull out anything from that night. Of course, they don''t keep data from five years ago. But they do have the record of fining the same car speeding tickets 6 times in the spent of an hour."


    Damn you. Viv.


    "And what are the odds that there''s an arson case at the lanes stating that a car exploded for no apparent reasons the morning after the incident? After that, I paid a visit to the well-renowned Stynx which just so happens to be a few blocks away from the explosion. And bribed someone to vouch for me."


    My right hand clenched into a fist before I realize.


    "Imagine my surprise when I found out everyone in there knows you. And when I askabout how you and the cleaners know each other, they said the younger sister always brags about how she almost killed you when y''all first met when she''s drunk."


    For fuck sake Viviane........


    "After that, I went to Stynx every night looking for you, but you never show up. After 2 weeks I decided to pay vel a visit."


    The elevator door opens as we reach the break room behind the kitchen area again.


    "Nan." I stops after I made sure no one is in the room.


    "What is it?" He stops as well.


    "Why are you telling me all of this?" I extinguish the cigarillo in an ashtray by the elevator.


    Nan smiles a normal smile. "First, though as short as it''s going to be, you will be in Miss Qin''s service just like me. And I value the trust and honesty between colleagues. Second, I respect you. What you did in that room and in the hallway isn''t something any street punks or third-grade mercs can pull off. Third, I got this intuition telling me we could become good friends."


    Wow......he genuinely means those words.


    "Funny. All my intuition''s telling me is to put lead in your head." I say. Unironically.


    "Ha. I''m looking forward to it." He lets out a loud laugh before walking back to the kitchen area.


    ***


    As we arrive at the front gate of this place. Nan gives me a business card. There''s only his numbers and the Chinese word ''Nan'' on it.


    "If you run into any trouble in piao jie give me a call. I''ll see what I can do as long as I don''t have orders to kill you." I raise the card to my forehead and do a salute motion with it.


    "Good luck. Mr.Lee." Nan gives my shoulder a pat before he strides back into the jiu lou.


    I put his business card in my back pocket. And walk out of the building.


    "Thank you for your patronage......." The receptionist stutters after she sees me walking out.


    "Hello, June. I''m deeply sorry for my attitude earlier. A rough night, as you can probably relate to." I give her the same professional smile I did when I first arrived.


    Then returned to the pavement and blend in with the crowd. Starts moving towards nochnaya.

 Ivan

    From the jiu lou to the icebreaker will take about 40 minutes on foot. Ivan is usually there at night counting dough and managing his club. I consider calling him first but decided not to since explaining the situation will take forever.


    Whatever it is inside this package had one of the most powerful people in town''s full attention.


    I expect there will be obstacles on the way.


    Currently I''m moving from the center to the edge of piao jie, within a crowd of people. I accommodate their pace, and the way they walk while keeping my head low, avoiding any eye contacts.


    The familiar cold shiver down my spine happens again. The feeling of being watched lurking around my senses.


    Carrying high-value cargo is a work I take little interest in. Cause it puts you in a defensive position, making you paranoid and therefore making you stand out from the others as an easy target.


    The stakes are unknown, the job can go from a walk in the park to an unmarked van pulls up in front of you with four masked men armed with automatic rifles.


    I''m using the windows of cars passing by my side to check if I''m being followed. So far I didn''t notice anyone. But this method can only identify stalkers that are close to me, rookies. Those I can despatch easily. What I''m worry about is the ones that always keeps you in the corner of his eye, and only follows you every time you disappear from their line of sight. Those pros are hard to notice because you''ll have to check your back a lot and if you do that, you might alert them.


    Reaching the frontier of Chinatown, I decided to risk it. I detached from the crowd of people on the pavement and turned right into a watchmaker''s.


    The bell on the door rings as an old man raises his head from the counter.


    "Welcome." He says unenthusiastically.


    I look at the showcases by the counter. Browsing the items, looking for the cheapest product there......... the best I got is a bronze pocket watch which costs 299 dollars.


    "I would like to purchase that," I tell the owner in Chinese.


    He opens the glass showcase with a key and carefully takes it out, places it on the counter to check if there''s any damage. I turn around waiting for both the owner and any possible stalkers. The only way to see the inside of the store is from the glass door at the front. The view from my perspective is very limited. All I can see is pedestrians walking.


    "All is good, that will be 299."


    "Sorry, could you clean it with alcohol or sensitizer? It¡¯s a gift. I would like it to be in its best shape."


    "Sure, but it will take a moment." Just what I was hoping for.


    For the next 15 minutes, I stand silently by the wall, behind a wooden closet. Watching the front door.


    Still nothing. Maybe there really isn''t any follower?


    One last try before I move on.


    "Alright. I think whoever this is for will be pleased." The owner finished cleaning the watch.


    "Uh. One more thing. Could you find me a box? A wooden box to go with it feels right." The owner lets out a silent sign.


    "Sure. But that''s 10 dollars more and I got to check the back."


    "It''s fine. And uh..... can I borrow the restroom too?"


    "Go through there and turn left, remember to close the light when you''re done." He didn''t even look at me.


    I watch him close the storage room door by the side before I move towards the back of the store.


    Turning on the light reveals an incredible amount of furniture and antiques. And at the corner of the room, a rusty fireproof door sits.


    Jackpot.


    Because of the density of the buildings and populations in piao jie. Every one of them has at least one fire escape route that leads to the firewall between buildings.


    Opening it took a bit of effort, but thankfully there was no alarm. I use a chair by the side to hold the door.


    At the back alley by the firewall, I first make sure no one from the street sees me before Climbing up the exterior escape ladders. All the way to the third floor''s roof. I crouch by the edge of the building and survey every single person on the street.


    Most of them pass by the watchmaker''s shop without a glance or even noticing it. No cars slowly driving through the neighborhood either. Just when I think is all clear.


    I saw them.


    The same two men in suits that followed me on my way to jiu lou now lean against the wall of one of the alleys across the street. Keeping the front of the watchmaker''s store with the corner of their eyes.


    You are a woman of little faith, Qin Yan.


    Climbing down the ladders and returning to the counter. The owner comes out of the storage room at the same time


    "This will be 309 dollars in total." He clearly had enough of me.


    I pay him in cash. Grab the box and purposely hold it with my hand instead of hiding it in my jacket.


    Let''s see how far you''ll go.


    I''m reaching the line between Chinatown and nochnaya. Two Chinese in suits will definitely draw attention. Recently the mobs decided to clean the streets completely out of the Chinese, making sure there won''t be any rats in their backyard.


    This place at night is the worst place for any Asian faces to wander around. As mobs had encouraged local teenagers who wants to join them to harass and pick on the Chinese and report any activities back to them. Some call this straight-up racism while the mobs think this is a good way to fortify their control in this place.


    Personally, I don''t care, since it doesn''t affect me much.


    ***


    The border between noch and piao jie is........ delicate. It doesn''t move much( any attempt will result in war) but defining it is hard because the lack of any landmarks, most people will consider ''Rector street'' as an indication. The west end is nach, the east end is Chinatown. But the actual line between the two districts remains a fuzzy concept.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    I watched lanterns slowly turning into neon sighs, and the pedestrians next to me dressed more and more boldly. I''m on the border of two worlds now.


    On one side, are middle-aged Chinese on their way home, on the other are groups of friends and lovers ready to party. Traditional values, rules, and schemes are next to nightclubs, young blood, and cold violence. Two worlds destined to collide with each other.


    11 o''clock, this is when Nochnaya comes to live from its slumber. Clubs, bars, hookers in alleyways, dealers and gangsters talking under lamp posts. Nochnaya has the second-highest criminal rate in Faust, next to Desalos. This is a place where sins are sung and praised.


    As the russikyes are recruiting soldiers for war, punks and small-time gangsters are eager to prove their loyalty and capabilities to their seniors. This results in the streets of noch filled with kids who think they''re killers while in reality, they''re just cannon folders. But nonetheless, I have to admit it suits nochnaya since this whole place it''s the embodiment of what the criminal world looks like from an outsider''s point of view.


    Moving in noch itself is like playing minesweeper. The safe spots are the clubs and pubs, the underground gun shops disguised as normal stores, and buildings with penthouses that belongs to the mob. These places have some real members of the gang. They are battle-hardened men with clear mindsets. If you don''t purposely fuck with them and you''re not from piao jie, usually they would just ignore you. (unless they''re having a bad day.)


    The rest of noch, such as residential neighborhoods, parks, and public facilities are the hot spots. Because they are crawling with fucking monkeys who think they are someone just because they''re packing iron. Those are the ones that will come for you, in groups most of the time. Calling themselves ''patrols'' or ''the six''.(most of them aren''t even qualified yet). They harassed citizens and Chinese in general, running errands, sailing some left overs from their bosses thinking that will count themselves as part of the organization.


    Those are the rules for young blokes in plaid blazers and chicks in one-piece skirts trying to have a wild night here.


    They don''t apply to me.


    ***


    Now let''s see if they followed me this far. I make two right turns and enter a phone booth. Closing the door I bring out the wooden box, and quickly take out the pocket watch(I paid for it after all). I put the handset by my ear and dial a bunch of random numbers.


    I turn around in a violent motion, checking left and right nervously like only now am I making sure no one''s following me.


    If I''m still in piao jie I would probably miss them, but in Nochnaya, two Chinese in full suits are way too easy to identify even though they''re now wearing hats and lowering their heads. I can tell they know what they are doing, judging by the way they quickly step to their left and use others on the street to cover themselves.


    These guys are experienced at this.


    "The number you dialed in is not in service......"I cover my mouth like I''m talking,


    while nodding from time to time to sell the act.


    Hanging up the phone, I check my surroundings in an obvious motion again before placing the wooden box on top of the pay phone.


    This should buy me some time.


    I walk away from the booth and quickly disappear into one of the alleys. They were about 20 meters away. I take out my phone and speed-dial Ivan.


    "........"


    "........" I peeked at the phone booth and saw one of them entering it and slowly retrieving the box. Come on Ivan. Pick up!


    "........"


    "....Lee? Where the fuck have you...." A manly voice blurts out.


    "Ivan. I''m gonna need a favor. Two guys on my tail."


    "......Alive or dead?"


    "I wouldn''t be talking to you if I need them dead."


    "Hmmm get them to the back of my club."


    "Got it. I owe you one." Hanging up the phone I peek at the phone booth from the alley again and saw those two rushing towards my position in strides.


    That definitely pisses them off.


    I run through the rest of the alley and enter Lesnaya, the most bustling street in nochnaya. Where Ivan''s club is two blocks away. The people on this street are either high or drunk or maybe both. A woman is giving a man oral pleasure in an alley by a sex shop, a skimpy-dressed woman is vomiting by the concrete wall. The place is filled with so many things coming from all directions which makes the stalkers disorganized for a moment before they catch up to me.


    I can see the black and gold front of the ''Icebreaker'' two buildings away.


    I dash to the right and enter another alley, glancing back they gave up on maintaining their cover and start pushing away partygoers and running toward me.


    That''s right you dumb fucks.


    I start running toward the end of the alley.


    Focus on me.


    Behind the alley is the back side of all the clubs and bars of lesnaya where only hobos and rats reside. And none of which will care what''s about to happen.


    10 seconds head start.


    Just enough for me to arrive at the back of the icebreaker.


    Two black doors on the back of the building, I can hear the music booming from the one leading to the club. The other one is made out of stainless steel and is currently half-opened.


    Dealing with stalkers is easy, just identify them and pop their head on the next turn. But catching them and getting information out of them requires help.


    When they rush out of the alleyway chasing me, but see two muscular Russians in leather jackets with a butch cut walking out of the door. They know it is too late, turning around immediately they try to run back to where they came from.


    The two Russians move in sync. Lift up their jacket, pulls out a .45 with silencers on, arms extended. Two muffled bangs and some smoke in the air.


    The two Chinese fell to the ground because their left kneecaps exploded. While on the ground and in extreme pain they still try to fight back by reaching out for their guns by the waist. But the killers were moving towards them while maintaining the same aiming position right after they fired. Before the Chinese are able to retaliate, the Russians had already descended upon them.


    They drag the two unconscious Chinese back to me and throw them on the ground. One of them knocks on the stainless steel door.


    The third Russian walks out. His about 30ish, 182 cm, black jacket, and a black turtle neck sweater. A golden upside-down cross necklace dangles as he walks. He''s wearing a pair of derby shoes with cap-toe. He''s got at least one silver or gold ring on each finger which makes it looks like he''s wearing brass knuckles. Medium side part combed over with hair spray. His skin color is extremely white, almost as white as lev. His jawline looks too extreme and rough for public standards. Broad nose, clean shaven with small signs of a stubble beard forming.


    He''s got deep blue eyes that hide nothing at all, when others like me and nan try to lock emotions inside, this man does not. Anger, joy, hatred, disgust, and the never changing, unquenchable lust for fights and violence. If Nan it''s a dormant volcano, he is a forever active one.


    He glances at the hog-tied and bleeding Chinese. Then with a sullen voice, he speaks.


    "Why is that chink still standing ?" He''s looking directly at me.


    The two killers look at each other, confused, not knowing what to do.


    I took a step forward, they immediately point their gun at my face. The gun barrels of .45 are merely 20cm from me.


    "Call me a chink one more time mocha loshad, see what happens." One of them cocks back the hammer.


    "And what will you do?" He asks in an amused tone.


    "I''ll cut your fat fucking fingers off and make you swallow everything single ring on them." The other one cocks the hammer too.


    One word, two trigger squeezes and I''ll be dead. The two of them wait for their orders patiently.


    "Hey, russkie! "


    "........" I see a single drop of sweat drip down from one of the gunmen. They can feel it. The next time I speak they will have the order to kill me.


    "I can see that fucking smile by your mouth." The both of us burst out laughing, the sound of our hysterical laughter even woke up a hobo nearby. He glances at the two Chinese on the ground and me then went back to sleep.


    "You''re still the craziest son of a bitch I know. Got zero decency for your life!"


    "And you''re still a racist fucking mao zi. It''s good to see you, Ivan."


    We speak between laughs and put our hands on each other''s shoulders so we don''t fall to our knees from laughter. The two hitman holster their guns and stand silently. Don''t know how to think about this situation.


    "Boys. This is Lee. The one Chinese that you can not kill." He says while patting my back.


    "Lee. These boys are freshly trained new bodyguards of mine."


    "They''re good. Who trained them?"


    "Mostly Igor, sometimes Katerina when she''s in the mood." They shiver at that last name.


    "Katerina eh? I''m sure they''re more than capable in that case."


    "Ha. You could teach them a thing or two you know. Hell. You can be a senior from the get-go, we need all the skilled players to prepare for war."


    "Speaking of which." Ivan kicks one of the stalkers'' gunshot wounds resulting in a muffled cry. "Even a blind man can see they''re from piao jie. Did you piss off the Qins ?"


    "Good question." I say as I pull out the wrinkled business card from nan. And dial his numbers. "I''m wondering the same thing."

 Root of the rootless

    Qin Yan has no reason to send them except for making sure I''m doing my job properly. Those henchmen were at the heart of noch, risking their live just to supervise me? I doubt that. Even if they didn''t send them, the Qins might have some idea who they are. But to get them talking might need a bit of......... encouragement.


    "Who''s this ?" The sound of nan comes through the handset. I take a few steps away from Ivan and his guards.


    "Nan, this is Lee."


    "Mr. Lee, to what may I be of assistance?" I can imagine nan is putting on his grin while speaking.


    "Plenty. But for now, I would like you to think it through before answering my question. Did you or did you not send someone to follow me?"


    "Mr.Lee I wouldn''t....."


    "No, no, no. It''s fine. You don''t have to answer immediately. Let the question sink in. Give it real deep thought, and maybe discuss it with Miss Qin too. Because if your answers aren''t the same as theirs then I might do some irreparable things. So nan, please show me the ''honesty'' between colleagues you talked about." I hang up the phone and walk back to the Russians. The bodyguards are dragging the two Chinese inside the door they came from.


    "All taking care of ?" Ivan puts his hands on his waist, watching his man do the work for him.


    "Not quite, I need to know who they work for first."


    "Ha! Way ahead of you, little brother. These two could have valuable stuff on those fuckers in Chinatown. My men are already on it."


    "Ivan. I need them alive..... and mostly well."


    "Yeah, yeah. But you owe me one. And I get to keep them after you''re down with whatever shit you''re on." Ivan roll his eyes and agrees. "In the meantime," He opens the door that leads to the club. "Why don''t we go to my office and catch up on where the fuck have you been?"


    ***


    The icebreaker is one of the biggest clubs in nochnaya, and also with the highest income thanks to all kinds of side business and the mobs'' help.


    The entrance has about three to four bouncers making sure no one is looking for trouble and no troubles can get in. The ground floor has a dance floor in the middle, two DJs are blasting electronic music by the north wall. On the east side is the bar area, which consists of one long counter with three bartenders. The initial idea was for them to serve cocktails and nothing else, but because lots of dealers conduct business here. Ivan got an idea.


    He started making the bartenders provide drinks with ''extra'' stuff in them for a higher price. The idea was a huge success, after a while he thought "Fuck it" and make the bartenders in his club sell FM2, LSD, coke, and all kinds of drugs to the customers that know their way around here.This action got a few complaints from the local dealers, but the protest only goes as far as complaints. They know questioning the mob''s decision in the core of noch is not a wise idea.


    The west side has a stage for ''dancers'' to perform. Ivan once asked me if I think this is a bit too...... third-rated. I gave him a look but didn''t answer him. Two weeks later he added a row of water curtains between the stage and customers so that it gives out a.......vague beauty? and change the lighting of the whole place to a red theme. Got to hand it to him, he knows what he''s doing. The income of this place grows significantly after he takes over.


    Since this place is a known stronghold of the Russians, customers usually behave while having fun cause you never know if the guy you just bumped is affiliated. But from time to time some drunk or high club rat forgets about it. So despite most of the time, regular bouncers can handle it, Ivan still decided to station two or three mob members at the monitoring cabin.


    There''s a set of the iron spiral staircase by the bar counter which leads to the second floor. Two malevolent-looking guards stand by it, blocking out any irrelevant people. The second floor is a giant ''L'' shape balcony that overlooks the whole place. There are about 12 high tables and a small bar counter that only serves personnel on this floor. Contradictory to the dance floor, this place is pretty quiet (as quiet as you get in a club). People on the second floor are either official members of the mob or those that are deeply associated with them.


    ***


    Ivan leads me up the stairs. The two guards step aside to let him enter but raise their eyebrows when they see me.


    "Lots of new employees here."I raise my voice so Ivan can hear me over the music.


    "Fucking war. Getting on everybody''s nerves. The bosses want me to reinforce this place."


    I see some familiar faces on the second floor. The Russian girl behind the bar counter raises her whiskey glass towards me and smiles. Igor is discussing business with a one-eyed man, he gives me a nod when he sees me. Yuri and his brother Yevgeniy both grin when they see me and Ivan. By the end of the ''L'' shape balcony lies Ivan''s office. A man and a woman are standing outside.


    The man is Boris. He''s been on guard duty outside of Ivan''s office for as long as I know him. The woman spitting Russian cusses on the phone is Larisa, a ''Derzhatel Obshchaka''. Bookkeeper who collects money from brigadiers. Technically, she outranked Ivan, but since those two have known each other for a long time and Ivan never gave Larisa any problems the two are on good terms.


    "§ï§ä§à §ß§Ö §ã§Õ§Ö§Ý§Ñ§ß§à." She hangs up the phone. "Ivan. We need to talk." She turns her head to face me. "Good to see you''re back in the game. I got a few things that you can......"


    "Maybe later. I''m actually working right now Larisa." Ivan tilts his head but doesn''t say anything.


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    "Shame. War is coming. Job opportunities are everywhere, but be sure to choose wisely Lee." Yeah, about that........


    "I''ll keep that in mind. Since you too seem to have some business to attend to I will leave you to it them." Ivan opens the door to his office for Larisa. He looks a bit annoyed that he has to deal with her first.


    "Wouldn''t take long." She assures me before walking inside.


    "That''s what she said......." Ivan says in a dull tone and closes the door.


    The guys downstairs might need a bit of time before they could get some answers out of the stalkers. And Nan hasn''t returned my call yet.


    I wouldn''t do shit for them before he answers my question. The job itself is fucked up already in the first place, dragging more than one of my close friends into this shit storm. Whatever is inside that package is definitely not just for Ivan but for the Russian mafia.


    What would the emperor''s daughter send to the lieutenant of an enemy? Fuck, why does this looks some Romeo and Juliet bullshit.


    And why the fuck was I followed remains unanswered either.


    All I can do is wait.......or...


    I walk back to the bar counter and enter the restroom next to it. A man is snorting coke on the sink. He raises his head to see who is it from the mirror. And as soon as he sees me he turns around and points his gun in my general direction.


    I raises my hands slowly. He squints his eyes and blinks. Tilting his head to the right with the gun still pointing at my face. He finally recognized me.


    "Lee boy? §Ö§Ò§Ñ§ä§î£¡ l thought you''re some Chinese spy or....... Chinese in general." He puts his gun back and laughs. "I heard you were dead you know."


    He''s higher than usual tonight.


    "Not the first time I heard that tonight Pyotr." He turns back to the sink and finishes his line.


    "It''s good that you haven''t forgotten your roots." He wipes his nose and pats my shoulder on the way out.


    After he''s gone I walk into one of the stalls, lock it, and bring out the kraft envelope.


    Not heavy. Holding it I feel a rectangle solid object and possibly more than one piece of paper. Sealed by a red wax seal. Opening it will surely destroy the seal, Ivan wouldn''t give a shit, the Qins want me to burn it afterward. No one will know if I opened it.


    Pandora''s fucking box.


    No. Fuck no. I made that choice a long time ago. I''m not going to get involved in personal affairs of gangs. This is just a job. A fucking job that''s all. I put the envelope back into my inner pocket and leaves the restroom.


    ***


    Ivan is not done yet. I grab a high chair by the bar counter. Yulia puts her whisky glass down and walks towards me.


    "What can I get you?"


    "Lime drop martini."


    "I thought you don''t like dry stuff for your first drink?" She purses her lips.


    "This ain''t my first drink tonight." I give her a sly smile. She signs and brings out one of the vodka bottles in the back.


    "Stynx huh?"


    "Jealous?" Squeezing lime juice.


    "Nah, I know where your heart resides." She smiles wickedly while adding a load of ice to the shaker.


    Care to enlighten me?


    "It''s been a while since last time. Rumor says you''re fucking dead." Her tattooed fingers grip the shaker tightly. Her tone amused.


    "And you believe that?"


    "Not. For. A single fucking second." She says in a teasing voice while slowly pushing the cocktail to me.


    I take a sip and glance at Ivan''s office. Still nothing.


    "How are things going when I''m gone? Any news?"Yulia leans back on the table behind, her right hand is awfully close to a fruit knife. Gold up side down cross earrings sway as she moves.


    "Not much. Just the usual stuff. A slightly larger gunfight with the chinks broke out two blocks away from rector street. §ã§å§Ü§Ú came close¡­¡­Too close." Her facial expression became gloomy for a second before it returns normal.


    Yulia doesn''t just hate the Chinese, she despises them with all her heart. Rumor has it that her fianc¨¦ was tortured and executed by the Qins in an opium den. When Ivan first brought me to this place she almost killed me on sight. It took a long time for her to accept me and even longer for her to like me. Now she thinks of me as one of their own.


    She once said she sees me as a Russkie instead of anything else on a Sunday night after her shift ends. I still don''t know how to think of that.


    "Ivan''s already done preparing for war. Everyone is just waiting for a reason." She says in a plain tone. "Boys are craving for actions."


    "And you?"


    "Ha! You know me. Skin all those sons of bitches if I can." She fucking means it. "What about you?"


    "Me what? I''m not afflicted. I''ll just keep doing what I been doing." I shrug and take another sip of my drink.


    "Naive little boy." She smiles and slowly shakes her head. "You''ve been in this for what? 10 years now?" 12 years. "You should know there''s no neutrality in war."


    "If a war with piao jie actually happens. I gonna buy a small apartment at the lanes and wait it out. You wouldn''t need to worry about me helping the Qins. But if I help you guys in a gang war then no matter the results I''ll be seen as a personal merc of the Russian mafia." I made up the apartment part. But the rest is true.


    Before I started taking most of my jobs at stynx, people already think I''m own by the Russians, the tales only lessened because of all the different jobs I did in the past five years.


    "But what if........ let''s say the Chinese are all the way up here." Yulia spread her arm to emphasize ''here''.


    "While you''re sleeping in your little condo. You get a call from Ivan. Gunshots in the back, people screaming. Ivan asks you to come here and help him. What will you do then?"


    Whatever comes after.........


    "I''ll be here," I say lightly. She leans forward to the counter, close to me. And points her index finger at my face.


    "There you have it."


    "That was a rigged question." She laughs and walks back to get her whiskey glass.


    "Nonetheless. I have the answer I wanted."


    Ivan''s office door opens as Larisa walks out with some documents. Ivan walks out not long afterward and gestures for me to come to him.


    I finish my drink and get up from the high chair. Before I can step away Yulia stops me.


    "I forgot to ask. Where were you at in the past few months?"


    "Vocation."


    "........" She waits a few seconds then starts laughing so hard that she arches her back. Her laughter draws some attention.


    "§à§ç§å§Ú?§ä§Ö§Ý§î§ß§à! That''s a good one." She says while wiping off tears from the corner of her eyes.


    "Glad you like it." I put on a smile.


    "Fuck is so funny?" Ivan walks up to us.


    "Oh, you have to ask him yourself."


    Ivan glances at me and sees through my fake smile.


    "Come on, let''s get to my office." He says as he put his hand on my shoulder.

 Faustian bargain

    Through the soundproof leather door. We enter Ivan''s office. Extreme opposite to miss Qin''s, this room is filled with all kinds of expansive decorations. A golden coffee table with a bunch of vodka and whiskey on it and a leather sofa next to it. A 50-inch TV on the west wall. Ceiling with gold lining on the edge and around the lights. A huge red Indian carpet almost covered the entire floor.


    A black desk in the middle of the room(also with golden lining on the edge) there''s a bunch of papers, a revolver, a glass ashtray with several cig ends, and a golden plate with some leftovers of cocaine on it. A black baroque-style leather chair is behind the desk. A gun cabinet sits at the northwest corner of the office.


    Ivan pours two shots of vodka and hands me one.


    "To your health."


    "To your wealth." He grins at my words.


    Hot liquor down my throat. Undiluted vodka plus the martini I had have given me enough courage to battle all my unwary doubts about..... everything. Heaven knows how I needed this.


    "You got your office renewed. Again."


    "A bit. Here and there yeah." He pours himself another one.


    "Humble eh? Shouldn''t you be preparing for war or something?"


    "§¤§Ñ§Ó§ß§à!" He downs another shot and lumps down next to me. "Everybody is talking about war. War this, war that, for fuck sake." He continues swearing in Russian but I can''t make out the rest.


    "Thought you would be the most eager when it comes to a good old-fashioned bloodbath," I say while side-eyeing him.


    "That''s when I was still a soldier. Now I got to worry about more than myself. And I got to worry about money again!" I look at him and the Indian carpet, the desk silently.


    "Don''t give me that fucking look. I used my own gold for this." He grabs the vodka bottle and pours mine and his glass full.


    "To war."


    "To peace." He clinks my glass as we finished the drink again.


    "Peace? Don''t tell me you''re becoming a moralist." He groans.


    "I was never a big fan of total conflict between two gangs. Bad for business. Bad for both sides." I cross my right leg on my left.


    "Ha! You can take those words to Zakhar. See if he buys it." I raise my eyebrows.


    "Bosses gave the words?" Ivan doesn''t answer me. After a few seconds, he puts his glass on the coffee table.


    "Not yet. But judging from the orders he gave, it wouldn''t be long before it starts." He seems.......worried.


    "You truly don''t want this do you?" I sit up and look him in the eyes.


    "........No. I fucking hate those slanted eyes in east but a war with them won''t end pretty. I am not a fool, I can see they aren''t disunited anymore. If it was 8 years ago I wouldn''t even give a shit. But now....... Fighting them now will turn half of this city into a slaughterhouse." He leans back. Looking at the ceiling as he speaks.


    I push open the metal door leaving a blood print on it. The sun is setting down.


    "Especially now that you are not here." He glances at me. I see plea in his eyes.


    I made a promise to myself too, Ivan.....


    "I''ve told you, Ivan. I won''t get into this. I won''t get into either side." I lower my line of sight out of reflexes.


    He looks at me. Pitying. Then he lets out a long sign.


    "I know, I know." He grabs the bottle again. "§Ö§Ò§Ñ§ä§î." He shakes his hand gently. "Your rules will kill you the day you break them." He drinks straight from the bottle. He sits motionless for a while like he''s trying to let the alcohol take its effects.


    "And where have you been for the past months? Fuck I even have my guys looking for you and they found nothing. Thought you were dead."


    "So you were the one that''s been telling people I''m dead huh?" He shrugs and raises his hands while still holding the bottle.


    "Couldn''t blame me. You disappeared from the face of earth. And you got Yulia worried you know?"


    "She. Was worried? About me? She looks just like the last time I came."


    Not. For. A single fucking second.....


    "Believe it or not. She and the fellows were discussing what could have happened to you when they were off duty. Fuck me sideways....... some of those guesses were fucking hilarious. Eugene guessed you ran into Katerina on the street when she was in a bad mood. Igor said you probably got castrated by the Qins for fucking the emperor''s daughter! " He starts laughing at the end of the sentences."I swear, there''s a new version every day! "


    "Glad that I''ll be missed when I''m gone. " I let out a dry laugh. "And you? Did you come up with a theory about me too?"


    "My money was on the japs. Thought they finally caught you cheating on a blackjack table." He grins and fills my glass once again. "But I was just joking. I know you wouldn''t go that easily."


    There it is again. Scorn on Death. You should know better than everyone Ivan. It lingers on top of us all.


    He pours me another one and clinks my glass with his bottle.


    "To the deceased."


    "To the living."


    I''m getting tipsy now.


    "You haven''t answered my question yet kid." Ivan puts the bottle down.


    "I was...... on vacation." He doesn''t laugh or smile. Ivan looks me in the eyes when I say it, but I avert mine.


    "So that''s what Yulia was laughing. And you''ve been on this...... ''vacation'' for the past few months?" I nod but still avert my eyes. Lying to someone that knew you for a long time is the hardest.


    ".......I don''t care what you were doing. I know damn well you can protect yourself.


    But Lee, don''t go on a ''vacation'' too often alright? And... don''t forget the way back." I can feel a strong hand on my right shoulder. Ivan gives me a few shakes.


    Just when I was about to come up with something to say, Ivan''s phone rang.


    "§á§â§à§Ô§â§Ö§ã§ã? .......... §ç§à§â§à§ê§à." He hangs up the phone.


    "The guys downstairs ran into a little problem."


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    ***


    The icebreaker has two areas, the part that''s open to the public and the part that''s open to the mobs. Behind the stainless steel gate is a spacious room, full of gun crates, and a bunch of low ranks who are unpacking and inspecting the firearms. A couple of fellows are playing poker at a round table. Lots of new faces.


    Ivan walks in first before I do. The second I walk inside two men in hoodies drop the ak-103 they were cleaning and pull out their pistols on me. I sign.


    "Ivan, would you?" He stops his footsteps and gazes at those two.


    "Those that don''t know this guy. Listen closely! If you shoot him, hit him, stab him, call him a chink. You suffer the consequences. He''s a friend of mine and all your seniors, so those two fucking morons by the wall! Put your gun away and pray those rifles weren''t damaged!" He continues walking. I recognized three of the older members of the gang by the poker table. They nod at me, the rest of the players look at me and their seniors confusingly.


    At the end of the room, we walk down two sets of concrete stairs. There''s a long table in the middle of the room. This floor can work as a meeting room. By the end of the long table is a rusty steel door, I see Ivan''s bodyguards standing outside.


    "§Ò§à§ã§ã." They nod at Ivan.


    "How''s our honor guests doing?" I can hear a series of muffled sounds and a man shouting coming from the door.


    "Eugene had been inside for half an hour." The man on the left speaks as the one on the right opens the door. A disturbing scratching sound echoes through the room as the door was pushed open. Smell of Metallic, sweat and blood came out.


    Rusty iron and fear.......


    One of the stalkers is hanging in the air. He''s handcuffed and chained to a meat hook. A young man with golden hair is beating him with precision hits. His mouth moves every time a punch landed on him. His eyes though swollen but still wide open.


    The other one is tied to a chair. He looks slightly delirious, his body trembles every time the sound of a punch is produced. Seven of his fingernails were plugged out, covered in blood. They now look like pigs'' intestines. Twirling.


    Both of their suits were gone, they''re almost naked with only a boxer on. Burn marks, bruises, signs of electrical shock are all over their upper body. Blood slowly drips down from their chin and hit their chest.


    "Use your waist, don''t let your punch do the work! Let your body do the work!" A middle-aged Russian with some gray hair is sitting in a chair, instructing the young man with golden hair.


    "Understood." The young man with golden hair looks a bit out of his breath. But when the door opens he''s the first to react.


    "Boss!" He turns around and greets Ivan with respect. Ivan doesn''t even look at him, he''s solely focused on those two Chinese.


    When I walk inside the small room he turns back to Eugene. "Do we....... need another chair......?"


    "Look. Who. It is." Eugene starts grinning and slowly claps his hands when he sees me. "I knew you''re not that easy to kill."


    "Good to see you''re still kicking too. Old man." The young man seems a bit unsure of the situation but he''s keeping his mouth shut.


    Good lad.


    "And who''s this?" I tilt my head towards him.


    "Freshly picked ''Shestyorka'' from the tenth street. Got assigned to Ivan''s wing a few weeks ago by Igor, I''m showing him the ropes around here." Been a while since Eugene care about the sixes, the kid must have some potential.


    "What''s your name kid?"


    "Budimir." Youthful, steady, and a bit of a punk but..... there''s a sign of respect in his eyes. "I didn''t know there''s Chinese in our organization ...... sir." He''s inspecting me.


    Ivan lets out a laugh behind me.


    "There is none. I''m not a part of the mob." He frowns at that. After a moment the realization hits him.


    "You''re the one seniors in the lounge have been talking about!" Yeah, there''s definitely respect in his eyes now. I let out a small hum.


    "So what''s the problem, Eugene?"


    "If I can''t do some real damage to them they won''t fucking talk. And this guy has been mumbling some Chinese for a while now." He points at the one suspended on the ceiling.


    I take a few steps forward and put my ears close to his mouth but remain a safe distance so he can''t bite off my ear. The sound is way too small and disorganized for me to understand.


    I take a step back, raise my clenched fist to my chin, knee carries waist, waist carries arm. My index and middle knuckles impact a soft spot between his rib cage and hips.


    The guy coughs out some blood and gasps for air.


    "Hey. Focus." I snap my fingers in his face. He squints his eyes as he sees me. The once tired and hollow eyes are now filled with rage. A series of words spit out of his mouth so fast I can barely understand.


    "What did he say?" Ivan asks while inspecting the tattoos on the other Chinese.


    "Uhh...... I think that was Cantonese. He said..... he''s going to fuck my mother and uh...... desecrates my ancestor''s graves." Eugene laughs out loud.


    "Want me to try ?" Ivan asks while cracking his fingers with his thumb.


    "Nah. Not yet." I turn back to the Chinese. He''s still staring at me.


    "Do you know why you still have limbs?" I ask in Chinese. Now that I''m up close I recognize him as the stoic one of the two.


    "Call it a gesture of good will towards...... colleagues." Alright here comes the important part. Focus!


    "Because I think we may have a mutual master," I say in Chinese.


    This is another gamble of mine. There''s little chance that I''m right. But this can give me a hint of what he knows. When I finished the sentence his first reaction is confusion followed by disgust.


    So he''s not buying it. Which could mean:


    1. He''s working for Miss Qin but doesn''t believe I do too.


    2. He''s not working for her but for someone else.


    3. He doesn''t know I''m currently working for Miss Qin. And thinks I''m fucking with him.


    Let''s double it down.


    "Is Nan Shi Pei still hitting on receptionists? Saw him talking to the new girl when I went back an hour ago." He looks scared and starts glancing at the mobsters around when I mention Nan''s full name.


    "Don''t worry. Maozimen don''t understand shit." I try my best to sound fluent in Chinese. Thankfully I lowered my voice on purpose so it''s hard to notice I suck at speaking Mandarin.


    He''s not convinced, but he''s moved.


    "I smelled smoke in Missy''s office. Does she still hide on the balcony for a quick smoke? She sure grows fast doesn''t she....." He looks shocked and he''s not even hiding it anymore. His pupils expanded and his mouth is slightly open.


    I take a glance at Ivan. He got the cue.


    "Hey, lee! What the fuck are you talking about." He acts like some stereotypical angry Russian mobster.


    "Just give me a minute."


    He gave out a groan. I get a bit closer to the Chinese and with a low voice, I say.


    "The one on the right is the Russian mafia''s lieutenant. But you probably already knew that. He doesn''t speak Chinese but he knows the boss''s last name so let''s avoid that." He gives me a subtle nod.He''s on.


    "Who........are you?"


    "Me? I''m nobody. I don''t have a name. All I have is a master. And only one. He send me here a long time ago. I can''t tell you more." He and she pronounces the same way in mandarin.


    His eyes wide open after hearing my words, at this range I can hear his heartbeats quicken.


    "Are.....are you a ''Liu jiu'' ?"


    Yeah sure why not?


    I tilt my head towards my right subtlety and look at him sideways with a warning gaze.


    He starts panting quickly, he''s eyes bloodshot, and his chest raises and falls in frequent motions.


    "I, I thought I''m done. Can you get me out of here? Pleases! " He''s almost crying. His stoic facade disappears, he''s been afraid this whole time. Someone that has made his peace with death suddenly catch a chance of surviving. He sees me as his messiah. Now is my chance.


    "I need a good reason to do that." I scratch my head and glance around a bit. "Why the hell were you following me anyway? "


    "Th, the boss just ordered us to follow anyone strange that''s associating with missy lately. And.......just when we were done today..... you showed up. After we saw you in missy''s office we thought this is what boss send us for..... I thought he wants us to follow you...."


    "How did you two know I was in the office?"


    "We set up a hideout to monitor it..... across the jiu lou....."


    Oh, I can work with that.


    "You were spying. On Missy......And you say that''s your boss''s order? I doubt we are working for the same master." I step away from the Chinese and face Ivan, who''s been standing there with his arms folded. "§Ó§ã§Ö §ã§Ý§Ö§Õ§å§ð§ä §Þ§à§Ö§Þ§å §á§â§Ú§Þ§Ö§â§å." Ivan cracks his knuckles and takes off his jacket, Eugene grins like a beast and stands up from the chair. Budimir clearly doesn''t speak Russian cause he looks confused.


    "Wait wait wait! Pleases! I was inducted in the Guan Yu temple in the south! Qing lou himself vouched for me, and I kotow 300 times for the 300 seniors there with the last one being our master Qin Cunhua himself!"


    Everyone in the room froze at that name. In the last hope of getting away, he ignored my warning about not saying any names.


    "What''s your name?" I turn around and asked him my last question.


    "Xu Yu......" He looks like a ghost.


    "Well. Xu Yu, hope you will be dealt a better hand next life." I turn around and walk away from him.


    "Eugene, I''m down. You can take the gloves off now."


    I and Ivan walk out of the torture chamber as the rusty door closes behind me with the same annoying sound. I didn''t look back because I knew what I would see if I do.

 Sorrow, Disease, Vice, Violence, Greed, Madness, Old age, Death

    "Was hoping you would let me take care of it. Cracking some skulls is the best stress relief. " Ivan whines as he opens the door that leads back to the back alley.


    "My way was faster, besides they''re just downstairs. You can get some ''stress relief'' anytime you want." Ivan lets out a hum.


    "Those two Chinese......they work directly for the emperor himself?"


    "Yeah, I''m positive."


    "§³§å§Ü§Ú§ß §ã§í§ß. What the fuck did you do to have them on to you?"


    "Tell you later. First, I need to make another phone call, I''ll meet you back in your office." I take out my phone and dial Nan''s number again.


    "Tsk. Sometimes you sound just like Larisa." Ivan opens the door that leads to the dance floor.


    "Well, That''s fucking harsh. Do I look that old?" Ivan waves his hand as the door closes behind him. I hold the phone while surveying the alleyway. The ring back proceeds for almost a minute.


    Even though I''m certain Xu Yu was telling the truth, I still want to know what they have to say about this.


    This is taking too long.


    I thought back to what he told me. Qin Cunhua, the emperor himself task those two to spy on his own daughter........ Overlooking the fact that it sounds weird as fuck, is it because Qin Yan is making some moves that her father disapproved of? Is it because of the package in my jacket? For fuck sake the temptation to open it grows over time.


    Just before I get sent to voice mail he finally picks up.


    "Hello, Nan! I just had a little profound conversation with Xu Yu. He told me his side of the story. Now I want to hear yours." I say with a cheerful sound.


    There''s some static in the back and a series of noises, the sound of boots impacting the floor. After a loud ''thump'' noise. It''s silence again.


    "Nan if this is a bad time we can always......"


    "Mr.Lee. " The sound of a wind chime rings through my phone.


    "Miss Qin..... didn''t expect to hear your voice again so soon."


    "This task has my utmost attention. Mr.Lee. I''ve heard about your ...... circumstances. I understand you might suspect that I have you followed. But I can assure you I would never do such a thing that would potentially sabotage your work. What do I need to do to have you believe me?" Welp. She asked for it.


    "For starters, what do you know about


    Xu Yu?"


    ".......I don''t know him personally but I know he reports directly to my father."


    Good enough.


    "Hah. Next. Who''s Ching Lou?"


    "Mr.Lee. This is some very....."


    "Answer my question or I''ll burn the envelope before Ivan sees what''s inside."


    "......Ching lou is one of the most well-respected seniors in our organization. He''s also the mentor of Xu Yu and a close associate of my father."


    So far so good. Both she and the poor bastard downstairs are telling the truth. Few questions remain but I don''t think I can get any of this on the phone.


    "Thank you for your honesty, Miss Qin. Now would you put Nan on the phone? I got something to ask him too." A bit of static, then Nan''s voice came through.


    "Mr.Lee. What can I be of service?" A mocking tone, I can almost see the smirk on his face.


    "Nan! I would like to apologize for my behavior earlier." I use the most sincere sound I can come up with right now. "And also. Hope you and June can xiucheng zhengguuo." I say the last sentence in Chinese.


    "How the fuck did you......"


    "Tell Miss Qin I''ll get the job done." I hang up on him again.


    ***


    I take a moment before opening the door to Ivan''s office. The thought of dragging Ivan into this cluster fuck keeps bugging me. A man like him could take it......whatever ''it'' is. Now that my job is coming to an end I can only hope the best for him.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Whatever comes after..... a smile forms on my face. Never thought it would be the other way around, brother.


    Ivan is sitting on his chair behind the desk reading some crumpled notes from a folder. He leans back when he sees me.


    "Now. Are you going to tell me what in the name of god were you up to tonight?" He lights up a cigarette, takes a small drag, and puffs out towards the ceiling. The smoke in the air slowly flows through the golden edge of the black ceiling.


    I take out the yellow Kraft envelope. And put it in front of him. Ivan raises his eyebrow.


    "Special delivery. With your name on it." He takes another drag.


    "So what, you''re also a mailman now?" He flicks his cigarette on the ashtray. I shrug at his question.


    "All this fuss......just for this?" He pokes the envelope a few times until he hits the rectangle object too. "Care to tell me who send it?"


    "Qin Yan." Ivan lets out a chuckle.


    "The princess herself? Ha!" Ivan put his cigarette on the ashtray and starts laughing.


    "Igor was right. You were fucking the emperor''s daughter for the past months!


    §ä§í §ã§å§Þ§Ñ§ã§ê§Ö§Õ§ê§Ú§Û! How was it? Is it true she is still a virgin? " He takes the envelope and inspects its exteriors while smiling ear to ear. His gold tooth on the upper row left shines.


    "And how much did they pay you? No wait, what did they pay you with? Silk? Gold? Did they give you a Chinese sword or something?" Ivan keeps on laughing as he extinguished the cig and pulls out an M9 bayonet to opens it. His motion stops when he sees the wax seal.


    "Lee. Who send this?" He stands up and raises the envelope to the ceiling light. It''s light tight.


    "I told you." His smile faded. Replaced by a cold expression. His eyes look like a cool flame, hiding beneath the surface and hard to detect. But it''s there, and it is burning like the inferno flame underneath our earth.


    "You''re actually working for those fucking sharks!" He shouts.


    "Ivan, could you just open....."


    "Where the fuck were you huh? You went missing for months. And when you came back you bring a package from the Qins with fuck knows what in it. Do you know what that sounds like ?"


    "Just open it and see what''s....." Ivan sticks the knife on the table so hard that I hear a cracking sound. The bayonet handle shakes.


    "No, first you tell me what did they give....."


    I''m not sure what came over me. Sometimes it just happens. I''m used to surpassing all my emotions and only showing the ones people want to see or what the situation requires. Sweeping the unnecessary ones under the rug and letting them dissolve over time. But sometimes it gets too much, or my subconscious just took control. Tonight is the first night I''m back on the field and after all the bullshit it throws at me, when I think about it afterward it''s probably only natural.


    I snapped.


    "Fuck you Ivan! Fuck you for thinking for even a single second that I would work for those cocksuckers of my own will. Do you know what I was thinking when I walk inside that fucking jiu lou with all those pigs and cannibals in suits? I was thinking about how many I could kill with my own bare hands before I go down! But no. I fucking can''t, not because of my rules but because they have dirt on Vera and they''re using it to blackmail me! That high and mighty cunt at the top floor and her lapdogs! Fuck. The whole Qin family can go to hell and have a tea party with Satan! But before that happens, Ivan. Just open that cursed thing. I want to get this over with."


    The door behind me was opened since..... I don''t know when.


    "Ivan. Lee. Everything under control?" Igor''s deep voice came behind me.


    "It''s fine Igor. Just sorting things up." Ivan answers while keeping eye contact with me. Igor lets out a hum and closes the door. Ivan slowly walks up to the coffee table and takes the vodka bottle from earlier and takes a swig.


    "Haven''t seen you like this for a long time." He smiles and takes another swig. "Brings back old memories......." He passes me the bottle. I gladly take it and take a long swig.


    "The cleaner sisters huh?"


    "Yeah.......they know what happened that night."


    "And they threatened you with it.......It has been a long time isn''t it?"


    "What?"


    "Since you fight for anyone but yourself."


    I stay silent. My right eyelids flinch as my line of sight falls down to the floor. Ivan pulls the bayonet from his desk and slices open the seal.


    He extracts a fuck load of papers, letters and a small recorder out of it. He starts with the letters, inspecting every single one of them carefully, and places the ones that he read on the side. His facial expression grows more and more serious, he knits his eyebrows tightly, and I can hear his teeth clenching. When he finished reading them all. He presses play on the recorder.


    Muffled sounds, fabrics rubbing against each other, people talking, no, arguing in the distance. Clicking sounds of heels on the floor, a sharp sound of ceramic objects breaking. Door slams with the unpleasant noise of rusty hinges. Coughing. Silence.


    Then, the familiar voice of Miss Qin appears along with the hoarse voice of an old man. They''re both speaking Chinese. The sound quality is piss poor, and there''s a lot of Chinese and Cantonese slang involved but I understand most of them. The recording lasts about 5 to 7 minutes.


    For some reason, I didn''t leave the room as soon as Ivan plays that thing. It''s almost like the reasonable part of me died after the confrontation with Ivan. Only after the recording ends do I realize what I did. And what I heard meant for me, for Ivan and the Russian mobs, for Miss Qin and piao jie.


    Ivan passes me the bottle of vodka and gets himself another one at the coffee table. I remove the lid and aim the bottle''s mouth at mine. I raise it upside down so the liquor can pour into my body at maximum capacity. I count to five.


    One, I should have never stayed in this room.


    Two, I should have never dragged Ivan into this.


    Three, I should have never taken the job.


    Four, I should have never come back.


    Five, I should have never walked into this god-forsaken city.


    Half of the bottle is gone. But I''m not feeling any better, just dizzy. Maybe I should use the inhaler again? Ivan takes a swig of his own bottle. He looks at the bottom of the vodka for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath.


    "What were they arguing about?"


    I look into Ivan''s eyes. The deep blue sea churns because of the storm upon it.


    "War."

 Brothers

    My Mandarin is mediocre at best. I understand most of what they were saying and the meaning of this recording but some parts are beyond me. My guess is Miss Qin was secretly carrying voice recorder when the conversation took place. And the person she was talking to is her father.


    I take a deep breath. And starts explaining to Ivan.


    "Qin Yan and her father were arguing about the manufacturing of self-made guns. She thinks they should stop this business entirely since it''s a losing proposition and their throwing too much manpower into it. And now they''re is no actual war that needs that many guns. Her father disagreed and say there is always a war, the difference is whether you see it or not. This is probably taking place a few years ago. My guess is three. "


    "The second part is more recent. She mentioned y''all are angry about the guns and the many disrespectful acts. Mainly it''s the same thing but her father mentioned something about sins, justice, and punishment out of nowhere. And you probably notice too. Her father sounds a bit delirious." Ivan nods slowly.


    "The last part is probably recorded a few weeks ago. They were screaming at each other. The emperor was convinced that you guys are planning some ''all out attack'' to conquer ''his empire'' and...... he keeps mentioning his dead wife and brother for some reason, claiming they were behind it and ''they always want what''s his''. Then he fucking escalates, shouting that he will strike first and slaughter all the weaklings and savages. He...... vows that he will kill all of you. In the end, they part on pretty bad terms."


    I inhaled slowly and starts processing what the fuck that was. A few things are out of place:


    1: In the first recording, I heard Nan''s voice in the background.


    2: Qin Yan has some very weird choice of words, she uses the word ''mute'' like a swear word.


    3: Some sentences make me feel like she''s not talking to her father.


    4: Her father uses ''Hanjian'' instead of just using the word traitor. From my understanding, it roughly translates to the same meaning. But it''s still a strange word to use.


    "Wait. There''s one more." Ivan press play again. This part is in full English.


    "Mr.Ivan, I would like to further discuss this matter with you. I have a solution for the dilemma that all of us are facing right now. The place and time are your choices. You can bring as many men as you see fit. I''ll only bring two." There''s a pause before she continues.


    "I know you have more reasons to kill me than speak to me, or you may suspect this is a setup. I have no means to assure you that I hold no ill intentions except for my words. If you wish to prevent meaningless bloodshed. Please consider this proposal." The recording stops.


    ***


    "Fuck." Ivan says quietly.


    "That''s an understatement." I take another swig. The bottle''s about to be empty.


    "Any possibilities that she fakes the whole thing? The recordings ?" Ivan takes a swig of his bottle too.


    "We knew the old geezer''s voice. As fuck up as the voice quality is. I think that''s actually him. But that doesn''t remove the possibility that she fake the whole thing to get you."


    "It''s meaningless to get me, isn''t it? If I died, another will take my place before sunrise." Ivan says in a matter-of-fact tone.


    It''s true. That''s how the Russian mob operates, and that is why they always prevail in battles and gang wars. The reason la vina was in a stalemate with them for so long is that there is no simple solution to take down this organization, there''s no absolute boss, and even the higher-ups can be replaced immediately if an assassination happens. It''s like a hydra.


    "Don''t think she''s up to kill you. Just to have you help her on whatever she''s doing ........ Ivan, are you really going to....." He knows the words in my mouth before I otter.


    "........Taking her offer would make me an idiot and a traitor.......but not taking it.......what do you think, little brother?"


    "Ha, what do I think? I think you''re in the same position as I was. I despise them but circumstances force me to work with them. Hell, I could have refused them at the get-go but what was left of my conscious stopped me. Which puts me in this position so you........." I''m too familiar with that look. "Ivan, I know what you''re thinking."


    That day, the setting sun makes the brick pavements shine like ambers.


    "Think this through, what''s dead is dead......you''re not making amends to them because there''s no way to do that. Even if Qin Yan meant what she said, this thing could still get you killed by either Zakhar or someone worst than him!"


    Ivan stays silent for a long time. The room is so quiet that I can hear the muzzled booming music from outside through the sound proof walls. I could not make out what he''s thinking. He lower his head. Staring at the papers on his desk.


    When he speaks again he''s voice is low.


    "Lee....... You have been a merc for too long.....You forgot what it feels like. What it feels like to belong somewhere. Lie to yourself all you want, lie that you don''t need it, lie that you''ve moved on, buried yourself with booze, drugs, work, and sex. But in the end, deep down you know it." His voice remains low but every single word hits me like a punch.


    "You''re afraid. Afraid that you''ll have to go through it again. I know what they call you in the streets, you can hide behind those masks but when you''re laying in bed, staring at the ceiling till you fall asleep. When you don''t have to act anymore. You feel it.......so did I for a long time, but I tried and I succeeded. This is where I am. And I won''t let that happen again. You can keep running. But I won''t. Even for the slightest chance to prevent war. I''ll take it!" In the end it sounds like he''s howling, his eyes lit up with hatred and rage.


    Yeah, I know you will. One of us has to move on, that''s why I didn''t tell you the truth. So you could be spared of the same fate as mine.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I smile tiredly. Letting out a laugh without realizing it.


    "Well said, Ivan. Well said." I put the bottle down on the floor and stand up. Place both of my hands on his desk and lean forward, just like I did with Miss Qin. "But don''t assume I''m going to let you do this on your own. After all, we took a vow didn''t we?" A wide smile forms on Ivan''s face as he stands up too. He bypasses the desk and gives me a bear hug, patting my back hard, I do the same. Coins and tools in his inner pockets hitting each other making a little clink sounds.


    There''s no way around it anymore, I''m a part of this now.


    "Whatever comes after......."


    "Whatever comes after."


    ***


    "Now." Ivan walks up to the coffee table once again. This time he brings up a brandy from the lower deck. Putting five rocks before pouring both of us a glass.


    "Business." He grins as he hands me one. We both get comfortable on the sofa.


    "Date?"


    "As soon as possible, four days later?" A week of preparation will be the best. But time is a factor, the situation will only get worse.


    "Right after the meeting. When everyone is busy with their assignments." Ivan nods in approval.


    "Place?"


    "Not in Nochnaya, people will recognize me in an instant. I don''t want to run into my man while chatting with Miss Qin." He said the name Normally but somehow make it sound like a mockery.


    "Sure as hell ain''t going to be in piao jie either eh?" Ivan groans. I take a sip of his brandy.


    The bastard''s taste in booze improved.


    "Rector street?"


    "Fuck no. There''s going to be a retaliation there soon. Igor lost two scouts yesterday. The place is too hot right now." Ivan swirls his whiskey glass before nursing it.


    "So the southern part isn''t going to cut it." Probably for the best, negotiating on other parties'' turf is not the best idea.


    "I.....do have a safe house at Desalos, not far from the canal. The area is very deserted."


    "I''m Russian. Remember? Those Tinos will still shoot me on sight. I can''t even get across the bridge." He points at his face.


    "Little Italy? Just book a table at Lucio''s and have them pay for it." I half-jokingly suggested. Ivan choked on his brandy when he heard that.


    "Tempting....but no. Don made it very, very clear the mafia and Little Italy will stay out of this....not even secret gatherings are allowed." He coughs between sentences. "The ideal place will be the lanes. Can you get a booth in stynx?"


    "I can. But no. Words travel fast in the lanes, half of the mercs in the area know me, not to mention stynx." Ivan takes a swig. He holds the whiskey glass with both hands, deep in thought. Suddenly, he snaps his finger.


    "Club 57!"


    Oh, hell no.


    "No."


    "Why?"


    "I''m banned there."


    ".....banned?"


    "I''m on the blacklist."


    ".........for what?"


    "............I don''t remember. All I know is that I black out while playing blackjack. And when I wake up. The whole place is trashed, bodyguards and security lying on the ground, some dead some unconscious. Ever since then when I came close to the spot, angry japs with Wakizashi will come after me." Ivan looks at me for a second and signs.


    "What about the lounge?"


    "On the upper level? Is that place even real?"


    Club 57 is the nickname for a skyscraper in the city center. Usually, when people talk about the place they''re referring to the gigantic underground casino. But the reason why this place is called club 57 was that rumor has it that there''s a private club on the 57th floor for the most influential persons in the city to discuss business and social affairs. I never met anyone that have even seen the place before. But on the other hand, I haven''t lingered in that area ever since the casino incident.


    "It is. Vor holds annual meetings there. And you don''t have to worry about the japs. Rich bastards there likes to wear masks so they can speak freely."


    "And do you have access to a booth there?"


    "No, but I bet princess Qin does."


    "......You sure Lucio is not an option? The meeting could blow any second because some Japanese recognized me. Besides, I''m not a big fan of ''The phantom of opera'' "


    There''s a faint memory of me listening to ''think of me'' with my parents.


    "Lee, trust me. The place is perfect for this. It is as exclusive as Mrs. Qin''s vagina. Don''t have to worry about prying eyes or unwanted attentions."


    "Leave the dead alone would you?......... Fine. Club 57 it is then."


    Ivan smiles and clinks my glass before hestarts looking at me up and down."But.....lee, you can''t get in there dressed like this." He makes a gesture at my......everything.


    "I like this jacket." I whine and take a sip of brandy.


    Ivan signs and gives me a business card with ''Emilio&Fulvio'' bronzing letters on one side.  And address, phone numbers on the other.


    "You still on good terms with the Italians right?" Ivan raises his eyebrow.


    "Last I check." I say while inspecting the card. A small watermark at the left corner.


    "Mafia establishment?" Ivan nods.


    "One of the finest in the city. Give them a bit of hint about who you are they will also provide you some....extra services. With your reputation they wouldn''t block you." I let out a groan.


    "And time of meeting?"


    "Nine."


    "Good. Usually situations like this I''ll have a ''last resort'' ready. But I guess I couldn''t expect that from your end?" I finish my drink.


    "No. This thing can not be exposed to anyone at all. Let having any alone backups." Ivan refills my drink. "What about you? Got anyone you can trust on this?"


    Vel and vix.....no one would be willing to do it except for them, and we also have lots of practice in opts like this......But I won''t drag them into this. I was the one that''s supposed to get them out of this mess, not the other way around.


    "Nah. Forget it. The two of us will be plenty enough." I grin and hide my insecurities with liquor. I''m definitely getting drunk again. Ivan didn''t notice, he simply grins back and raise his glass.


    "§ç§à§â§à§ê§à §ã§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§ß§à! Hmm. She said she''ll bring two with her...... you got any ideas who those could be?"


    "Honestly. I think one of them is definitely Nan. The other could be anyone."


    "Wait. Nan as Nan Shi Pei?"


    "Yeah, you heard of him?"


    "That guy is a counselor of the Qins and a fucking mad dog in a fight. He once beat five of our armed soldiers in an alley with nothing but his fists. Our scouts say that he seldom leaves piao jie but he''s active in actions. He''s a thorn in the side. And there''s 300k on his head ......... exclusive to the mob members."


    Weird that I never heard of him.


    "Lastly. Do they allow guns in there?"


    "No, I heard it from Zakhar there''s a damn metal detector there. Guns, knives fucking razors all are prohibited." The only time of the day when I''m not carrying is when I''m at home. The idea of leaving them feels weird.


    "No way to bypass?"


    "None, all things consider that place can be counted as one of the most well-protected facilities in Faust." He take another sip.


    "So, no guns, no backups, no idea what to expect." I stand up. So does Ivan.


    "Nostalgic." We clink glasses and both finish the drink in one swig.


    I''ll be lying if I say it ain''t.

 Extra chapter: the recording

    This chapter can give you a better understanding of what Lee heard.


    The rest of the conversation is in Chinese.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    "He''s inside. And he''s not in a good mood." Nan''s voice appears then comes the sound of a door closing in the background.


    "Father. You look tired. Why not take a break? Peace is upon us we have....."


    "If you have something to say, say it." A very hoarse but stoic voice appears. There was another voice in the background but it stops when Qin cuanhua spoke. It is hard to make out whether the voice is in the same room or not.


    "........Kirin told me you double the production of .95....Why?" I''ve never heard Qin Yan talking in that tone before, but considering I''ve only met her two hours ago.....


    "Offensive action and defensive action both require strength. Peace is just another form of battle. If we show any sign of stopping or sloppiness, another will come and piao jie will be back in hell''s fire again."


    "The income from this line of business is little to none. Strength can be shown in other forms. Wouldn''t you agree?"


    There''s a pause.


    "And what do you suggest?"


    "Reinforcing our business in the avenue, the products are complaining about the lack of security to stop the customer abuse." Some mumbling in the background.


    "And......shouting down the gun business entirely. The Russians are giving final warnings."


    "Mao zi is precisely the reason why I''m doubling the rate of production. They always hold ill intentions. Let those dogs keep on barking. When it finally decided to bite. They''ll choke on it. "


    "Father. There is little to no meaning in enraging the Russians. If we continue on this the arms dealers in town will cut ties with us."


    "Let them. We don''t need them, piao jie will be an independent nation when what I envisioned is done."


    A long pause.


    "Mute." Qin Yan spits those two words as if they''re venom.


    The first part of the audio ends.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    The sound of the door opening. This time no people are talking in the background but there is a crisp sound of porcelain colliding with each other.


    "Five dead, two in the hospital. That''s just this week." The sound of Qin Yan rings again. "That makes it 20.......we lost 20 of our men within a month!" She spoke with a bit lisp.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "What''s that smell?" The emperor sounds even more hoarse than last time. But the dignity and reproach tone still makes him intimidating.


    "When is this madness going to end?" Yep, Miss Qin is tipsy.


    "What have I done to you to deserve such treatment from my daughter? You don''t even wash your hands after smoking now." The last sentence is not a blame but a statement.


    "Ha. Why should I? At this rate, we will die by the russkyies before tuberculosis gets a chance! When is it going to stop? Why would you do this? Give me one good reason!"


    "When they paid. For what they''ve done! When they atone for their sins! For what they did to me! I know how many we''re losing every day. But do you know how much they paid? Ahem," He''s coughing furiously at the end. With the shitty recording quality, it almost sounds like it''s a bad connection sound.


    "No. You don''t. You don''t concern yourself when you''re in an ''edou'' like this. You focus on your enemy and the damage you''ve done to that son of a dog. They have lost six scouts, two establishments, and several trucks of shipments this month."


    "So what? The price is way too high, even if we did prevail. Then what? Do you want to turn Nochnaya into another piao jie? We know nothing about how they work or how the arms dealing......."


    "I don''t care. Ahem..... about that fucking place. Or maozi business ahem...... What I want is justice, nothing else......" Qin Cuanhua''s voice became smaller and smaller with every cough.


    "Leave. I''m done with you now."


    The second part ends.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    Noisy white noises, incomprehensible shoutings, a loud sound of something breaking on the floor. After a high-volume sonic boom. The words become understandable again.


    "Why can''t you see? Are you blind?" Presumably, the sound of Qin Quanhua appears, though it sounds like sandpapers scratching each other. "Here, and there. They have been planning this all along. They''re coming!"


    "And what made it this way? Huh? If it weren''t for your superstitions it wouldn''t have happened! You made it this way! You started an unnecessary war! Against one of the strongest factions of this city!" The sound of Qin Yan shouting occurs. Some irritating and harsh noises appear when her voice hits a certain threshold. Despite the sound of Miss Qin being the most focused one, the sound of his father whispering something can still be heard in the background.


    ".........you were right...Xie Yen...I wasn''t....." As Qin Yan stops shouting, the background noise became visible again. The emperor is the one whispering in the background, but as the sound of Miss Qin rises again. It seizes.


    "Speak, Damnit! Why are you like this? Aren''t you always the one against it?"


    There''s no answer to her query except some murmur which still sounds like they came from her father.


    "Uncle would be ashamed to see you now..."


    Before She could finish the insult, the sound of a chair scratching the wooden floor loudly broke it followed by a loud static. As the noises wear off there''s still the sound of glass and chinas shaking. Someone just hit something which results in this. What''s worth mentioning is that the sound of static came before the sound of the chair scratching fully stops.


    "How dare you mentioned him now! They cost it! All of them! They want what''s ours all along, the empire that we built together......they got him....but they wouldn''t get me...No! I will kill them first! All those idiotic maozi...... and the feeble hanjian, them too!." What started as low groaning becomes screams at the end. Followed by the sound of furniture colliding and falling on the floor.


    "What are you doing now?.....No? father don''t...." The sound of Miss Ain was once again broken by his father''s shouting.


    "I, Qin Quanhua vow it in the name of my father and his assenters." A muffled sound, hard to tell what it is. Then comes a series of short breaths. "The living in this room, the deceased under my feet, the gods upon us all. Shall all be my witnesses."


    "Father...."


    "I will slaughter every single one of them! The savages, the traitors, the dishonest! The maozi and hanjian! I''ll give no quarters, just as they did to me and my family before." The ringing sound of glass shattering follows. "If the oath is to be broken by me in the future. Ren ren de er zhu!"


    "......dad....."


    "You''re no longer needed here. Like always, you failed me. Now get out!"


    The third part ends with the sound of the door slamming.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    As always, thanks for checking my story! Please leave a comment on what you think of it.

 A damsel in distress

    "One more thing," I say as I walk to his desk. "I need to burn them."


    "You sure you don''t want to take a look first?" I stop my motions. And shrugs.


    "Might as well."


    Most of them are documents and records about the Qins recent activities. (Officially their legal stuff is done behind the name ''Qin Ye Limited'') nothing too significant here, just about buying some buildings in the city center and rector street, a more interesting one is about they bought a mansion at Monclea.


    Some notes with scribbled Chinese on them. Most of them are pretty boring just some requests made from their establishments. Although one of them is pretty interesting, it says


    ''There''s a market for cut throat business, but none for losing business." Seems like not everyone is happy with the decision of stepping into the arms business.


    Handwritten letters to presumably capos of different areas, also some transfer records which I riffle through.


    Ivan stops me and points at one of the records. It''s another transfer. 2.75m in total. Not a small number but not the most impressive amongst them either. Transferring from


    Qin Ye.ltd to........what the hell?


    "Ganesha. co? Is that some Thailand company?" Ivan smiles a victorious smile.


    "Ha! And you consider yourself well-informed and connected." I give him the middle finger which makes his smile even bigger.


    "It''s a shell company resides at some fucking island no one heard of in the Pacific Ocean, but in reality, they''re at the golden triangle. Specialize in security, riot control......"


    "Mercenary Corp." I finish it for him.


    "Made a name for themselves by committing genocide at a small fishing village in Burma. Consists of ex-military, killers of local drug kingpins, and generally all kinds of textbook-level human scum."


    For fuck sake Qin Cuanhua is out of his mind.


    "And how much service can one buy with this amount of money?" I point at the 2,750,000 on the records.


    "More than enough to control the outcome of the war. But that''s not the point. The point is he broke the rules." Ivan stares at the number intensely. "For as long as this city was built, all the gangsters, criminals, and mercs followed them. What happens in Faust stays in Faust. You don''t get outside forces involved!"


    "True, but I don''t think this is enough to sanction him. And he''s probably beyond caring for that." Ivan shakes his head. Opening a drawer he throws me a box of matches.


    "Guessing you forgot to bring your lighter again." He grins ear to ear and sat back down on his chair. "Give her highness my regards, and tell her if she lied to me I will personally deliver her a gas mask and a can of CS gas."


    ***


    As I set the envelope on fire. Watching it slowly be consumed by the flames at the back alley of Icebreaker. My thoughts drift to all the things that happened tonight. Before I even notice. The whole thing had turned into fire residue, the recorder melted few sparks ignited as the circuits can''t withstand the heat. I watched all of them slowly become black debris. I stomp on them a few times to make sure it is impossible to comprehend what it was.


    It''s 20 past midnight. Nochnaya is still full of shimmering partygoers, I quickly leave Lesnaya and move to a less noisy parallel street. Heading east once again.


    I didn''t take rector street this time. The tension in that part is too high according to Ivan. And I''m not interested in getting into trouble at this moment.


    Is weird that people used the phrase: ''I just want today to end.'' Or ''Tomorrow will be better.'' so often. Even though everyone knows those are bullshit. Today ends..... and what? What makes you think tomorrow will be better? Your problems or struggles wouldn''t magically disappear when you see tomorrow''s sunrise. I once get into an argument with Viviane about this. In her own words:


    "You don''t know what tomorrow holds for you. Could be better, could be worse. But since today sucks, what''s wrong with hopping for a better tomorrow?"


    I replied. "If you hope for a happier future but get slapped in the face with a giant metaphorical hand when it comes. Wouldn''t that makes you feel shittier? "


    The matter remains unsettled to date.......mainly because we got too drunk afterward. Despite all my previous points. I''ll admit, as I''m slowly approaching Chinatown all that''s on my mind is.


    I can''t fucking wait for today to end.


    ***


    Say what you want about piao jie but at least it''s not as noisy as Nochnaya at late night. (Except Glen Avenue.)


    On my way here. I noticed most of the pedestrians have gone back to their homes, what''s left on the streets are some ingenue-looking fellows, drunks, fat fucks in suits with chicks in both arms, tattooed folks wearing white tank tops and playing mahjong in shops with ''closed'' sign, some teenagers in leather jackets who thought wearing sunglasses makes them look cool but forgot it''s the middle of the night.


    You can also find those types of people in Nochnaya, some dark alleys of the city center even in little Italy. They''re the ''common'' people in your life. They might be your employer, friends, classmates, someone that greets you politely when you pass by. But at night, they let themselves go. They''re completely open to all the stresses in their boring life, and they paint the night with their favorite color so they can get on with what lies before them tomorrow.


    Most of them take a look at me and quickly walk past. But as the goddamn Neon signs on both sides increased, and roads expand people on piao jie started staring at me. Most of them are wearing the iconic black suit and tie of the Qins. Some are talking with local teenagers, some keep looking around while carrying luggage. They walk in pairs or alone, some strides with a cocky attitude others walk like they''re dead tired. These are what the ''common'' people become when they cross that line.


    Something happens which makes them fully devoted to this lifestyle. The first time they kill someone, got kicked out of their home and got nowhere else to go, get addicted to the adrenaline of danger, are in a dire need of money, or had enough of worrying about in a dire need of money.....Or it could just be they got unlucky in life.


    I keep my head down so they can''t see my eyes and walk in smaller steps but quicken my pace. Kept my hands close to my thighs and sway in the smallest motion possible. I make myself look small and unimportant, as harmless as it gets. People will see me as a pushover or some civilian that''s hurrying their way back home. I did a fantastic job.


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    After all, it''s the first thing I learned in Euforia.


    All the lanterns and lights are still on at Chen Xiang Jiu Lou, warm yellowish lights are coming out of some opened windows. The front door is open now but there''s no sign of all those customers from earlier. The guard that lent me his lighter is still on the left side of the entrance. I see two new guards at the receptionist''s desk instead of June, they''re checking the guest list.......And there''s another guy in a suit mopping the floor by the gate.


    The Qins really do have the absolute advantage when it comes to manpower.


    Without the crowd of people and the noises coming from inside the place looks borderline deserted. There are still a few guests on the higher floors chatting, the lanterns on top of them sway as the wind blows. I''m starting to suspect they''re not just ''guests''.


    I raise my line of sight to check if Qin Yan is still on her balcony, and she is. When she spots me too I swear I saw a smile bloom on her face before she walks back. I slow down my pace and lower my head once again to survey the environment. I''m almost entirely certain this whole thing with Ivan and she is unknown to most of the gang members. And I think it''s best to keep it that way.


    No sign of Nan, can''t just walk straight in it will cause too much attention. Just when I was considering sneaking inside or giving Nan a call. Something at the corner of my eyes caught my attention. A small flicker. I turn my attention to its direction. There it is again. A small flicker at the alleyway next to the building where no light from lanterns or inside can touch. I slowly approach it. When I''m 10 meters from it the flicker sparks again, making the instigator''s face visible. I can''t help but grin as I sneak up next to her.


    A damsel in distress.


    ***


    Xiao tries the fourth time on her silver lighter but still no luck. She signs and tried one last time. She clutches the lighter with her purlicue tightly, a discomfort feeling grows under the black gloves on her calluses. Biting on the filter of the cigarette in her mouth slightly. The motion triggered the embarrassing moment from earlier, it plays on repeat in her mind.


    Great, she thought. She came out to forget about that thing and now it''s clouding her mind again. Her thumb press firmly on the spark wheel as she closes her eyes for a moment longer than a blink, something she hasn''t done in a long time.


    She''s the personal bodyguard of Miss Qin. But before that, she was one of the many assassins of the Qin family. Though it is not her main focus to irradiate enemies of the family anymore, the old habit of keeping herself in an extremely concentrated state all the time stays. Which is also requested of her for Missy''s plan to work.


    Please work. Xiao prays mentally as her thumb flicks the wheel one more time. A spark lit up but extinguished as soon as it was made. She let out a sign, and just when she''s about to try again a faint light appears in front of her out of nowhere, a warm flame on a match that lit up a small part of this alley. She turns her head expecting to see Nan Shi Pei. But instead, it is him.


    For fuck sake''s.


    ***


    I shift my position a step to the left so she wouldn''t be able to see me and keep on moving towards the alleyway in soft footsteps. Some gangsters or mercs like to dress themselves up like pimps after they got a bit of money to spare, I''m not saying that I''m a frugal person. But when it comes to shoes I always tend to wear simple sneakers with soft soles, easier to move around, and easier to sneak around.


    I walk against the vertical wall of the alley. As I poke my head to take a look I see Xiao grasping her lighter tightly and......


    Why the fuck is her eyes closed? Who does that in a dark alley? Doesn''t matter. This is even better.


    As I lean against the wall next to her and bring out the box of matches Ivan gave me. She suddenly opens her eyes and flicks the lighter. A small spark appears but still nothing. She lets out a hearable sign, I grin and drag the match across the striker strip. A small flame ignited between my index finger and thumb. Which illuminated my face and hers. Her makeup is still there, but she looks much more tired than the last time I saw her.


    She stares at me with the same glare as before. She doesn''t move close to the match stick.


    "It''s a gentleman''s duty to lend a light to a lady in need. But it will be kind of awkward if the lady doesn''t take it. So please, light the fucking cigarette, or else I''m going to throw it at your face again."  The intent in her eyes is palpable, but after a second she gave up and tilts her head forward.


    As I flick the match to the dark of the alley. She takes a long drag, so long that I think her lungs might give up before she puffs out the smoke. She''s still glaring at me with that look.


    "That''s your problem, your eyes." I snap my fingers and point at them. "They''re way too obvious. Not custom to fighting someone that can see you eh?"


    She doesn''t answer me. But leans against the wall in the same pose as mine. After another drag, she turns her head and sizes me up once again. I don''t think she wants a rematch but I still put my right hand on my waist just in case.


    "What does she sees in you? I don''t understand." Her English is surprisingly good.


    "Got me there." Another drag.


    "She''s hell-bound on having you as the one to do it. I''ve never seen her insist on these things." I don''t even have to move my head to know she''s still staring at me.


    "Probably just because I know a bunch of Russikye and I look Asian." I turn my head to meet her gaze. She averted it and take another drag.


    "Why are you still here? "


    "I need a way in."


    "The door is opened." I let out a dry laugh.


    "Shouldn''t this whole thing be a bit more......cloak and dagger?" She raises her eyebrow and signs afterward.


    "Follow me." She said and flicks her cigarette in the same direction I throw the match stick.


    As we slowly make our way deeper into the alleyway, moonlight occasionally finds its way to descend upon us through cables, iron canopies, and external unit air conditioners. It gave me a better look at her. She has a black suit draped on her shoulders, inside it''s still the same cheongsam.


    Her slim figure and muscle lines on her exposed legs all confirm she''s no joke, especially the way she moves. She walks in a very well-calculated way, the distance between each step is exactly the same, and the time her feet are off the ground is reduced to a minimum. The embroidered shoes on her feet make her move in complete silence.


    Her hands sway in small motions as she moves. Most people''s hands look like a claw when they''re relaxed or walking, but unlike others, her thumb curls inwards towards her palm and the other four fingers are closed right now. I''m not sure if is it because of me or if she''s usually like this.


    "Enjoying the view?" Her head tilts slightly to the left as she speaks in an annoyed tone......and a bit tiresome.


    "I''ve seen better, but is still a good distraction on a long night like this."


    "Bie San." She says calmly. Like rendering a judgment. I let out a groan.


    "That fucking word again. What have I done to deserve such a statement?"


    She turns her head back for a moment like she''s confirming something, then she smiles a satisfied smile.


    "When is the last time you take a look in the mirror? You look identical to all the other punks and thugs on the street."


    I wonder if the guards would react to a gunshot in the alley......maybe two.


    "Didn''t your parents teach you it is rude to judge someone by their looks?"


    "Then what were you doing 10 seconds ago?" She exhaled with a subtle trace of a laugh.


    "I''m an orphan. No one taught me that." I shrug. She doesn''t answer.


    Show your scars like it''s a badge of honor. The sound of her soothing voice rings in my mind before I banish them away.


    At the end of the alley, she turns to the left and enters a small courtyard between houses and the jiu lou. Two green trash cans sit by the wall, the garbage bags make the lid remains half-opened. Rubbish and cigarette butts on the concrete ground. A couple of rats flee the place as soon as they hear us. The moon is clouded which makes the visibility not much better than in the alley.


    I raise my head to look at this side of jiu lou. Behind the resplendent front of gold and red, the eyesore back of iron and brown at the back.  Same as everything else in this city.


    Unbearable when you first see the other side, grow numb to it after witnessing it every day, became a part of it before you noticed.


    She bypasses the trash can, moving to its right. There''s an unremarkable metal door with lots of posters and tape marks on its surface, just like everything other back d. She removes one of the posters which reveals a plastic lid and a handle. Pushing the lid up shows an electronic keypad. The stuff is ancient. No rings or response when Xiao pushes the buttons. The keypad is on the left side of the door with the trash cans next to it a small secure corner forms to block out prying eyes from all directions. With a clicking sound, the door is unlocked. Surprisingly there are no squeaky sounds when Xiao opens it, bright lights come from within. She does a beckoning sign toward me.


    Another phrase that also reeks of bullshit for me is ''The first time is the hardest''. The second time tonight I''m entering this viper''s nest, still as uneasy as the first time.


    The light inside is so bright my eyes need a moment to adjust. Xiao sticks the poster back where it was and closes the door. A click signals that I''m locked in here again.

 Xiao

    As my eyes adapted to the light. I can see that I''m in a medium size room. Unlike most of the places in jiu lou, this space doesn''t have wooden floors but barebone concrete ones with some cracks and dried blood on them. The bright LED light tubes are placed where the ceiling meets wall, hold in place by nails and duct tape.


    A square is drawn in white chalk in the middle. The brown of dried blood fills that square. A couple of black sandbags are suspended on the ceiling (looks unstable). Lots of human outlines with different heights and body types on the wall, also drawn with chalk. A bunch of tangled-up jump ropes and boxing tapes pilled up at the corner of the room.


    "Personal gym? Love the industrial style." I ask jokingly.


    "It''s Nan''s. Others also use it when they want to......dissolve some conflicts between one and another." She walks towards the square in the middle of the room where she stops at the northwest corner. Her right foot moves a step forward, but the left stays still. She looks down at the little corner of the 5m x 5m square. Then she turns her head and looks at me. Surprisingly there was no hatred or murderous intent in her eyes, just......calmly and cautiously judging me.


    Of all the places you can do this, you picked where I''m most accustomed to.


    "If you want a second round you can come at me anytime, anywhere you want after I''m done here." She looks me in the eyes but doesn''t answers me. "But if you really want to settle this now........" I slowly exhale and start thinking about how many steps it takes to get in her range.


    She closes her eyes again, just when I''m fully prepared for a tough fight. She turns around and carries on walking towards the door at the end of the north wall.


    "If there is a second round it will end with your death.......but you''re right. Missy''s work is the priority." I keep a safe distance while following her.


    "Anytime. But you know, I preferred dealing with disputes with my words instead of violence," When violence is not a safer option. "How about we show each other some of the ''trust and honesty between colleagues'' that Nan won''t shut up about?" She lets out another one of those exhales that sounds like short laughter. Opening the door by the wall which leads to a dimly lit narrow hallway.


    "After all, what did you guys put it? ''Heqi Shengcai''?" She turns her head slightly and side-eyes me.


    "Are you Chinese or a Malaysian?" That''s the most normal tone I''ve heard when she''s talking to me.


    "Neither, I''m a Faustian born and bred." Xiao turns left at the end of the hallway.


    "Have you.......lived in paio jie before?"


    Don''t make me laugh.


    "Never. But I used to sneak in opium dens when I was younger, learned a bit of Mandarin there." Typical story. No one will suspect that.


    "You know a lot for someone who wasn''t formally educated in Chinese." Not a compliment, just stating the fact. But it''s an improvement nonetheless. I let out a hum. We take another left turn at the end. How big is this place?


    "And you? Piao jie oriented? You don''t look like one of those imbecile dream chasers." She laughs a real laugh. It sounds......hearty, normal laughter from a young girl........the striking contrast is killing me. After that comes a moment of silence before she answers me.


    ".......no. I''m a Faustian too." At the end of the dim hallway is another door.


    "Born here," as she pushes the handle bright light fills the dark hallway, casting a long and narrow shadow behind me.


    "Live here," Xiao pushes the door open and holds it in place. I step forward to hold it for her, as she let go of her right hand our eyes meet again. Hers are brown. Same as mine. But lighter. "Di......"


    Die as how the fuck we want!


    "Die as how the fuck we want." She frowns at my words. "We can''t choose where we were born, we can''t choose how we live." I put on a grin and walk into the light. "But we can damn well choose how we go."


    Door leads to the kitchen area, thankfully all the cooks are off duty. I see the double door to the break room up ahead. Just when I''m about to go across the stoves in the middle I heard the same laughter again.


    I turn around and see Xiao leaning against the door we just went through. She tilts her head to the side and supports her head with her left hand, her smooth black hair falls on her shoulder. When I first saw her I thought she can be considered a beauty if not for her expression. Now with a smile on her face, it''s safe to say she looks gorgeous.


    "You''re a strange person, Mr.Lee" Without the murderous intent and hatred. Her eyes now only show amusement.


    "I''ll take that as a compliment." I smile back. She raises her right foot and pushes against the door behind her, her body follows the reaction force. One step forward and she''s in front of me again.


    Street fight tactic.


    "Out of pure curiosity, may I ask? Why isn''t Nan waiting for me at the front?" I say as I follow her through the kitchen area. Even on wooden floors, her steps are still soundless.


    "He''s probably slacking......again." She signs. As we approach the break room again Xiao gestures for me to wait. I complied and step to the right so if there was anyone inside they wouldn''t be able to see me directly. As she pushes open the left double door, the sound of laughter and chit-chat escapes. I estimate there are at least five people inside, both men and women. Xiao didn''t bother shutting the door since it was a self-closing door. I take the opportunity.


    The door hinge slowly drags it back. I shift my position from the right to the left as the door closes so I can see as much as possible.


    Three men in suits and a woman in a black skirt are sitting at a folding table with a half-empty whiskey bottle in the middle, a bunch of glasses, and three plastic bags with what I presumed would be their dinner. The woman says something, and the others laugh but one of them only smiles. I recognize the two gunmen at the front door in those three. My condolences to the guy still out there.


    Changing my position as the door narrows down my sight, I see Xiao making her way through the room. There are four men in black talking in a small circle, one of them is holding an ashtray, each of them has a cigarette between their index and middle fingers. The atmosphere among this group is clearly more serious. What''s interesting is when Xiao passes, the gangsters tend to stop talking. Not sure if it''s out of respect or other reasons.


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    The door is about to be completely closed. I take another step to the left, getting my shoulder against the left side of the hallway wall. Xiao walks past the crowd, walking straight to the northeast corner. In this position, I can''t see where she''s heading. Just when I''m about to give up I saw the one holding ashtray turns around and starts walking toward the left side of the room. At the last millisecond, I see where Xiao is heading.


    ***


    Xiao makes her way through the room, she can sense more than a couple of guys are watching her. Briefly consider staring back but decide not to. After she was reassigned to Qin Yan''s wing, she basically goes wherever she goes. For the past few months, she''s been spending a lot of time in this jiu lou. She can''t fool herself, she misses the days when all she has to worry about is carrying out tasks. (Only for the simplicity of it)


    Although she appreciates that Miss Qin often gives her a lot of time off. She doesn''t know how to spend it.


    She seldom sees her colleagues at her previous work. Sometimes she doesn''t even see her bosses. Now as a bodyguard, she has to stay close to Missy even if she''s off duty which gives her lots of opportunities to interact with other members of Qin. Problem is, Xiao is not a people person. She''s not even a talkative person. Plus the fact that others knew what she have done before, and they knew what she is. Half of the members here are afraid of her, the other half avoid her.


    And then. There''s Nan with his goddamn smile. His reputation in the organization precedes him, he enters the core of the organization and become a consoler of the family a few years ago. He''s the rising star of the Qin family and was assigned to Missy''s wing about the same time she did. The two are the polar opposite of each other, more than once they argue about decisions and matters relating to Missy. But in a strange way, she''s glad that Nan is there. Since he''s the only one that dares to talk to her. But of course, she wouldn''t admit.


    Xiao thinks about if it''s possible to clear the room or at least distract a part of them so the merc can get in. She starts surveying the room to see if there is......


    And what is he doing now?


    ***


    I extended my foot to stop the wooden door from closing and check the hallway behind me to make sure no one was there. Some sound of talking in the distance but none are close by.


    I tilt my head and with the tip of my shoe blocking the door I see Xiao approaching Nan and June through the door gape.


    June is clearly uneasy being in this room with a bunch of gangsters. Guess she''s not affiliated, just a regular worker. Nan looks.....like Nan, a smirk on his face and without a care in the world. Both of their faces change dramatically when they see Xiao walking towards them.


    The receptionist''s face turns pale in an instant and lowers her head, and closes her mouth. And Nan looks exactly like how someone getting caught skipping work to flirt with co-workers would look. Awkwardly shrugging.


    This is worth it even if I don''t get any information.


    Xiao says something while staring at Nan. June nods her head and quickly walks away from them.......and starts walking toward me.


    Shit.


    I consider walking back to the door me and Xiao came from but now I see there''s a fucking electronic lock on this one too. The kitchen stoves are too short I will get spotted if I try to hide behind them. Can''t rush back to the lobby someone might be there. Ah, fuck it.


    I step away from the door and lean against the wall with my right legs behind my left.  Take out my pack of cig.


    Relaxed. Act like you belong here.


    As June walks out of the door I forced myself to not look in her direction. She only realizes I''m here after she''s right next to me. (She lowers her head the whole time)


    Her right foot was about to step forward but after seeing me with smoke in my mouth it dashes back like there was lava around me. I hold on to laughter.


    "M-Mr.Lee......I''m sorry but we''re closed and......you really shouldn''t be here. You might get in trouble." June looks back at the break room nervously.


    God bless this woman and her good intentions.


    "I know." I put a smoke in my mouth and bring out the matchbox.


    "Sir......sorry but you can''t smoke in here, and.....you should really go."


    "I got some unfinished business here," I say as I drag the match stick across the striker strip.


    "Mr.Lee please, just go or else......" I raise my eyebrow.


    "Or else?" She shuts her mouth and looks back. I light my cigarette. She opens her mouth again but no words come out, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she speaks again she sounds somewhat more in control of herself.


    "Mr.Lee. If you don''t leave right now, I''m going to inform securities inside." I take another puff.


    Brave girl. Maybe I should dial it down a bit?


    "Sir.......Miss Xiao is in there too." She says like it''s some final warning.


    "Who''s Miss Xiao?" Let''s see how she reacts.


    "What.......she''s the...


    Just when June is about to explain it. The double door opens. Nan and Xiao walk out. When I turn back June is already gone. How does she move so fast?


    "Mr.Lee." Nan nods at me, the grin is on his face as always. "Good to see you again."


    "Likewise, now. I suppose we can''t use the fright lift again?" Xiao raises her eyebrow and looks at Nan.


    "We could but......." Nan gives me an awkward look. Xiao finished the sentence with a delightful sound.


    "It''s going to need your compliance."


    ***


    Xiao twists my right arm to my back and pushes the double door open. I keep my head down so they can''t see my face. Especially when we pass the two gunmen I met at the front door. I can tell most of them avert their eyes when they see Xiao. I hear one of the Qins murmur "sui xiao".


    Nan follows behind, he''s putting on a poker face just as we planned. Xiao puts a bit more pressure on my arm. I have to convince every single cell in me not to fight back. My right index finger twitches slightly. Nan pushes the elevator button and shouts in Chinese.


    "Alright! Nothing to see here. Just a moron that needs......''re-education'' on the basic rules of this place." I hear some laughter from my left. Xiao puts her right arm on my nape. I hunch my back. Jittering my head in a subtle motion, chatter my teeth, my mouth slightly agape to make it look like I''m either high or pissing myself.


    After, a loud ''clank'' I hear the sound of freight elevator door opening. Xiao pushes me in roughly, Nan follows inside and quickly pressed the ''close'' button. As the door closes in front of me. Xiao releases me from her grip. My right bicep feels sore.


    "Thought you were really going to dislocate my shoulder," I say to Xiao. Nan pushes the ''B2'' button as we discussed, got to make it believable.


    "The idea did cross my mind." Xiao puts her hands by her waist. As a concussion happens again the lift starts moving.


    "What stops you?" I stretch my arm. She smiles in silence and shrugs.


    "Future enjoyment." I grin at her response.


    "Visionary eh?" She lets out a quick chuckle and shakes her head lightly.


    "That tongue. Mr.Lee, it will be the end of you someday."


    Nan pushes the ''close'' button as soon as the fright elevator reaches the second floor underground. The door opens slowly as the smell of blood and smoke hits my nostrils. Few doors to the left on a hallway that looks like a horror movie set. Light tubes hanging on the ceiling, shining intermittently. Peeling white wall. Badly worn wooden floors. There''s a painting on the wall but it''s covered by a white rag.


    The door slowly closes. Nan still got his grin on. Xiao looks bored. With a rumbling noise. We start moving up to the sixth floor again.

 Why him?

    The weight on my shoulder seems a bit off. I raise my right arm and check my holster with my left hand, the action alarms Xiao immediately. Her right foot is slightly above the ground, her right hand is below her chin, and left hand has five fingers together. Ready to strike.


    It''s so strange seeing someone more stressed than me.


    I ignored her and starts pulling my adjustment belt until the pistol is back where it was supposed to be. After it''s done, I run a quick check-up on my items to make sure nothing was lost in the break room.


    My phone and wallet were still in my back pocket, my pack of smoke and inhaler in my jacket''s left inner pocket. A spare magazine for each of my guns is still on the slots. Both guns are still in place as the familiar weight reassures. And the matchbox from Ivan is in my jacket pocket. Next to a brass knuckle which is also a gift from Ivan.


    I was about to check the knives too but decides not to when I noticed Xiao is still in the same position. Nan remains motionless. I sign.


    "Rest easy now. Trust and honesty, right Nan?" I raise my eyebrow. Nan grins.


    "Certainly, Mr.Lee."


    "Which reminds me, how''s it going with June? Making any progress while I''m away?" I lean against the elevator door and put on a grin myself too. Xiao lets her guard down a bit and makes nothing out of this topic.


    "Slowly but surely, Mr.Lee. Slowly but surely." I catch Xiao rolling her eyes. "And...... I appreciate your blessings too." He says in a sarcastic tone.


    "Least I can do. Oh. And a word of advice, stop taking her to that break room. She looks like a cat among starving hounds." Nan laughs and puts a hand on the wall to support himself.


    "I wouldn''t worry about that. I''ve known June for a while, she''s braver than she looks."


    The number on the display screen hits six. I''m greeted by the same dark storage room and green lights from the exit sign as the door opens. Nan and Xiao move in sync, stepping out of the elevator. I followed them to the emergency stairs.


    "Truly, She even commanded me, with a stern impression, to put off my cigarette or she''s going to call you guys in there to deal with me." Nan lets out a dry laugh.


    "And did you comply?"


    "Not really.......but then. She tries to scare me, with your name." I turned around and stare at Xiao. The green light momentarily shines on her face, showing an unflustered expression.


    "I have a reputation." She says in a plain tone. Nan lets out a small hum. I see his grin disappears and his eyes dart at me before quickly returning back to normal.


    Strange.


    As we reach the top floor, Nan opens the camouflaged door for me. I noticed when Xiao passed by him, the two exchanged a look.


    I take out my inhaler as we approach Qin Yen''s room.


    The meter by the side shows it''s about to run out of substance, it can probably produce another puff with one push on the string. It''s truly magnificent engineering, but there''s a small flaw. I can''t refill it without emptying the container first.


    I push the string on top twice, the second time it stuck and lets out a squeaky sound. Guess that''s all. I noticed Xiao''s peaking at me with no effort in hiding it when I''m about to take a puff.


    "Want a try?" I extended my palm to her. Nan watches Xiao with interest and a knowing smile on his face.


    "What the hell is that?" Xiao frowns but it piqued her interests.


    "Opium and marijuana," I say with a straight face. Nan seems suddenly very interested too. Xiao blinks twice when she hears my answer.


    "No." I shrug and take a puff.


    Thank goodness this is my last dose tonight. A dizzying feeling clouds my mind as I feel my head swelling like a balloon. One more puff will push me over the limit.


    Using this thing requires a very careful allocation. It''s meant to balance my emotions and control mood swings, I can take a puff when negative emotions such as depression, anger, sadness, loneliness got a hold of me. But only in those moments or in work-related scenarios. Or else I''ll risk getting addicted. I know too well what will happen if you got controlled by them.


    But I also know what happens when thoughts inside your mind control you. Both things can throw you into the abyss, normal people can go on with their lives without any of this. But ''normal people'' is an in-danger species in Euforia. Everybody got their own problems to face. How they face it differs greatly, Viviane uses booze, Vera bottles it down without showing it, Miss Qin smokes, Ivan goes for a ''stress relief'' on some poor guy that bumps him while walking pass. From my experience the more stoic and unshaken a person behaves, the harder they let themselves go secretly. Whatever works.


    I just find the inhaler to be the fastest and easiest way to go.


    For me, it''s not the drugs that create addiction, it''s your surroundings and all that comes with it.


    ***


    Nan gives the door three short knocks and a long one before opening it. He gestures for me to wait outside like last time as he walks in.


    "Shouldn''t you go with him?" I say as I sit down on the bench again. Still uncomfortable as hell. They might as well move this to B2.


    "Someone''s got to keep an eye on you." She sits down next to me but kept a safe distance. She rests her elbow on the wooden handle, looking quite bored.


    Not knowing what to do. I take out my pack of cig again.


    "You can''t smoke in here," Xiao says without looking at me. I stop my motions for a second, then shrug and take out two. Put both in my mouth. Xiao turn around looking annoyed by the sight. I take out the match stick and light both of them. She grunts and stands up.


    I take a short puff, not breathing in the smoke but keeping them in my mouth so I don''t get choked by it. I can feel some blood rushes to my eyes and it waters.


    Right before Xiao is about to snatch my smoke again. I take one out, holding it with my thumb and middle finger. Extending my hand towards her, filter facing her side.


    Her left hand was ready to strike with two fingers curled inwards. But my unexpected gesture stopped her. She looks at me and the cigarette between my fingers. Then looks around the hallway, her teeth biting her tongue.


    She''s staring at it with both desire and repel in her eyes like it''s the First sin. In the end, she falls into temptation. Taking the cigarette from my hand she takes a long drag just like she did last time. Sitting down in the middle of the bench with her left arm behind the bench. She throws her head back with her eyes closed.


    "A friend of mine always says to enjoy small moments like this while you can cause you never know when will be the next time...... though I''m pretty sure he''s just finding excuses to skip work." Xiao gives me a smirk with her eyes closed. I take another puff. The smoke in my lung and the drugs I took makes me feel like everything''s ok. Nothing is as fuck up or as complicated as it is in real life.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    A few minutes later a light tingling between my hand pulls me back from the world where I don''t exist. My smoke is about to burn out, as is Xiao''s. I tilt my head to see if there''s somewhere I can dispose of the end. Noticing the blue and white porcelain on the table about 5 meters away. Looks like the same one Xiao used as an ashtray earlier.


    I roll cigarette butt between my thumb and middle finger. Feeling its weight. At this distance without wind or other hinders should be a piece of cake. But the narrow lip greatly risen the difficulty.


    Xiao looks at me with a sly smile. She''s holding her cig the same way. I inhale slowly like I''m about to pull a trigger. My middle finger moves back a bit so the nail is in contact with my smoke. Exhale.


    Flicking it with my arm slightly extended towards the vase. A perfect parabola was drawn by the spinning cigarette end. As it hits the edge of the mouth, bounced back, and hits the opposite side, in the end, falls into the porcelain.


    Hell yeah!


    A thrill rushes through me for such a simple reason. Makes me believe for a second that I might be alright without all the drugs and sedatives. But then.


    Xiao takes one last puff of her smoke and glances at me while leaning back. A malicious intent embodied by a cruel smile. Still looking at me, her left-hand darts towards the porcelain with the speed of a rattlesnake striking its prey.


    Only when the cigarette butt shimmers as it makes an impact on the edge of the vase too did I realize what she did. Her cigarette end falls into the vase same as mine.


    "......You missed. The carpet is on fire right now." I tried to sound serious and I''m control of myself........


    But I fail to hide my desperation. Xiao looks like she''s having the time of her life right now. Smiling widely like I never saw before. She needs this more than I do.


    "The game is rigged. I bet you practice that every day." A victorious smile blooms on her face. She let out a laughter and the sound travels through the empty hallway before returning as echoes.


    "Bear defeat with dignity, Mr.Lee." I can''t believe I''m hearing this from her.


    "Alright, alright.......but I''m charging you for that cigarette." She signs and leans back on the bench again.


    "It''s always money with you mercs."Hard to argue with that. "Aren''t you about to get a handsome compensation?"


    "For my work? I''m actually thinking about raising it again. Since there were some ........obstacles."


    "Is that ......what drives you here? Gold and silver?"


    I laugh.


    Gold and silver can buy my hands and tongue, but not my soul.


    But at the end of the day. Who cares what I think? They will keep seeing you as who you are to them. Not who you are to yourself........


    Goddamnit. I shake my head trying to get these thoughts out of my head. That last hit might really be too much for me.


    Focused! The night is not over yet.


    I clinch the bridge of my nose and lie back. As for the Xiao next to me, she looks.......deep in thought.


    ***


    He''s a merc after all.


    After Nan and Qin Yan decided on having him as the courier. She was furious. She had to ask Missy more than once to let her do it instead of some random mercenary on the street. At first, she thought it was Nan''s idea. One night she confronted him but he denied it, saying his surprise too. That missy would choose a freelancer to do such an important job, let alone specify one.


    Xiao would never question Missy''s decisions, but she can''t help but wonder why miss qin would do it. She thought about asking her directly but didn''t because that''s not what she does, or was taught to do. So she tries asking Nan again. But he had decided to trust Missy on this.


    "As skeptical as this is. There''s nothing we could do but trust her. And believe he will help Miss Qin achieve her goals." Those were his words.


    When Missy first convinced her about her plan she never mentioned mercs and Russians will be involved. Xiao is still committed to her master but......exposing all those secrets to


    their enemies is risky enough. Letting a mercenary carries it is just madness. Though piao jie doesn''t do business with outsiders and the Qins have little to no interactions with mercs. During the many missions she carried out, Xiao has seen and killed plenty of those. She knows their type.


    They are acquisitive, avaricious, chasing materialize desires by all means. They swear loyalty to no others but fortune. When a person has no goals in life but making money. They''re nothing but slaves. Xiao used to be like that.


    No.....worse than that. She didn''t even have a goal.


    But now is different, everything is different. She knows what she needs to do.


    Xiao starts to gather intel on the merc when she''s not needed by Missy''s side. Returning to her old profession, she''s disappointed with how normal everything feels. It''s almost second nature of hers by now. Gathering information, pinpointing the target''s daily routes, and choosing when and where they will least expect. It was all too familiar.


    But it didn''t go as she planned. Gathering information of this mercenary is a lot harder than she anticipated. This merc is very interconnected. But the stories about him are way too ridiculous and self-contradictory. After examining and filtering all of them, Xiao found a few certain facts.


    He''s deeply connected to the Russians, but not affiliated; he took work from all places in the city but mainly in the lanes; lastly, he lives in Nochnaya but disappeared recently. She found absolutely nothing except those. That''s when Xiao starts taking Lee seriously.


    Digging deeper she finds the merc is quite famous in the market. They called him the ''silver tongue devil'' for his negotiation skills.


    He seemed to spend a lot of time in the famous mercenary bar ''Stynx'' before he disappears. Xiao considered snuck in but gave up the idea. Not because of the security but Nan. She saw him walk in there one night and the night after that and so on. That''s when Xiao realizes she''s not the only one after him. Missy had given the order to bring him here.


    As days pass by, He waits inside, she waits across the street at night when she''s off duty. Both are losing patience. Her informers in town have no info about where this guy is, and judging from Nan''s frustrated look neither did his.


    About two days before the merc returns, Nan stops visiting Stynx. That only further increases her suspicions that he found him. So she starts spending more time spying on the place.


    Earlier tonight, when she''s about to give up and return to jiu lou. She saw him. Black worn-out bomber jacket, average height, oriental looking, messy haircut. Those are some very common traits but three things made sure he''s Xiao''s target.


    First, there''s a gun in his jacket. Second is more of a feeling, he looks like a ghost draped with human skin. Wondering around the land of the living, hunting what hunted him. One look into his eyes and she can tell that he saw death, more than once. And there''s something beneath, something else that made him like this but Xiao doesn''t know. And frankly doesn''t care, because. Third, he just walked down the stairs leading toward Stynx.


    Following up immediately, Xiao''s suspicion was right as the merc stops at the front of the bar Nan''s been visiting. Xiao crouches on the stairs, pulling out her throwing knife strapped on her thigh. As the door opens, the giant Latino bouncer greets him.


    Not yet.


    4.5 meters. No spin throwing. Should be able to hit it within one-eighth spin.


    The moment both of them least expected.


    Index finger, thumb on the side. The butt of the knife where her palm and wrist connect.


    When both of their visions are blocked......


    Xiao folds her left forearm back. The black edge of the throwing knife against her face, She put a little pressure on it. Just enough that it won''t cut into her cheeks. Feeling the sharpness sliding across her skin.


    Never forget the sensation.


    The moment came, as the merc take a step inside and the bouncer is facing his left. Targeting the merc''s neck, Xiao relaxed her arm but tauten her hand. As she swings her arm forward, just before the releasing point. The merc suddenly dashes two steps forward and immediately turns around with his hand behind his waist.


    Out of pure reflexes. Xiao returned to the shadow as soon as the opportunity is lost. With her back against the concrete wall. She hears the sound of the steel door closing.


    How did he knew? She can''t help but ask herself, how did the merc notice? She was very certain he didn''t spot her before the second she was about to take his life.


    What gave her away? The question clouds her mind as she climbs upstairs, returning back on the street again.


    Doesn''t matter. He will come out of the bar eventually, I could...


    A man in tailored suit standing on leather shoes made her mind go blank all of a sudden. He stands at the entrance of the alleyway. The iconic grin is nowhere to be seen.


    "Missy wants to see you," Nan says in a plain tone, taking no joy in catching her red-handed. Opening the backseat door to his car, Nan rests his left arm on it, and his right hand by his waist.......


    She was scolded, for the first time since Xiao joins Qin Yan''s wing. Xiao always sees her master as the deputation of rationality, perfection, and every characteristic a leader should have. More than that, she appreciates Miss Qin. Because for the first time, someone sees her more than a blade or a monster. She accepted her as a human being, not a weapon.


    That''s why Xiao storms out of her office when Miss Qin gave her orders to leave the merc alone. Xiao couldn''t understand it. What is so special about him? From all she gathered he was just like other freelancers in the city, except he went missing for the past three months or so which made him more unreliable and suspicious.


    Why risk everyone''s life on him?


    As Xiao opens the door to the hallway with all the anger and confusion a person''s mind can bear. The first thing she sees as she steps into the hallway.


    Is the merc smoking on a bench. And with an innocent look on his face. He asks in Chinese.


    "Is this a non-smoking area?"


    Nan''s footsteps pull Xiao back to reality. As the double door opens next to the merc, she had composed herself again. The thought of facing Missy again after the fight makes her a bit reluctant to go back in.

 Blood oath

    The double door next to us opens. Nan walks out with a grin. From the corner of my eye, I see Xiao return to her normal demeanor.


    "Mr.Lee. Your employer''s waiting for your report." A please gesture is made. I stand up from the bench following Nan to finish my last battle tonight.


    Miss Qin is sitting behind the desk with a smile on her face like before. Her gray eyes are like when I first saw her. Unreadable just like her expressions. Xiao and Nan stand respectively on her left and right. Nan looks slightly more serious, while Xiao looks stoic at first glance but I can see she''s frowning subtly. Bet even she didn''t notice she was doing it.


    Wonder what got her work up like this?


    The atmosphere here is not much better than the last time. I''m still feeling like I''m in the den of snakes and foxes, the only difference being I''m a bit more accustomed to them. But now as I stand alone in front of, and being watched by all of them like this. Makes me want to laugh out loud.


    I observed all of their eyes and faces carefully. Both Nan Shi Pei and Xiao put on the face of stoic and distant strangers like we never met before, both got their masks on. Some more obvious than others. Of course, I know how these kinds of things work, as small and unimportant as it is. I still find it sad and funny at the same time. Act like this here, act like that there. It''s like watching a movie with shitty stunts supported by visible cable slings.


    I take a deep breath. And smile.


    Joining the act.


    "Run, Pheidippides! Run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come. we are here. Where. Is. She?"


    I said every word slowly companies by a grin bigger than Nan''s on my face. Xiao still has her unmoved expression with a hint of anger like I first met her in the hallway. Nan looks a lot more serious than usual but there''s still a smirk hidden behind, as a few traces of crow''s feet appear at the edge of his eyes. The emperor''s daughter covers her mouth while a chuckle slips out.


    "Mr.Lee, glad to see the little......trouble on the way didn''t stop you from finishing the task." After listening to the recordings with Ivan, their sound of hers sounds extra eerie than it was before, the tone she used while arguing with her father still stains my mind. She sounded like a viper on the recording. "I supposed everything went well except for it?"


    I crack my neck to the left and to the right. Looking straight down her stormed color eyes where all emotions and agendas hid. And with a taunting voice, I speak.


    "Smoothly. As I promised, it''s done. He got the message."


    "And his responses to it are?" She tilts her head forward in a very hard-to-notice motion. Her eyes slightly narrowed, if it weren''t because I''m standing right in front of her I wouldn''t realize it. Eager eh?


    "No." I smile. "Not before you fulfill your part first." Miss Qin stares at me for a moment, she learned from the last time we spoke. Her eyes remained the same, not showing any sign of emotions.


    "Very well, I''ll transfer the....."


    "Ha! You can do that later." I slowly inhale. "You haven''t forgotten what you swore to me.......have you?" I take a step forward. Half a meter from her, Nan frowns as he sees I''m not joking. Xiao''s left-hand flinches as she stares at me. The intents in my eyes are unmistakable.


    "Nan......prepare the set." Miss Qin says in Chinese. Xiao turns her head for the first time, looking at her mistress and me in disbelief.


    "Miss....." She didn''t need to finish her question, Xiao''s expression had already spoken for her. Qin Yan turned around and gave her a warm smile.


    "......understood." Nan''s voice sounds like nothing I''d ever heard before, he sounded ...... tired and helpless. As he walks up to the door next to the sofas, his steps are heavy, pace is slow. Contrary to his strides and prance earlier. Before opening that door he turns around and gives us a glance. The smirks and uncaring attitude are all gone. I''m reminded once again, what this man is like without his usual demeanors and grins. The door closes without a noise


    The air in this room is so thick it feels like I might get crushed by them. Xiao changes between multiple expressions not knowing what to think. Miss Qin looks at peace with whatever order she just gave.


    "Xiao." Qin Yan looks to her right, and she says in Chinese. "You''ll be the witness. Since you were not a part of it, your neutrality is valid." Surprisingly, Miss Qin gives her bodyguard a sorry smile with sincerity in her eyes and tone.


    "I hope this arrangement is acceptable to you Mr.Lee. I know you don''t trust me and my words mean little to you........ but I''ve not leaked the information to anyone else. Only I and Nan Shi Pei know it." There''s a notable pause. She clamped her lips tightly for 5 seconds.


    "No matter the results. I would like you to know I''m thankful for your work. And I always keep the promises I made." The determination I once saw before returns. A glint in her gray eyes.


    I remain silent, watching her closely. I still think she''s younger than me, in her early 20s I suppose. Yet there''s no mistaking that she''s the daughter of that old fuck. Solicit and get into people''s heads. Makes me wonder..... what will piao jie become in the future?


    Will someone like her care about stopping bloodshed?


    All these thoughts keep popping out of nowhere in my brain making me dizzy all of sudden. Fucking inhaler, I have to decrease doses next time. I squeezed my eyes shut.


    ***


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    The door behind me opens silently, I turn around hearing Nan''s footsteps. He''s holding a wooden tray with a red, heavy-looking book with leather board and two wine bowls on it.


    He places the dragon-carved tray between me and Miss Qin. Taking a step back. Miss Qin stares at the book for a minute, her defenses shacks again but she kept herself focused. She gives Nan a nod, he returns her with one.


    Nan proceeds to clear out a space on the desk, moving the papers to the other side. He moves the bowls to the left and right edges of the table. The one in front of me is jet black, hers with white liners with blue cracks.


    Then, he opens the book in a very gentle way as if it will disintegrate if he''s not careful. The pages are filled with Chinese names and dates, all written in a scribbled fashion, I can''t even be sure if some of them are actual words as it looks more like spells or ''Fuzhou''. Nan presses his thumb on the text block from start to middle. As he turns a stack of pages, an urn appears. The last 500 pages of the book was hollowed out in its shape to contain.


    He takes out the jar with his left hand holding the neck, and his right hand supporting the bottom. It''s a Jade color porcelain urn, the size of a regular teapot. Pear shaped with a small handle on its lid.


    Nan gives the lid a twist before he starts pulling it with quite an effort. With a loud ''pump'' sound the lid was removed. The smell of aged wine fills the air, not many places provide that stuff nowadays. I heard it''s called ''Shaoxing'', a cellar spirit from a different era and a different land.


    The amber color liquid slowly drips down from its mouth. Filling both bowls half full. Nan put the lid back where it is and placed the urn back into the red book like a mother putting her infant baby to bed. After closing the book he takes a step back.


    "My family and our organization value traditions greatly." Xiao moves silently behind me, Nan is still standing next to Miss Qin. "When a person within the family decided to make a vow or swore on a certain action. We performed a ''blood oath'' or ''Xui Shi''." A mischievous smile forms on her face.


    "Nan told me you speak and understands Mandarin, correct?" I nod.


    I know what she''s doing now.


    She pulls a sheathed blade out of her suit jacket. Gripping the upper part where the guard is missing.


    It''s extremely hard to tell if that is a dagger or a sword. It''s close to the size of a wakizashi but it''s straight, not curved.


    Miss Qin reverse grip the handle extremely hard, her knuckles turned white. She closed her eyes, lip''s moving but no sound came out of them. Nan put his hands behind his back, Xiao''s hands clenched into fists. For a moment complete silence haunts the room.


    The blade was drawn the second she opens her eyes again. Making almost no sound at all as it leaves the sheath. It looks like a ruler. Entirely straight except for its tanto point, single edge, and glint of unnerving pale light shines as Miss Qin drew it out completely.


    "I, Qin Yan. Vow it in the name of my father and his ancestors." My eyes widened out of reflexes as I heard her words. "The living in this room, Shall be my witness." She says in a tone that greatly resembles her father while looking at Xiao.


    "I will never use Lee''s close friends and those he holds dear against him, coerce him. Or hold ill intentions towards him."


    Her eyes look almost scary. The gray inside her pupils seemed to be dragging me into the storm within. Shattering me in its rain and thunder.


    Qin Yan grips the blade with her palm against the edge, five fingers on the spine. In a swift motion. She slices her left palm with the blade, blood immediately pours out of the wound but the blade remains clean.


    She clenched her left hand, squeezing it. Letting the blood drips down between her slim, pale fingers, dropping into her bowl. Then she extended her arm and do the same with mine.


    I watch the crimson little drops falling into the amber wine in front of me. The amount is not enough to change its color. But as it swirls and expands slowly until disappearing I can''t help but think it''s more turbid than before.


    With her bloody hand holding the wine bowl Miss Qin raises it over her head. Peering into my eyes. The corner of her lips curls upward into a smirk.


    Tonight just gets better and better.


    I raised my jet black wine bowl over my head as well.


    "Mr.Lee." She tipped her head towards me.


    "Miss Qin." I do the same.


    Her eyes shine with a certain something. A mix of mischievousness, greed, excitement, and joy. Like when you found a hundred dollar bill under an ATM or your first time drinking a bottle of whiskey you stole from the liquor store.


    As if there''s a signal others can''t see, the two of us drop the bowl to our mouths, throwing our heads back glopped down the wine.


    The rich taste of herbs almost made me cough, then the smell only a well-aged wine could create hit both my nostrils and the bottom of my nasal cavity. A faint taste of iron ligers on the edge of my tongue. As the thick liquid washes down my throat, I find it surprisingly smooth, with not much burning sensation a spirit usually creates. And there''s a subtle sweet aftertaste.


    Do they sell this downstairs?


    Xiao rushes next to Miss Qin after it is done. She gently takes her left hand to wipes off the blood and bandages her hand with ........ what appears to be Nan''s handkerchief from earlier. Xiao pulls the knot again to make sure it''s firm and tight. Then she do it again. And again. Until Qin Yan puts her right hand on Xiao''s.


    "That would be all." Xiao lowers her head and step behind me again, she looks conflicted. Miss Qin picks up the blade on the table and wipes both sides of the edge with a clean part of the handkerchief on her hand even though there''s no visible blood on it. She slides it back inside the sheath and a silent ''clink'' rings.


    The daughter of the emperor slowly inhales. Her cheek has a hint of blush because of the ''Shaoxing''


    "If the oath is to be broken by me in the future ......Thou shall be my executioner."


    With a solemn voice, she speaks. Right hand on the handle left hand on the chape. She percent the blade to me.


    I glance at Nan and Xiao behind me. Their faces look distant, courtly and motionless. Miss Qin the same as them. I felt like I''m surrounded by marble sculptures of legends in a mythical temple. My mind hit a brick wall while racing 100 miles per hour. As there''s no reason not to comply. I ask for this after all.


    I extended both of my arms to receive the weapon the same way she holds it. Our fingertips grazes momentarily, the tender skin and warmth made a mental note in my brain. I lower my head as a gesture of gratitude.


    I examine the thing with caution. Its length exceeds a dagger by thin margin. About 40 maybe 45 cm. Plus the handle is about 60 cm full length. 4 cm width. Wooden handle with a golden pommel at the bottom, reinforced to be use as a blunt tool. Patterns of a dragon and a tiger are carved on its gold locket, and the tip of its handle respectively. Their mouths are wide open, and sharp fangs howled at each other. This part also glitters under the banker''s lamp with its gold color. Probably glided.


    The sheath is ebony color just like the handle. But there''s a metal chape at the tip, which appears to be reinforced too with an extra lair of weight. So even when sheathed, it can still be used as a weapon.


    The wooden handle feels comfortable even when I''m gripping it hard and not too slippery. I don''t know shit about swords and blades, all the common sense I know came from books in the central library.......and getting chased by Japanese security. But feeling the well-balanced, light weight of it even I can tell it''s an excellent murder weapon.


    Ivan''s laughter appears in my head as I remember his joke.


    His bullshit actually came true for once.


    Putting it in my inner pocket the cold steel of the handle slightly pressures against my chest. I take a step back from the desk. Nan and Xiao return to the left and right behind Miss Qin who sits back comfortably on her chair once again. The same smile I saw when I first walk in here blooms on her face. A bit tired, but it''s there.


    Nan''s grin crawls back on his face but I can see there''s a small sign of respect in his eyes now, Xiao looks stoic enough to fool most people but I can see her mind is racing on what went down.


    Business as usual huh? I take a deep breath. And smile. Rejoining the act.

 Sword of Damocles

    "Your sincerity and generosity are examples all the people of Faust should follow, Miss Qin. A promise made is a promise kept, I''m thankful that you didn''t renege." Yet. Miss Qin''s smile remains the same.


    "I''m flattered by your words, sir." A small flinch at the corner of her left eye. Qin Yan puts her right hand over the left on the table, leaning forward. "I believe now is your turn to honor the deal. I would like a full report on your task."


    "Certainly." Three sets of eyes, some eager, some doubtful, some reserved. All are on me. I put away my smile.


    "On the way to the icebreaker, there were two men following me, they were skilled and experienced at such actions." Not many reactions since they probably all knew it from my call.


    "I was able to capture them for interrogation. After cross-examination to confirm you guys didn''t try something so moronic I carry on with my work." Nan side-eyes me at ''cross examination'', Xiao raises her eyebrow at my words.


    "Ivan.......well, I''ll spare y''all the detail. I got him to open the package, after a very provocative discussion. Ivan, being a pacifist and a man of benevolence. Has agreed to take your proposal." Miss Qin frowns lightly.


    "After burning the envelope as you requested, I made my way back immediately......." I move my line of sight from her to Nan. With a grin on my face, he lost his.


    "But as I reached the front gate, outstanding security by the way. I look to my left and look to my right. There was no sign of Mr. Nan!" I raise my eyebrows, disclosing with a dramatic tone. Nan rolls his eyes but quickly put on a poker face as Miss Qin turns around to stare at him.


    Considering what he did, this is the least I can make him pay.


    "As my mind bolted through ways to get in here. Miss Xiao over here, kindly showed me a way in and escort me through the facility." I tilt my head towards her. "Oh and don''t forget the cigarette you owe me." I gave her the most sincere-looking sly smile. Qin Yan rests her head on her right hand, looking back at Xiao who''s biting her lips and glaring at me intensely.


    "Very.....fascinating, Mr.Lee. But there are a few questions I would need you to elaborate on further.


    "First of all, what''s Mr.Ivan''s response in detail?"


    Here goes nothing Ivan.


    "He suggests we hold this ... meeting. Four days later. 9 at night." She thinks for a second before giving me a nod.


    "That''s doable on my end, what about the place?" I can''t help but grin.


    "Club 57."


    "Perfect, I have a booth there." She answers almost immediately with a smile. But suddenly shuts her mouth as her eyebrows knit together, with an apologetic tone she says.


    "Mr.Lee. I have to inform you that the place requires......soign¨¦ outfits." Both Xiao and Nan grin silently behind Miss Qin, especially Xiao, she''s barely containing a laugh.


    Yeah, yeah...keep laughing you bunch of cunts in hundred-dollar suits.


    "I''ll keep that in mind."


    "And also, the place generally has a ..... Masquerade ball theme. As some of the more identity-sensitive individuals wear masks. I suggest we do the same considering the nature of our gathering." Wouldn''t dare go near the place without one. I see Xiao clenching her fist for some reason, Nan looks......like he''s looking forward to it.


    "Agreed, I''m sure Ivan are thinking the same thing when he proposed the idea."


    "I''m sure he also knew that carrying weapons is forbidden in Club 57. Hence the suggestion?" She tilts her head to the side but keeps eye contact.


    "He did. I don''t. Hence the suggestion."


    Qin Yan lets out something between a laugh and exhaling like Xiao.


    "Very well. Lastly, did Mr.Ivan mention anything regarding manpower? How many will he bring?" She quickly adds. "If he''s not intended on informing us I can understand."


    Welp, how should I put this?


    "......He did discuss the topic with me." From the corner of my eyes, I see a hint of disbelief on Xiao''s face. "Given the fact that this invitation is more insidious than buying a government loan in Faust and y''all fellows are in the middle of a conflict. Plus, there''s no way of knowing who and what he''s about to deal with. Lastly negotiations like this require more than physical but also intellectual and social well powers." Xiao squints her eyes, and Nan frowns.


    "Therefore, he had decided to be company by his best soldier. The most capable, trustworthy, competent, and reliable man he knew."


    I press my right hand across my abdomen while my left hand extended outwards to the left. Drawing my right leg to the back of my left one. Lowering my head as I bow with a grin.


    "Me."


    As I return to a standing position. I see Nan grinning ear to ear. While Xiao looks at me in a strange way, I''m not sure what it means. As for Miss Qin. A smile when she saw me from the balcony returns a genuine smile without agendas. Just happy about the way things went


    .......it''s scary.


    "I supposed we''ll be seeing each other again then." She lowers her head like she''s bowing too. "Please inform Mr. Ivan, considering all the factors you''ve mentioned. I''ll bring my consoler, " She gestures towards Nan who gave me a wink while grinning. "and my best soldier too." Miss Qin turns around to face Xiao.


    Ain''t that fucking dandy I didn''t kill either of them.


    "Second, how did you deal with Xu Yu and his partner after you were done?"


    "They''re most likely at bottom of the canal now.....I hope you guys aren''t acquainted with him right?"Xiao lets out a silent hum, Nan frowns lightly like he''s trying to remember if he knew the guy.


    "Speaking of which, Miss Qin." I withdraw my smile in an instant.


    "You should get some shutters, or change your office to somewhere less.....open." Her face turns paler than usual. But quickly composed herself.


    "He was on one of those buildings. Spying on you. I''m not going to question why, but you know who he works for so I suggest you be more careful in the future."


    I gesture towards all the lights outside, imagine each and every one of them as an eye, all the lights are just the glint in their pupils, how would that look like....... I blink twice and move away from the view and gather pieces of my mind scattered across the floor behind me.


    I''m goddamn tired.


    Xiao and Nan exchange a look. Miss Qin is deep in thought, behind those gray eyes a war is happening.


    "Thank you, Mr.Lee. For this valuable information." Her voice sounds subtly hoarse, a rusty wind chime. Her face becomes more and more serious by the second until she blinks and suddenly she''s back to normal again.


    This woman is truly marvelous.


    "Third........did anyone. On your way to the icebreaker or inside the club. Did anyone at all, saw the envelope?"


    "Well, I made sure the package wasn''t damaged at the restroom in the club, last I check there are no cameras in that stall." I shrug with my hands up.


    "Pleasant to know. Mr.Lee.Last question ........did you see the content of the envelope?" She asks like a wife asking her husband ''How was your day?'' But those eyes sold her out again.


    So are Nan and Xiao. They''re body tense up, I can see it from the lines on their neck subtly bulging. Nan put both of his hands on my waist and lower his head so I can''t see his eyes; Xiao just stares at me with a distant look like she already has the image of my corpse in her head. Personal willingness doesn''t matter to us in this room. My answer will decide if I''ll leave this room on foot or in a garbage bag.


    Lie.


    "At least you''re asking straight to my face. I was...." The words stuck in my mouth, it''s like my whole body is preventing me from uttering.


    Lie?


    Why not?


    Those eyes.


    It felt like they were choking me to death. Fuck, she''s serious now. I''m on the other side of the stick. Is it possible to fool her? I already stuttered, she can tell something was off.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Truth?


    I feel naked in front of her. Goddamn it! Now she''s the one breaking my defenses. No way around it, this is checkmate. Is bloody shameful that she bettered me so easily.


    Will she have me killed? There''s the possibility. I know too much.


    No. The meeting wouldn''t work without me she can''t kill me right now.


    But after the meeting? Probably. Anyway lying wouldn''t do me any good, so.....


    Truth.


    "I did." Nan looks at Miss Qin, asking permission without a word. Xiao signs. Her left hand is on her thigh presumably where she hides her thin dagger.


    The effects of the drugs are all gone, my mind was never clearer. Miss Qin nods slowly. A shiver ran through my spine indicating danger.


    My survival instinct took over.


    The blissful adrenaline kick in, my favorite drug. The future plays out in my mind, frame by frame.


    My left-hand sneaks into my jacket the familiar touch of traction dots grip against my palm. Xiao will be the first to react. A flesh of light shines as she grabs either a throwing knife or a gun strapped to her thigh.


    Best case scenario, Nan points the gun milliseconds after I do at Miss Qin. And if they fire regardless........well, at least I get to take that woman with me and spare Ivan from this mess. Will he be dedicated to the idea of war? Maybe. Doesn''t matter. Let the living sort it out, By that time I''ll be sleeping soundly.


    "Why did you open it?"


    "I wasn''t planning to, but you gave.A Russian mobster. A recording of a classified Chinese conversation....... After translating it and agreeing to accompany him to club 57, I couldn''t find a good reason not to go over the rest of the stuff."


    "And what do you think of it? The papers and the conversation between me and my father."She asks with a light voice. So light it sounds like a whisper.


    "He wants a war. You don''t. Some in your organization don''t either. But after hiring foreign mercenaries a war is definitely in order."


    "Those are facts. What do you think of it? Personally."


    "Personally. I would rather not have seen or heard any of them. I''m a freelancer of no legions. I shouldn''t give a flying fuck about any of it."


    "And yet. Here you are. Right in the middle of it......."


    "Indeed." I grin the last time.


    Her eyes glow, red lips slightly agape. My left arm tensed up. I crack my neck. Getting fully ready for any signs of violence. Time seems to slow down. Noises from this world became incomprehensible murmurs like I''m having tinnitus.


    ".......And thee. Best runner of Greece! Whose limbs did duty indeed, what gift is promised thyself?" She speaks with the same taunting tone I used 20 minutes ago.


    .......................What?


    "You''ve agreed to be a part of the meeting with Mr.Ivan. Which makes you an accomplice alongside all of us." She spread her palms gesturing to everyone in the room. "I warned you it is best for you not to see what''s inside the envelope cause I don''t think you would want to be tangled up with this...... business. But since you do now. I can only wish you good fortune in the storm to come." She smiles again as if nothing happened.


    "And what if I decided to sell you out before the meeting?"


    Qin Yan looks at me with a puzzled expression for 30 seconds. Then, she starts laughing. This room is clearly soundproof as the echo of the wind chime keeps ringing in my ear. She holds her stomach and covers her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she sits straight again.


    "Why would you, Mr.Lee? You''re a smart man. I dare say smarter than most of my underlings. Couldn''t you see dooming me will only make your situation more critical?" She places her arms on the handle.


    "Xu Yu and his brother Xu Kan might not be the best scouts, but they were the most loyal to my father. And you just threw them in the canal, while they were surveying me. How do you think he''s going to react? I can keep most of my man''s mouth shut about your presence tonight. But sooner or later you''ll become his target if not already. What good would it do you? By ratting me out? I can guarantee you my father will not overlook those two dead scouts because of it."


    The false freedom of choice fucks me over again. How could I be so blind to not see the consequences of my actions had trapped me?


    There''s a swirl in my head. The black hole that I throw things inside now spits it all out in my face. As the adrenaline wears off, the world spin before my eyes.


    No! You''re not done yet. Don''t let your guard down. Get those useless thoughts out of your mind. Focus on the ground under your feet, the air in your lung, and the fight in front.


    I take a deep breath. And force myself to make nothing out of her explanations.


    "Yin Yu Guo ........ We reap what sow. Right?" I lower my head, looking at my feet and the solid wooden floor under them.


    "Insightful opinions, Miss Qin. I supposed you''re suggesting we''re in the same boat here?" I force my face to create a casual smile.


    "I''m glad you''re finally understanding that." Xiao and Nan look a bit more relaxed.


    "If that''s the case. May I ask a few questions......regarding your father and the situation right now?"


    Focus, you''re been shown to the side of things she wants you to see. Find an angle. At least find out more about what''s going on!


    "What do you wish to know about?" She tilts her head to the side, her arm still resting on the handle of her chair.


    "The recording.....if I heard it right...your father committed a blood oath too. Though my Mandarin is pretty inadequate. I remember he didn''t have an executioner appointed. Right?" Miss Qin looks at me for a moment.


    "When a blood oath is sworn. The person bonded by the oath can either appoint an executioner......or ''Ren ren de er zhu'' which means anyone has the authority to take his life if he broke the oath." She pauses for a moment, staring at me while frowning. "And believe me, Mr.Lee. Your Mandarin is not inadequate."


    That''s a dumb fucking rule.


    "Your father mentioned something about.....his deceased family member''s death got something to do with the Russians? Which is why he''s been provoking the Russians and preparing for war ever since the conflicts here ended?"


    Her left eye bag twitched, and her eyes slightly narrowed.


    "My father had..... many theories about my mother and uncle''s death. The Russians being behind it all is just an excuse for him to justify the actions."


    There''s something else, besides the obvious bullshit. I let out a chuckle.


    "Why would he need any reason for his actions? Since when did your family ever care about the legitimacy of......anything?"


    "Believe it or not. Most of the people in my organization don''t like conflicts. Profit is what we care about. The gun business was a necessary ........ disbursement. Now it''s a liability that many are afraid to admit."


    "And the many is you?"


    "The many is a considerable amount of enforcers, high ranks, and me. My father backed his irrational decisions with the name of blood payment and justice so he could do whatever he wants."


    "From the recording, he sounds entirely devoted to the theory. It didn''t sound like he was lying." I shrug.


    "That''s why the others believe him too." A bitter smile creeps onto Miss Qin''s face.


    "And what makes you think it''s a lie? That the Russian mafia didn''t do it?" I put my hands on my waist.


    Miss Qin leans back onto her chair, her head raises up. Looked at the ceiling wordlessly for a long time, so long that Nan move his eyes off me to check his boss.


    "Why would they? My mother died in a car crash, I''m sure if the Russians have any reasons to care about the weakest family in Piao Jie at the time, they wouldn''t go through the trouble of cutting off break cables. They would just wipe us off entirely. And the massacre of my uncle and his family was the retaliation of Shen family."


    Lies.


    I''m getting nowhere like this.


    Qin Yan wants to rebel against her old man and stop a war mainly because it''s meaningless in the first place and bad for business. Her little secret rebellion is going to need the help of Ivan for some bloody reason.


    On the other hand, the emperor wants war with the Russians. I don''t believe he''s doing all of this just for revenge or the hack of it. There''s something else, but it''s irrelevant now.


    I went through what happened tonight in my head, from seeing Vera after three months to....wherever the hell I stand now. Events, numbers, peoples, secrets, names......


    Are you a Liu Jiu?


    "Very well. I have one last question before I''m done." I pause. This could be completely useless but I still want to see how they react.         Here goes nothing.


    "What is Liu Jiu?"


    Three pairs of pupils expanded. At that small instance when everyone is shocked by my question. Reflexes took over for them. Xiao looks at me in disbelief. Miss Qin''s defenses shattered for a single second, there was apparent anxiousness in her eyes. But the most interesting one of them all. Is Nan.


    He froze, but not before his right hand had already lifted up his suit. I can see his gun belt from here. Two seconds later he looks down at his hand and realized what he''s doing before returning to his normal composure. He adjusts his suit slowly getting the wrinkles on it out.


    "Where......did you hear it from?" Her voice is a bit shaky.


    "I convinced Xu Yu I''m one during the interrogation." Few different emotions flashes in her eyes.


    "You.....convinced him. That you''re a Liu Jiu?" I shrug. She exhales a long breath, and for the first time since I met her. She looks back at Nan, asking he''s opinion silently.


    For a moment no one utters a word until Nan signs a long breath. They exchanged a look.


    "...... Mr.Lee. What I''m about to say is one of the most discreet secrets of my family and organization." The gray eyes are covered by a lance of shadow, her tone is cold like in the recordings. "If you talk to anyone about it. Even if taking the punishment of the blood oath." She stops for a second. Eyes closed. When she opens them again, the disguises are all gone. She''s like an open book now. A book with very disturbing contents.


    "I. Will. Kill. You."


    A mist of cool air lingers on my nape. Great, another reason for me to get killed.


    "......Even before we rule Piao Jie. Our family leader will hand-pick some of the most skillful or loyal members of our organization. Making them ''Liu Jiu''. They could be killers, spies, errand boys, or random passers. They''re a group of people whose identities and activities are unknown to anyone except the current leader of the Qin Family. They''re only loyal to him even if they were assigned to the many different wings and factions of ours. Therefore we also called them ''An Zhuang'' " Miss Qin regains controls of herself and build up her defenses again. After a short pause, she continues.


    "Not many in our organization knew they existed. But they''re real. And I consider them the biggest obstacles we will face in our action."  Good to know I''m included now.


    "They''re the reason I hoped to minimize the number of people that saw you. This Jiu Lou is one of my most secure facilities with men that are only loyal to me. But I still believe some lies about their allegiance to my father secretly." She lets out a laugh at the end of the monologue.


    "And you. Somehow convinced a scout you''re one of them......"


    She leans forward on the table. The distance between us reduces to half a meter. Her eyes flicker with the light from the banker''s lamp beside her. A few strays of black hair fall on her face. Her lips are slightly agape, the red lipstick hides redder lips under it. Eyes were bloodshot from all the conversations earlier and days worth of stress. Mine are the same probably.


    "You just keep on surprising me."


    There''s a frantic look in her. Like a longing to burn the world to cinders. A smirk forms at the corner of her mouth. Her eyeliners change their direction from vertical to upwards.


    The same question I''ll keep asking myself in the years to come just like the years passed.


    What do you see in me? Answer me for I don''t see anything.


    "Thank you. For trusting me with this information." I put my right hand on my left chest. Upon my rhythm heartbeat. "Now........" I take a step back from her desk.


    I''ve pushed my luck far enough tonight. Plus my mind is at its limit as I feel the effects of drugs returning, not as a comforting blur but harsh dizziness. I''ve stayed in the state of sheer focus too long. There''s a minor ache in my right temple.


    "I''ll take your words and be careful in the days to come before the meeting. " She lowers her head like she''s bowing, but the eye contact didn''t break.


    "The rest of your payment will be transfer in no time. Piao Jie at night is not the safest place to wander, Mr.Lee."


    "Xiao will escort you out. Nan.....we need to talk." Nan nods silently. Xiao walked by me and gave me a look before continuing her way out, a strange expression on her face.


    She hooks her left index finger without looking back. As I turned around to follow her. The sound of a wind chime rings behind me.


    "Thank you for your services. Mr.Lee...... I will be looking forward to see you again."


    I stop my feet from taking another step. Giving her a nod with my head tilted to the left. Without looking back.

 Call me Lee

    The merc shut up for a while.....too long for a person should be in the middle of a conversation. Let alone one such as this. Xiao''s left hand is still on the throwing knives on her thigh in case he tries anything. She momentarily shifts her focus to Nan. He''s also on guard.


    Before Missy starts explaining the obvious consequences of killing scouts. After he confessed to reading the message.


    For some time, his whole body language changed. Xiao has seen it too many times. Couldn''t tell what exactly. Just an instinct, telling her this man is very dangerous right now.


    A soft voice scolds her in her mind. Telling her she should kill him when she had the chance.


    But as her fingertips clutched on the spine of her knife. She pictures how he will react, he held a cigarette with his right hand but used his left hand to draw his gun. Tricky, but doesn''t matter. He''s slower than me, but might still have some tricks up his sleeves. It doesn''t matter. One on his joint can disarm him. And another one between his eyes......


    The image of the merc dead in Xiao''s mind we''re drawn. Blood covers half of his face, and drips down to the other half as he limps down on the wooden floor.........


    An unfamiliar feeling shadows her chest. The muscles near her heart tighten and tense up like an invisible hand squeezing it hard. A clawed hand grazing her varicose veins with its sharp, spike-like nails slowly putting pressure on the surface.


    What is this?


    The meeting continues, Nan and the merc slowly return to normal. So does Xiao, but the strange feeling leaves her puzzled about what it means.


    The merc begins a new round of probing, he kept on pushing to pry on pieces of information. But Missy resolved them perfectly, not slipping off anything of notice. The merc had noticed too, Xiao can see that he was growing tired of this. He stops for a minute, probably thinking about what else he got.


    She wasn''t expecting that he would know anything about ''An Zhuang''. The information is very, very restricted, not many people in Piao Jie know about it. Fewer, outside of it. He says that he has tricked Xu Yu into thinking he was one of them before killing him. Whatever ways he used. Xiao has to admit.


    He does his reputation justice.


    Xiao peaks in Missy''s direction. And found She was shocked too. Besides her, Nan''s all worked up, Xiao can see he''s two inches from drawing his pistol. Before slowly backing down.


    Strange. She had never seen him like this before. So unsure and nervous.


    Her focus returns to Missy as she speaks again. Warning him about the secrecy of this group.


    "I. Will. Kill. You."


    There it is again. The hand is gripping her heart harder than last time. The annoying feeling of pectoralis major tightening like it''s trying to suffocate her. She can feel her heart pumps faster, circulations making blood rush through her veins all over her body.


    Out of the blue. It''s gone.


    Not just the uneasy feeling. The clawed hand clasps her heart too. Leaving an empty feeling. Like it crushed her organs before disappearing. The unsettling hollowness makes Xiao feel as if she''s not made out of flesh and bones, but papers and pulps.


    The image of the merc dead appears in her mind again. He looks funny with a hole in his forehead. His frontal bone shattered around the bullet hole. A small piece sticks out, looking extremely out of place. Not much blood and brain matters get the chance to leave his body as he falls backward into the canal.......


    Missy''s order chased off the image. As the confrontation between them ends. Xiao was tasked to escort him out of the Jiu Lou. Finally.


    Walking towards the exit, Xiao glanced at the merc. Up close, Xiao notices he''s frowning. Mouth tightly shut. His eyes, though piercing, seem somewhat delirious. Like he''s having a bad dream.


    He follows her behind wordlessly. Outside the room, in the hallway. Xiao closes the double door behind gently. She turns around expecting the merc will have something witty to say about all that went down. Or complaining he should ask for more from the Russians or Missy.


    But there''s nothing.


    He''s quiet. The look on his face appears more distant than before. It reminds Xiao earlier tonight when she first saw him. A ghost with human skin as disguises. A lacking disguise.


    Dragging his feet across the floor, Xiao can''t help but keeps looking back to make sure he''s following her instead of dream walking.


    What the hell is up with him?


    ***


    I turned around, following Xiao''s lead. Ready to put an end to this fucking night. An explosion occurs in my mind making it a mess.


    The mental, and physical exhaustion and the drugs are kicking back. The minutes of complete focus was composed by my sheer will.


    The drugs, the booze, and the stress obliterated my body to keep me going. Now hitting the threshold. My body now wants my dues. A shit load of things I didn''t even know was in my mind started appearing. All screaming in different sounds. Doubts, lies, schemes, conspiracies, thoughts. If someone cracks my head open they will be traumatized by what lies inside.


    I could''ve refused Vera''s offer, and let her reputation be destroyed. I could''ve left the room or let Ivan do it himself. I could''ve lied about Xu Yu. I could''ve escaped all of this.


    I can barely see straight, my body''s on autopilot. It moves forward step by step following the slim figure of Xiao. Walking down the hallway, the stairs, the lift. Watching it happens but not in control of any actions like I''m hammered.


    My mind went through what happened in the past, a slide show of my memories. Not necessarily images, mostly just sound, faces, things, feelings, people........


    The rootless little boy couldn''t sleep, staring at the ceiling without blinking for a long time thinking maybe he can see through the concrete and the clouds covering the night sky. So the stars will shine in front of him again.


    ***


    As the setting sun disappears under the horizon made of tin houses, cranes as high as the skyscrapers in the city center. She lies down next to the rootless little boy who''s now a young man, yawning with her eyes closed. "What does it matter anyway?" She asks while yawing.


    ***


    The man walks past the crowded club full of people. He greets the guards that grin as he pushes a couple to the side. He grins too jokingly talking about today being slow. Up the spiral ladder, the familiar face of the bartender greets him. After she passes the gin tonic to the young man who''s now considered a real man by public standards. "I got a hot one on hand, lucrative. Perfect for a risk taker like you." She says while sipping her drink.


    ***


    Neither of them speaks. They just drink, and when the bottle is empty one of them would stand up and grab a new one by the shelf. This goes on for so long that the concept of time becomes a paradox. When the shelf is about to be empty too. One of them utters. Despite all the alcohol rushing in his veins. The tall man''s voice is clear despite it being a little raucous.


    "Whatever comes after......


    I made a vow..... didn''t I?.......... Then why am I running away?


    You have been a merc for too long ..... You forgot what it feels like...


    To fight for anyone but myself, anything but numbers in my account.


    The susurration of Ivan is like a lighthouse. Guiding me back to the shore of reality. Warming me up to face the bleak and cruel land where the battle is.


    For eight years. I stayed in the cage I imprison myself in. Not getting attached. Not touching gang business. Not trusting anyone but myself. And always trying to save my skin first.


    But now I see. There''s no escape. Wherever I go, there''s going to be a battlefield waiting for me. However I tried it''s impossible to not get hurt.


    So be it.


    I''m done running.


    ***


    On the back alleyway, they went through earlier. Xiao notices a minor change from behind. The sound of feet dragging through the dirty concrete is gone. What follows are well-calculated, almost silent footsteps. Xiao tilts her head to the right chin against her shoulder.


    He looks......different. Still, look like a Bie San but... The way he moves, his arms sway within the range of his next step. Hands relaxed. And the most notable (and subtle) are his eyes.


    They look like they''re made out of agate, the delirious, dreamy eyes of a ghost are replaced by what he was when Xiao meets him in the hallways for the first time. Confident, stoic but still playful.


    All of a sudden, his eyes turned their focus to hers. He raises both eyebrows. For some reason, Xiao turns her head back immediately like she''s embarrassed.


    The street lights and lanterns from the front of jiu lou shine in the distance as they slowly approach it. Following concrete ground and rusty drain covers. Xiao raises her head. The occasional appearance of moonlight stings her eyes and pathed a crooked lead towards the exit in front.


    Following the moonlit walk made by the shadows of the external air conditioning unit and iron window frames. The empty plaza in front of jiu lou became visible. 20 steps.


    Xiao tilts her head to the left in the slightest motion and peaks at the merc behind her again. 15 steps


    "If you''re going to kill me just kill me. Keep looking at me like that I''ll think you have something else in mind." A smirk forms on his face once again. 5 steps


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Fuck! Xiao screams in her mind so hard that she swears there was an echo. She reaches for the pocket in her suit jacket draped on her shoulder.


    ***


    I know she''s not trying to kill me. The girl''s eyes are physically incapable of lying. But as she stops 2 meters away from the alley I put my right hand in the exterior pocket of my bomber jacket. The cold steel of brass knuckles pushes against the fabrics of my cloth.


    Then I watch her turn around with a pack of cigarettes. Flips open the lid with her thumb and pulls one out, spinning the filter towards me. We stare at each other till she broke the silence.


    "Take the fucking cigarette or I will shove it down your windpipe."


    Against my better judgment again. I take the cig from her gloved hand. As I put it between my lips she brings out her lighter too. This time it only took four tries. She extended her left arm. The blue flame from ignited lighter flickers between us. As the wind blows from behind. It was momentarily extinguished before a tiny spark at the bottom reignited it.


    I lower my head to catch the flame with the tip of her cig. Across the flame, I stare at her eyes. She averts mine.


    I lean on the wall behind me, which is probably covered in filth, third-graded posters, and sticky tape marks. But I don''t care, I need a rest.


    Taking a puff I almost coughed as the burning sensation spread from my windpipe down my lung. Taking away parts of my sleepiness and dizziness.


    Did she spike this with chili seeds or what? My eyes watered slightly, blurring my vision but I can still see her smug.


    "Thanks." She lets out a hum. Leaning on the opposite side of the alley.


    "That was a cigarette and a light. We''re even now."


    I take another puff before fishing out my pack. Pulling one out, I hold the one in my mouth with my left hand and start to inhale and exhale quickly until the tip is burning bright. Holding the new one vertically with my right hand, I press its tip on the one in my mouth. Watching the ember spread from one to another. Two flowing rays of smoke rise and disappear in the night sky.


    "Someone taught me it is rude to smoke alone while with a lady." I pass the newly lit one to her. Xiao didn''t even hesitate before taking it.


    With the help of nicotine, I and my mind agreed on a truce. I watch a group of man in suits walks out of a black SUV. Heading towards the jiu lou next to us. Their laughter makes the empty plaza seems more desolate.


    "What are you doing here?" She asks while watching the pavement on the other side.


    "Smoking someone else''s cig." I take a puff and raise the cig to accentuate it. Half a minute(give or take) passes before she speaks again.


    "The words from his mouth were smoother than butter. But war was in his heart; His words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords........I''ve heard about you." She finally turns her head looking at me. I can''t help but let out a sign.


    "Reputations are seldom true in this city. Mine''s been exaggerated too." She lets out a dry laugh.


    "Judging from some of the stories I heard. I wouldn''t be surprised." Another puff.


    "......you?" She raises her eyebrow. Leaving the smoke in her mouth to adjust her fingerless gloves. "You heard stories about me, but I haven''t heard yours ..... What''s your story?"


    She throws her head back. Resting on the wall.


    "I''m a bodyguard of Miss Qin. That''s it. That''s my story." She raises her shoulders. Draws a circle in the air with her cigarette. A bored expression and a set of dull eyes on her face. It looks convincing. The only problem is it looks too convincing that it''s unnatural.


    She practiced.


    "I never heard of you on the streets. Guessing you''re in pretty deep?" I flick my cig with my thumb. Some ashes fall on the ground. Looking in place alongside all the waste, scraps, and broken bottles on the ground.


    "It''s best that way. Anonymity suits my work."


    "The present one or the prior one?" She shrugs. And takes out the cigarette in her mouth, puffing a huge portion of smoke.


    "Reputations only bring trouble and unnecessary attention. Only a merc like you will find it beneficial." Can''t argue with that logic.


    "Reputation is what people think of you. What people think of you, you can not change. You can only enjoy the benefits, and endure the nuisance." I take a long drag and try to enjoy the burning sensation. Xiao smirks at my words.


    "Modest as always...... " A short ring from my back pocket made her pause. I flip open my phone. There''s a notification again. 70,000 dollars like last time. Really should have ripped them off more back then.


    "Happy?" A Husky sound comes from my left. I raise my head and find Xiao had moved to my side. Leaning on the wall, smoking like she''s always there. She tilts her head at my phone.


    "Beaming," I say with a poker face. Somehow, she made her next puff sounds like a sign. Side by side, we smoke in silence till half of her cig became ashes.


    "What are you doing here?" She asks while staring at the jack box on the wall.


    "Still smoking someone else''s......."


    "I mean why are you here? Doing all this?" I take a deep drag, burning a quarter of my cig in one puff.


    You guys have the worst communication among all gangs in town.


    "140,000 and a dagger for a souvenir." She side-eyes me with a hint of violence.


    "When missy sworn the oath. She mentioned something about your friends....what was that?"


    "Oh, that. You didn''t know? Nan blackmailed my friend to get me here. And your mistress threatened me to take the job else she''s going to fuck my friend over." I say all that with a joyful tone, so joyful that I hope the touches of sarcasm are well delivered and palpable.


    I turned around and stare at her eyes. Good, there''s the surprise in them.


    "So you were......forced?" She knit her eyebrows tightly.


    "Congrats, you''re the last one to know that."


    Silence fills the air once again. Some lousy noises came from the front of jiu lou, I stick my head out. The crowd of men in suits walks out of the jiu lou. The bald geezer in the middle is wearing a white blazer. He said something and grins. His gold teeth shine under the street light. The others laugh with him. The black SUV by the road opens its slide door.


    "And the Russians?" I turned back and face Xiao again. "You were done. Nothing kept you from leaving this mess behind......What did the brigadier and the Russians promise to have you go with him?"


    Her face still looks puzzled, agate color eyes shimmer with questions. She''s not leaning against the wall anymore. Standing next to me with her head tilted to the side. Her lower lips seem redder than before.


    "Nothing at all, I volunteered for it." The smoke is about to burn out. I switch to grabbing the end with my thumb and index finger. "Because he''ll do the same for me too."


    "....... Glad to know."


    "What?"


    "That it''s not just about the money."


    She says in a light voice. Now I''m the speechless one. Don''t know what to do I take another long and hard drag. The burning sensation is quite pleasing when you get used to it. I turned every last bit of tobacco in that cigarette into smoke in the air and ashes on the ground.


    As a light tingling appears on the side of my thumb. I throw the cigarette butt into the dark alley. A small flicker of sparks shines in the dark for half a second.


    I glance at Xiao next to me. Her smoke is mostly done too. The brand I smoke has a longer filter. I can see the tobacco in it is all gone.


    "What do you want to know?" She broke the silence again. While still staring at the jack box in front of us. I look at her with a confused expression. "You asked about my story..... what do you want to know about me?" She raises her eyebrows.


    This feels.....familiar.


    My mind went blank because of her open invitation. "Anything? " I shrug. "Tell me a real story about you." She tilts her head downward and side-eyes me. Deep in thought, she put the cigarette back in her mouth before realizing it was just a filter left. Stares at it for a second before tossing it in the same direction I did.


    ***


    Why would I say that?


    Xiao thought to herself while searching frantically in her mind. But it only produces the same thing, maybe in a different fashion but....... the rest is all the same. Wet hands, dirty sinks, needles, cold shower. Her nights are all the same. Her days are spent preparing for the night.


    After joining Miss Qin, she''s practically with her all the time. The rest are either arguing with Nan or ''borrowing'' his training room when no one''s there.


    What the fuck is a story anyway?


    Only now does she realizes. She doesn''t have a story worth telling.


    ***


    Why the fuck is she looking like this is torture?


    Her fists clenched, face a bit blushed, eyebrows knit together so hard there are visible wrinkles on her face. I let out a....... hopefully silent sign.


    Fucking hell, guess I''m going to be the knight in shining armor again.


    "You know what? Let me help you." Xiao snaps away from her thoughts. She looks at me questioning. I change my pose, pressing my left shoulder on the wall, with my crossed-over chest. Facing her completely with a smile on my face.


    "Do you like your current job or former work better?"


    "Current." She answers in an instant. No doubts eh?


    "Good! What''s the most memorable event you faced as a bodyguard?" She raises her eyebrows


    "..... Not much. With war on the brink, most of the Da Lao are far from the front line and safely hidden." She glares at me for a second warning me not to ask further. "There weren''t no attempts so far. And the most memorable event is standing in front of me."


    "Flattered." She rolls her eyes.


    ".......I once saw Missy smoke two cigarillos within the same day though." Xiao shrugs at the end. I actually want to hear that.


    "Well, I''m pretty sure there''s a story behind that. But it''s hers, not yours." I rest the side of my head on the wall.


    "Why are you so obsessed with this? Mr.Lee." She shakes her head in a slight motion and squints her eyes.


    The last two words sound extra annoying now thanks to Qin Yan.


    "Because it''s boring," And dangerous. "To only know one side of a person."


    I put on a casual smile on my face.


    I meant what I say. Though it''s not just because of that. I still don''t know anything about her. She''s an assassin turned bodyguard. She''s feared in the organization. She''s close to the emperor''s daughter....... that''s it. Nothing else. Someone I''m going to be associating with in the future, I''d like to know more about them.


    "What about........ What do you do when you''re off duty as a bodyguard?"


    "Train, smoke, quarrel with Nan." I raise my eyebrow. "Trust me, you don''t want to hear them."


    Welp, I''m out of ideas. Time to bring out ace in the hole.


    "When was the last time you drink?" She looks at the Jack in the Box in front with a poker face.


    "I don''t drink."


    The most obvious lie today.


    "You do. Come on when was the last time you were drunk?" A flash of anxiety goes through her eyes as she remembers something.


    "I said. I don''t drink alcohol."


    I look at her with the ''Are you fucking serious?'' face. Her eyes quickly glance at me and move her line of sight back to the front, averting mine. Her lips clenched. The corner of her mouth drags downward subtly. After what feels like an eternity. She lets out an angry grunt.


    "Months ago ........ It was late at night, the servants are all asleep. I heard her fighting with her father earlier that night. She dismissed me for the rest of the night afterward. Hours later at the garden of the estate, I saw her lying on a bench. Hand still holding a half-empty whiskey bottle. I carried her back in her chamber." Xiao lets out a chuckle.


    "Even while being carried in someone else''s arm. She was still clinging to that bottle for dear life. After setting her down, I took the bottle just in case. And......." She exhales slowly. Throwing her head back on the concrete wall. A small ''womp'' sound occurs. Xiao continues while staring at the night sky.


    "I was going to toss it. But.... for some reason..... just couldn''t find a good reason not to you know." A knowing smile creeps up my face. Of course I do.


    "The next morning was the first time I woke up later than anyone else...... fuck. And it was Nan who woke me up. He was knocking on my door so hard that I thought it was going to break." She let out one of those laughs that sounded like exhaling.


    "....... I bet that hurt like hell huh?" She turn around with a puzzled expression.


    "The knock. I bet it made your head rung like a bell right?" I grin as a normal smile finally blooms on her face again.


    "Shit. You had no idea. The worst part that is I got to act like nothing''s wrong for the rest of the day. But......you know what made me feel better?"


    "What may that be?"


    "I can tell Miss Qin was doing the same thing too." I can''t help but laugh with her. She continues between waves of laughter. "The first thing she did that morning was popping aspirins with coffee!"


    At the back alley next to Jiu Lou, we laugh like nobody''s business. Like there are no worries in the world. Just me, her, and the funny little story she told. Her eyes laugh with the rest of her face. A glint I never saw in them before flashes through. It took me a while to understand what it is since it''s been a while since I last saw it too.


    "See?..... There you have it. Everybody got a story to tell. Some amusing, some boring. Some are worth telling, and some.......best left untold.


    If you don''t have one that''s just because you''re still writing it." She let out a dry laugh and drop her head.


    "A philosophical merc...... that''s new."


    We both smile silently. Leaning on the wall. We''ve exhausted our reasons to stay but neither moved. A friendly silence is hard to come by nowadays. So as short as it is, for me, I just want to savor it. Treating it like a dream without monsters and mine screams...


    But in the end, we still got to get back to the reality again. Dreams and stories are fun in books and imagination. But none are real. And none will last.


    "You should get back inside. She''s probably wondering what the hell are you doing." She nods slowly. Her eyes are a bit shadowy, looks like she were deep in thought.


    "Yeah.....You should go too, piao jie at night really isn''t the best place to wonder." I let out a smirk.


    "Think I''ll be alright. I live in Nochnaya after all. That place sets the bar pretty high." I stretch my legs and circle my ankle as I''m about to hit the road. "See you on Friday."


    She raises her head slightly. Mouth opens and closes until a goodbye came out of it.


    "Safe travels. Mr.Lee."


    Still stings. I stop at the border of lights from the street and dark in the alley. Turning my head around.


    "Call me Lee."


    ***


    Xiao watches the merc quicken his steps across the plaza with his head low. Disappearing in one of the less traveled roads where no lights from lamp polls can reach.


    Lee.


    She gets off the wall. And step into the lights from the pageantry front gate of Jiu Lou. Walking through the entrance, the guard by the reception desk averted his eyes as soon as he saw her. Walking past him. Xiao realized where the hollowness she felt in the meeting met.


    I don''t want to see him dead.

 At home

    Piao Jie at night might not be suitable for wandering. Gangsters, thugs, junkies. The usual.


    The thing about Chinatown and whoever lives here is they don''t want trouble. The Qin''s control over this district is one of the most absolute in Euforia. In a certain way, it makes the streets here safer than most. Crimes are a family business here. And Chinatown is their kingdom which they rule with iron fists. But it also makes the Qins on these streets loads of arrogant cunts since they can literally do whatever they want.


    Years ago, the city police change their methods of assigning forces. Officers in different precincts are no longer assigned by the central. They''re recruited by the locals within that district. That was the last stroll. Now the policies are like inflatable tube man. Waving, smiling on the streets...... for most of the places. Except for downtown, the business center and Monclea. That policy implies they have given up on any southern or western parts of the city, all they care about is to protect the safety and interests of the rich and powerful in town. Thus the gangs in the other areas became the law in their separate kingdoms.


    That situation is especially severe in Piao Jie and Desalos as I said. They are the laws here. And considering the delicate relationship I have with them it''s best to avoid rector street and other main roads. So after leaving Jiu Lou. I start heading south.


    Close to the avenue right now. The number of gangsters and middle age-old women in shady alleys or just flat-out standing under lamp polls is getting higher and higher. I''m not at the Glen yet but I can already see some stores with Ukiyo-e women painted on unnoticeable entrances and establishments looking like they were made by neon tubes. These are the indecent businesses that fail to compete with the ones on the avenue, so decided to relocate to some of the less aggressive places. Nevertheless owned by the Qins. But the suits are less seem in comparison to other places.


    Heading west on a parallel street of the avenue. Except for some teenagers who just had a wild night out, a couple of black vehicles passing by, and some local thugs or young ruffians. There''s nothing of note. I walk quickly with my head low and both hands in my jacket pockets. Most just gave me a quick glance and ignores me. A group of delinquents was walking straight toward me but took a step left after I gave them a glare. I''m back in Nochnaya shortly after.


    ***


    Vera said I hate Noch. A part of me does. The shining, uncaring neon lights, muggers in dark alleyways, and running into ''patrols'' are all annoying as fuck.


    But there''s something about this place. The cold and violent stories these concrete pavements and brick walls tell, the familiar faces in Icebreaker, and the streets I knew inside out.


    Yes, this place is a shitty neighborhood. But it''s the closest thing I can call home.


    The southern side of Noch is a maze made of identical apartment buildings and narrow alleyways. Only a few miles north of the public housing area. I can see about eight youngsters smoking at the park entrance not far from here. Some nights, I''ll walk past them on purpose. But not tonight. I''m fucking tired.


    Dashing to one of the dark alleys. I start heading north. Turn left at the back of a burger joint. Go straight through the unloading area of a motel. Another right when I see a fat drunk sleeping by the wall.


    Snaking through buildings and flashing yellow lights until the sound of partygoers carrying each other out from pubs and clubs became noticeable again. I take another right and return to one of the main roads. Following two wobbly walking women in leather skirts and high heels(one of them is broken) for five more blocks I take another right, went straight through Lesnaya, and keep heading north. Until I reached the residential area again.


    The Kirov Kvadrat. Or Kirov for short. It refers to the area between Via Martinase and the club area around Lesnaya. It''s not exactly a ''square''. But a small district of brick buildings and less bustling streets. Cantinas, restaurants, shops, and stores of all kinds. This part is considered the most inhabitable area of Noch. Russian mobs still roam the streets, and juvenile gangs still eager to put in big-boy pants and join the major leagues of dying young.


    Except for the apartments being a bit more spacious and the streets a bit quieter at night. There aren''t too many differences from the southern part.......from an outsider''s perspective.


    My home is located at the center of it. West of the park, east of the metro station. A five stories high building between self-service laundry and a grocery store. An unremarkable apartment building in white and brick red. The blinds behind windows on the first four floors are all tightly shut.


    ***


    It took me a while minute before I find the right key for front door. The moisture had bent the door, putting more pressure on the frame making it even harder to open. Pushing open with some effort the heavy black door finally swung open shakily.


    The sensor light on all five floors immediately shines with 3400k warm lights. Which I had contractors install.


    I should get them to fix the damn door too? The idea flashes through my mind before I forget two seconds after as I raise my head looking up the staircases.


    My place is on the top floor.


    It''s 3:14 a.m. I drag myself up the stairs. Every step on the wooden stairs makes a loud squeaky noise which is the only thing keeping me awake right now. I''m not too concerned about the neighbors since it''s unlikely anyone would want to get out of their beds, walk outside, and bang on the front door in the middle of the night. Even if anyone does have the strong fucking will do it. James, John, Juan, and Johan will never answer. And I sure as hell ain''t either.


    As the spiral stairs finally end in front of a black panel door with a bronze door knocker on it. A sudden rush of tiredness creeps in from the back of my head and spread all the way down my toes.


    The kind of feeling you have when you reach the front yard of your house, reaching a place of safety, comfort, and rest. Feeling like you can finally be relaxed as your subconscious recognizes this place and ties it with comfort. Making you drop your guard as you approach.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    I spent a lot of time and money to make me feel that way.


    Twisting the handle. The bulletproof door swung open silently. I''m greeted by darkness and the sound of a slow and steady beeping sound from the inside. Opening a shelf on the porch next to the door. I type in the code on a small pad installed on the end of it. The small vibrating sound stops, as my home lights up automatically.


    I''m way too fucking tired to care about the security stuff. I kick the door close with my left leg. Lock all the locks. I pull out my 9mm in my shoulder holster and place it on the porch. Walk through my messy living room, and climb up the stairs to my open bedroom. And starts throwing stuff to an empty table by the widow which I placed there specifically for this.


    The brass knuckle, inhaler, wallet, phone, matches from Ivan, dagger in my left sleeve, knives by my ankle, my watch, pack of cigarettes, and two magazines. I take a look at the sword Qin Yan gave me...... and throw it on the table next to other shit.


    I take off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack at the corner next to my closet. Walking past the full-length mirror on the wall across my bed, I can''t help but notice how much smaller I look without my bomber jacket. Taking off my holster I found an empty space in my closet for it.


    Finally, I kick my sneakers off, ignoring the sound behind me suggesting one of them fall down the stairs. Pulling out my 1911, the absence of the familiar weight on my lower back left me feeling naked. I check the safety and chamber before placing it on my nightstand, the handle towards the bed.


    After it was down I allowed myself to fall face down onto my bed. But a solid object pressing against my thigh made me get up again. checking my trouser pockets I found the bronze pocket watch I bought in Chinatown. A slow and steady tick-tock fills the silent bedroom.


    I gave it one more glance before turning the crown a few times and putting it next to my gun.


    Falling back onto my bed again, my hand found the master control while my head refuses to leave the pillow. Pushing it left me in the dark again. No illumination except the moonlight from outside, alms me the most it can pours through the window. Not much, but enough to make me feel annoyed even with my eyes closed.


    I turned around and stare at my own reflection in the body-length mirror.


    I look like a corpse. Face too pale, lips too red. Like a juggler with too much makeup. My hair looks messier than earlier. And my eyes ......... well, what am I expecting?


    The words from Ivan ring in my mind. When you''re laying in bed, staring at the ceiling till you fall asleep..... I force my eyes to shut closed and tell Ivan''s voice to go fuck himself. As I open my eyes I imagine the person in the mirror as a stranger again.


    Hello you.


    Hello me.


    I close my eyes and count to ten. My conscious gave up on four.


    ***


    There are three sets of lights. Types and shapes change throughout a period of time. But the brightness remains the same. The bare minimum is to be called a light.


    One is at the far right of the bar counter above the faceless bartender. One is on top of the entrance. One is at the left of the bar counter, above a table of three old men bickering, sipping their beer with political opinions to go with it.


    The lights presented the dust in the air, wavering between staying and falling. The ones that chose the letter make the light brown wooden floor look ceremonious.


    Salt on a closed casket.


    I was here and not. I know the surrounding but I''m not a part of it.


    Until he shows up. The doorbell hanging in the air announces a new customer arrived. No one pays him any attention.


    Suddenly I find myself sitting at the far right side of the counter, on an unstable high chair. I''m in a white hoodie. A half-empty glass of whiskey in front of me. Judging by the distance, I had purposely pushed it away.


    Surprisingly I''m in a good mood despite being in a place like this. Toying a coin of the foreign country.


    I ignored the doorbell at first but as the sound of heavy leather boots gets closer and closer behind me. I turn around right before he sits down next to me.


    A well-dressed man...... at least he was one. Dirty black coat with mud on the edge. A pair of worn-out leather gloves (especially knuckles), the gray vest, and the white office shirt inside are pretty clean tho. From this angle, I can not see his face clearly as he''s taller than me and his coat collars are up. But from strays of grey hair and a certain calm and uncaring attitude in his eyes. I would say he''s in his 50s.


    The bartender seems oblivious to this man''s existence as he carries on rinsing the already spotless glass.


    Man rests his elbows on the counter holding his hands close together as if praying. The sound of leather creaking was produced. He shut his eyes for a moment. I took the chance and move my body forward, my stomach against the counter. Just when I''m about to see his face those eyes suddenly open, staring down mine with a terrifying flash of rage. I repelled back to my pose before.


    "You seem like a precocious young lad." A primordial fear in me rises when I hear his voice. I can''t tell why but it''s like staring at a dark tunnel with untold horrors in there. You couldn''t tell what was inside, but every instinct is telling you to run.


    "I''ve got an offer...... it''ll be worth your time." Judging from five lines of crow''s feet. He''s smiling. I take a deep breath.


    "What do you want?"


    ".......Stories. Yours for mine."


    ***


    I jump out of bed with cold sweats all over my back. Heavy breathing continues for two more minutes as I sit on my bed.


    My dreams typically have three types: Nightmares, Memories, and Illogical bullshit. That felt like all three combined.


    I shake my head violently trying to get myself together but only results in one of the worst headaches and obnoxiousness I had in a long time. My vision is clouded by purple and red dots.


    Feels like someone cracked my head with a pickaxe and dump asphalt in it.


    I lie back down on bed and start pressing down on my right purlicue to ease the urge of puking on my own floor.... or bed. Staring at the ceiling, glitter from the left corner stings my eyes. The mirror reflects sunlight to my face, signaling the sun has been up for a while.


    I reach for my nightstand blindly and almost bump my lamp down. My head feels like it''s going to explode or melt if I move it in the slightest motion. I try again. This time I feel the cold grip of my gun.


    After three more attempts, I grab the pocket watch. 11:14....... I let out a sign and put it back as the ticking sound escalates my headache.


    Another twenty minutes or so pass, and the stars in my vision slowly fade into the background.


    Slowly, slower than someone with Parkinsonism. I sit up on my bed.


    Why the fuck did I took that much?


    Package, Vera, Ivan, Qin Yan, blood oath, Liu Jiu, and that asshole Nan. Events and faces flash through my head.


    Oh. Right.


    Rotating my body to the side of the bed. The cold wind from central air conditioning and the sweat made me sneeze resulting in another wave of headache. Stumbling up, rejoicing my leg is still working. I put on a black plush jacket from my closet. Walking up to widowside table, I grab my watch too. Walking down the stairs with my hand on the wall. I started my day by opening the TV.

 Preparations

    Skip the news channels, I stop at the weather report and turn up the volume.


    "Temperatures are going to sour. In the afternoon the southern parts of Faust might hit a new height of 31 degrees Celsius, 88 degrees Fahrenheit......."


    The voice slowly fades away as I walk into the bathroom to wash my face with cold water, but the dizziness is still stuck at both sides of my head alongside a mild headache.


    Fun fact: Dizzy is just another form of headache.


    I grab a bottle of painkillers from the mirror cabinet. Walk past the living room.


    "Sunny with cloudy periods. But after sunset....."


    The kitchen is under my open bedroom, though it''s got all the stuff you can think of, but truth be told I''ve only been using the fridge, coffee machine, and oven (cabinets next to the stove isn''t large enough for my booze stash). I found a mug that doesn''t look too awkward with espresso and press start on the coffee machine.


    "Light drizzling after night is expected. And mild drop of temperature......"


    While I''m waiting, I open the oven to check if my M&P is still between two bottles of gin. A security check is long overdue since I''m back in town. As the deep buzzing stops behind me. I pop two painkillers and finish the expresso in a minute.


    Pondering if it counts as a miracle I''m still alive with a lifestyle like this.


    "Next up, on the capital of......" Turning off the TV and popping my joints. I start taking care of three months worth of chores.


    ***


    Guns are all in good condition despite not tending them for a while. Some water stains on the edge of my gun cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom but the firearms themselves seemed fine after some basic examinations.


    My place on the fifth floor is not as fancy as Ivan''s penthouse or his office but living here for more than a couple of years now I had converted the whole place to be as comfortable as possible ....... for me at least.


    The wooden cabinet by the porch has a small monitor inside connected to the pinhole camera installed on a screw hole above my door knocker. On the second shelf is a set of keypads, if someone doesn''t type the password in the next 15 seconds after opening my door. The alarm next to my bed will sound....... I''ll admit this had cost some inconvenience when I had visitors. So I added a manual disable by my bed.


    The bathroom is on the right of the short hallway upon entering which is the only space in here without a wooden floor. Five meters left to my entrance, the place expanded.


    To the left is my living room. Iron coffee table in front of my TV, placed just far enough to rest my feet and not hitting the legs of it every damn time I walk by. Next to the television is the portable record player Vera forced me to buy (There''s a story behind that, but I really don''t want to reminisce it..)


    Under those is an industrial TV stand to place the records I collected and a Beretta 92 between ''The animals'' and ''Who''s next''.


    Between the third and second couch cushions of a leather sofa is a SIG P365. And close to the wooden sofa legs on the left is a Benelli M4. A row of one-way window glass on the north wall to save elasticity bills. A Black Sputnik chandelier hangs in the space between the living room and kitchen.


    A bookshelf against the south wall, with Russian, Chinese, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and English dictionary on the lower shelf. And classic stories and poems that I read less and less nowadays but on some nights when I''m out of booze and sleeping pills having a ''Life in the Woods'' is always good.


    The kitchen area is basically for me to make cocktails, coffee, and throw stuff in the fridge. A giant liquor store 100 meters away, made me fill the glass overhead cabinet with stuff that even a professional bartender doesn''t recognize.


    A stove under the cabinet. The last time I used it was because I can''t find my lighter again. A Nespresso next to a kettle and a box full of coffee capsules. A CZ75 in a holster was placed between the fridge and counter.


    A kitchen island with another sink and a cutting board, and a knife block with combat knives and fruit knives on it. Under them is the oven.


    This place used to have an attic but I got some contractors to remove it, only leaving the part above the kitchen area, relocating the bedroom up there, and setting up a set of stairs.


    Nothing of note up there except some bulletproof vests I got tricked into buying in the closet, a heavily modified Mp5 under my bed, and the window up there are also one-way glasses.


    Some said it''s too much and too risky with a fuck load of contrabands in my home...... Those have never seen Viviane and Vera''s place. And I rather be too careful than get killed by some drugged-up robbers, desperate thieves, or enemies I may or may not know exist.


    ***


    I head upstairs, strap my shoulder holster, picked up my 1911 by the bed, and Fn 509 on the porch. The room that used to be a bedroom is now a storage room for all kinds of stuff that I ''might'' need but never did. After clearing out the northeast corner. I remove a piece of the wooden floor and showed an iron handle underneath.


    Opening up the hatch shows a hole that leads downstairs. I unlocked the safety lever on the edge, dropping a ladder down.


    Descending, I reach a bedroom with nothing but a portable bed with a thin pair of dust on it.


    This is James''s place if I remember correctly.


    This building used to be government owned but after constant reports of junkies and robbers in the neighborhood and most importantly, them being too lazy to care or manage the place at all. So they decided to release the ownership back to the public making me, and the rest of the people living here the owner of their own real estate.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    After some persuasion and encouragement. Those that used to live on the four lower levels moved out and sold the place to me at reasonable prices.


    Then, I found four homeless people whose names just so happen to be James, John, Juan, and Johan. I got them to sign the papers for renting apartments downstairs and opened a bank account.


    Leaving the rest of the work to an accountant, financial adviser, real estate agent, or whatever he calls himself today that I spared during a job I had done. Now he keeps on running his schemes and cons in the lanes.


    He built four ..... mildly believable identities for those hobos. Making them functional individuals in our society with above-average income and always paying taxes on time. But most importantly, paying rent of very high fluctuation.


    Non-affiliated criminals such as freelancers, killers, mercenaries, fixers, and cleaners generally have their own side business of owning a shop or a fast food restaurant, etc. Not because they''re short on cash (Alright, some of them do.) but because despite euforia is practically the Wild West.


    Taxes. Are still a thing. Even syndicates like Qins too have a company front as a disguise. People often joke about the IRS being the most efficient and intelligent department.


    Therefore, money laundering is a big deal in Faust. And most of the time, they run their own procedures and numbers since it is risky to let someone else do it.


    The accountant is one of the most ingenue, slippery, flattering guys I''ve seen. But he has years of experience in this kind of stuff.


    Plus, he won''t shut up about ''Repaying my benevolence''. So I took a risk and pay him a visit. Propose for him to laundry money for me in exchange, he can spam however much the residents ''make'' every month. Promising him free use of those four identities for other projects as long as it doesn''t get IRS''s attention.


    We shake hands. Then I pull out my 1911 and gave hand him the round in its chamber. I told him "If you ever fucks me over or steal from me. That bullet will be your only way to escape me."


    So now in the government''s data. I''m a landlord.


    ***


    The fourth floor is like my office. Depends on my workload. Sometimes I don''t come down here in weeks. Other times I sleep on the portable bed more than the real one upstairs.


    Pushing the door open. I''m relieved to see everything is still the same.


    The wooden blinds are closed, not allowing a single ray of light to trespass. The air conditioning and the lights are on as always. This floor has the same setup as the fifth, but the interior is quite different.


    The TV is moved to the north wall, in front of the windows and a small couch in the middle of the room faces it.


    Several cables are taped in place at the edge of the floor, all lead up to the television.


    On the spot for the TV stand on the fifth floor is a titanium desk with spare parts of pistols, punches, key wrenches scattered on the surface, and a box full of screwdrivers, and brass hammers. A bare tube light with its separate switch nailed on the wall right above the workbench.


    A variety of riffle bags, sports bags, violin cases in all sizes leaning against the west wall. A black steel cabinet door replaced the bookshelf.


    The kitchen is mostly the same. The only difference is the places where I store liquors such as oven, cabinets, drawers, or fridge. Are filled with canisters to refill my inhaler. Usually, I don''t like to take it raw. But there''s still a bag of various ''products'' and adrenaline shots in a medical kit bag.


    A full map of Euforia covers half of the kitchen island with spots marked in red, and an ashtray on top of it. A whiteboard next to the kitchen area with reminders, notes, and scribbles I wrote for reasons I can''t remember.


    The accountant once estimated that the stuff I have on the top floor alone is enough to put me behind bars for good. Adding the rest will probably get me on a chair.


    ***


    I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning my pistols. Unloading the mag. Removing the slides, the firing pins, recoil spring, and barrels. Using a toothbrush and oil from a plastic toolbox under the table.


    Debris are all over the bench when I''m done.


    Next, I fish out the TV controller between sofa pats. Six different images appear on the TV screen. They are pinhole camera images of the front doors of the five apartments in the building and the front gate. I starts playing at the top speed from the second I left my place about three months ago.


    Viviane came three times, Vera once, Ivan almost tear the front gate down once, Igor rings my doorbell once and left 10 seconds later.


    All kinds of people in my life came to my doorstep, each for very different reasons. I''m surprised to see Nan came too. He picked the front gate lock and made it to the fifth floor.....twice. I stop the tape and check the date.


    2 weeks ago...probably came for the job.


    The rest is pretty normal, some hooded fellows and kids tryna trick residents to open the door. Two drunks fighting from the grocery store to the front of my building. Regular stuff for Nochnaya citizens.


    After I turned off the television. I walk to the kitchen area and wipe the whiteboard clean with my sleeves. And starts making plans for today and the necessary preparations for the meeting on Friday. 10 minutes later the board looks even more chaotic than before.


    ***


    Back on the fifth floor. I pull the letter back up, close the hatch, and hid it.


    I climbed up the stairs to my open bedroom and pushes my bed to the side revealing a mp5 and a floor safe. Inserting a 10-digit password and with great effort, I pull the metal door open. The sound of rusty hinges terrorized my ears.


    I grab a stack of cash and a brown, cowhide journal with a pen between pages.


    Sitting on my bed I allocate the stack of cash to a few different envelopes, placing them on the window-side table along with everything else. Then I open the notebook. And starts recording the time, date, associated people, compensations, and the details of my work yesterday.


    The habit of taking notes and records of all the jobs I''ve done was developed after I got screwed over for the first time a few months after I became a merc. Since I keep adding pages throughout the years it''s as thick as an encyclopedia by now. And what happened last night alone took five pages.


    After I''m done with them. I decided it was finally time for me to head out. Throwing the clothes I wore yesterday into the laundry basket in my bathroom I notice a small piece of paper on my back pocket sticks out.


    Emilio&Fulvio.


    I stare at the wrinkled business card. And ran upstairs to open my closet. Staring down at the card again. I slowly exhale. Placing the card on top of the envelopes on the table. And reopen the safe to get another stack of cash.


    ***


    I put on a v neck, cargo pants and check my watch. Almost midday. The sun from outside makes me feel the dry heat without opening the window so I put on round shades.


    Recalling Ivan''s words. If the place is mafia owned...... I still decide to wear my holster and take both guns with me. Not bothering with spare mags though.


    Knives might not be necessary either since I''m not technically ''working'' today. Just doing some preparations. But when I put on my jacket, the asymmetrical feeling made me strap a dagger in my left sleeve and a brass knuckle in my right jacket pocket.


    Still can''t find my lighter so I take the matches too...... When my pinky finger graze the inhaler next to it, a strong urge to run downstairs and fill it up hit me. But remembering what happened last night, I decided to quit it for the next few days before the meeting. As much as it soothes me in all situations, I almost step over the line of no return yesterday.


    I force myself to avoid gazing at it which leads me to another poisoned chalice. The dagger Qin Yan gave me.


    A part of me wants to place it on my bookshelf and be down with it. But.......


    After a battle within my mind. I put it in my inner pocket and head outside. The metal pommel pressed down on my left chest. The coldness of it penetrates the fabric of my clothes and sends a chill through my body.


    Just for Javier to take a look.....


    As I walk down the spiral stairs. Slowing making my way back to the land of the living. What Viv said the first time she was here echoes in my mind.


    "Cool place you got here. Secured, comfy, but empty as Faustian population in heaven. Don''t you get lonely in here?"


    I laughed.


    Because I didn''t know how to answer her. I filled my days with work and errands to the point I don''t have time for it. Overthinking your well-being is unhealthy but some nights when I''m too sober or the inhaler''s effects are delayed. It''s hard to convince myself I don''t.


    ***


    Solar noon. The scorching white in the clear sky above me radiated heat waves to the concrete pavement and my face. Like a judging eye telling me I''m not welcome with its angry glares. I return its hostility by putting on my shades. Heading south.

 Legitimate businesses

    Nochnaya in the daytime looks utterly different than at night. Even at noon, there are not many pedestrians. Especially since I''m in a residential area. The ones with a 9 to 5 in the city center went out long before me. Big steppers and cutthroats are up even before they do.


    Crossing the Lesnaya, the bustling street is now filled with litter, empty bottles and fresh vomits giving off unbearable smells under the blistering sunlight. A man with his necktie draped down his shoulder like it''s a scarf walks by me with bloodshot eyes and an agonizing expression, slowly dragging himself north towards the skyscrapers across Via Martinase.


    When the salty smell of the ocean and chemical waste starts invading my nostrils. I turn right and start heading west. Through four blocks. A group of factory workers in tank tops and unbuttoned shirts are having lunch on a short wall.


    Unforgiving sunshine contours their weather-beaten faces. Sweats on their forehead glitter while slowly dripping down. Wrinkles form on the edge of their face as a man with a bloated belly lying on the short wall facing the sun said something in a language I don''t recognize.


    The foreman squints his eyes as I walk by, letting out a hum. I purposely turned my head and quicken my steps.


    Past experience taught me getting into fights with someone who engages in physical labor is a very very bad idea. Unless you''re ready to kill them.


    Hot wind from the west. Smoke, the smell of burns from cutting metal, and seawater mix together into a strange scent. Signaling I''m in the right direction.


    Walking by a warehouse and three blocks, a brick wall with barbed wires on top replaced the unchanged scenery of concrete buildings and shop windows. It extends from far south to the next crossroad up north.


    Though it''s lunchtime, the factories behind the walls are less noisy than early morning. But the smell from the shipyard still lingers in the air.


    This area by the branch of the great canal is the industrial area of Faust. Being a shoreline city and one of the most important port cities in the world, the demand for workers and wielders in docks, shipyards, and factories of all kinds is enormous.


    Dreamers and opportunists from all over the world came here searching for a new world paradise and the next American dream when Faust was built at first. Few succeeded.


    Those that failed and didn''t choose the life of crime in many gangs of the city. Ended up in the docks. They thought it was just a temporary means to feed themselves and they would be able to get back up and fulfill whatever drives them here in the future.


    Years later, their children or grandchildren grew up in public housing down south. Constantly in fear of his drunken father''s footsteps. Stumbling upstairs from the dock after his shift ended. Promising to never be like him, to become a better person. The kids left home...... and asked for a job at the closest construction site.


    ***


    Took a left turn at the crossroad up ahead. Riverside Road looks empty with only one or two trucks passing by and a couple of dock workers sitting on the humped sidewalk. A man in vest is on the phone with his car parked by the empty bridge.


    "No! No! Not that motherfucker again. I''ve told him more times than his fucking wife! To not......."


    The man stops whining when I walk past him, leaning on the railing as if he''s been looking at the ocean this whole time.


    Thirty past noon. Even with sunglasses on, the estuary still shines brightly under the high noon. Glinting. Like shattered glasses on a proscenium stage.


    But if you look closely, the color of the ocean doesn''t match the one under this bridge. One is deep blue of Prussian, the other is dirty green like cloudy emeralds.


    With the industrial area behind me, the street became lively again with pedestrians on both sides. Clothing shops and antique stores on the first floor of townhouse buildings. It''s daytime so the difference between here and East noch are hard to spot. It''s only at night do you realize the shops and stores here barely have any neon lights. There are also fewer clubs and nightlife over here. (the amount of bar stays the same though)


    Heading north for four more blocks. The shops and stands start increasing in number but there aren''t many customers in those establishments. Crossing a small crossed road the buildings by the side start changing. Becoming more and more like the ones in the east, dark alleys under iron canopies with a shady-looking guy in jerseys, window gratings on residents'' homes, and shop keepers display windows.


    And most importantly the passer''s starts becoming...... complicated.


    Fellows in leather coats with a big bulge on their back waist, middle-aged Russians with butch cuts, young adults wearing gold chains and silver rings.


    They scowl at anyone giving them second glances. Walking in a distinctive way that I know too well, wide spaces between steps but the time foot is off ground are reduced to the minimum so they can be ready in action when someone tries to jump them.


    A young bloke about 19 or 21 years old is walking straight at me. His eyes convey a stoic calmness. A string with silver trinkets braided on it gave a clear warning to those that know the streets not to fuck with him.


    Different regions of mobs have their distinctive traditions. The ones in the East like to use different tattoos to show what they''ve done for instance, the most commonly known is the Makarov pistol which means the person with such a tattoo had killed a cop before.


    In the West, they use bracelets. It''s hard to tell what''s on the bracelet until you''re up close. Like the tattoos, each piece of silver means a different sin you carry. The more you have, the more respect you get from your peers. But those are usually for ''the six'' only, higher ranks than foot soldiers don''t need the bracelet anymore. Their position in the organization speaks for itself and having a silver bracelet that makes a bunch of ''clinks'' while walking isn''t the best approach in most scenarios.


    But those that had it, tend to keep it.


    I can see he''s sizing me up. There''s an alleyway between us that''s perfect for mugging. But after I subtly shake my head and put my hand in my exterior pocket, the kid moved his gaze and move aside. He got the message.


    This is why when I meet a new ''Shestyorka'' I tend to test them by asking where they came from. Regional differences between soldiers and scouts are vast. Especially among low-rankers.


    And oftentimes, the ones that are actually capable are from here, the ''Tenth street''.


    ***


    10th Street is the joint name for the area between the main canal and its branch. A peninsula between Nochnaya and Desalos, the Russian mob, and the La Vina cartel.


    This place used to be hell. In the early days when the owner of the canal haven''t been decided yet. This place was the main battleground for one of the biggest gang wars in history. It goes on for a whole fucking decade. Massacres, assassinations, burning opposite sides establishments, cleaning houses. From what I have known, that ten years made the ''warring state'' of Piao Jie look like kids throwing toy cars in elementary school.


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    It wasn''t the only war going on at that time. The line between the Italians and the Japs wasn''t as clear as today. And the Chinese were at war with themselves at the time. All sorts of violence and bloodshed in scales future and past generations never seen before. Lots of the legends in my businesses were made during that period.


    Though the whole city was dedicated to killing each other. But even now if you ask anyone which part of the war was the most intense and unforgiving? Nine out of ten will say the tenth street.


    Between the industrial area and the enemy front line, the Russians at tenth street have to face the full weight of Desalos crushing down on them every day. The body count on both parties is immeasurable. At the time, the mobs haven''t developed their club businesses in Lesnaya yet.


    Arms dealing and gun business is their priority. And the docks are the lifeline of their cash flow. So they made sure to do everything they could to keep ports at the canal at any cost. They made so many safe houses, strongholds, and underground gun shops on the tenth street. Making this place the heart of their operations.


    At the end of the decade, both sides had enough. They negotiated a feasible agreement on the usage of the canal as I mentioned. As the mobs start pulling forces and focus less on Tenth streets since there hasn''t been much trouble at the docks after the truce.


    The peace that came after the war helped Lesnaya become what it is today. Russians put their main focus there, on club business, money laundry, drugs, and lately, sex business.


    The rise of the East means the desolation of the West. Russians leave the necessary manpower to keep la vina at bay and stop caring as long as shipments and ports are fine. Which eventually leads to 10th Street becoming the second paradise for mercenaries and freelancers.


    Smuggling sites, gun shipments. The brigadier of tenth street ''Luthier'' started letting people like me buy guns from his places and conduct business on his territory like other places in Noch since he doesn''t have to worry about Tinos and their spies. Tenth Street has gone from the most secure and strictly controlled area in noch to the second biggest merc gathered place in town next to the lanes.


    Despite the number going down significantly, new recruits from this area tend to be the best. The battle-hardened gangsters that survived the war tended to train new blood as harshly as they were trained. Making the six in this place much more than stupid teenagers that terrorized locals. They know their place and their job, though still youthful and frivolous but the gangsters here are the most disciplined and capable.


    This is why Igor loves ''borrowing'' soldiers here and assigning them to all kinds of tasks when he''s short on men or roaming the streets looking for the next batch of future soldiers for the mobs. (Luthier often complained about it and ask the higher-ups to stop Igor from stealing his man.......... The request went unnoticed)


    ***


    The buildings on both sides of the road slowly rise from five or six-story apartment buildings to business buildings with twenty-plus floors. A bald man with a nasty scar on the back of his hand strides out of the alleyway carrying a cello case. I don''t see any sign of saint peter''s cross or bracelets on him. Plus the fact that he looked aside, avoiding my presence confirms his a mercenary too.


    Someone''s got a hot one on hand huh?


    Professional courtesy made me treat him like a normal passer too when I walk into the alley he just came out of. Shadows of skyscrapers block out the sunshine so I take off my sunglasses. Took a moment to adjust, years of messing up sleeping schedules made my eyes sensitive to brightness.


    I take a right and take two lefts before walking straight through an apartment complex. This part is incredibly hard to navigate unless you''re local. It''s been a while since last I was here but if memory serves the place should be.......


    Following the narrow trail in the middle of a concrete jungle. I''ve reached ''Glasgow''. What seems to be a lone island in the midst of skyscrapers actually holds tremendous tactical advantage. The alleys around this shop can lead to all sorts of places on the tenth street, if you know your way around you can even make it to the canal faster than driving.


    ''Glasgow'' is a vintage violin shop. Two display windows on both sides of the front door, framed by ebony wood. The bronze shop name hangs proudly on top of the entrance with ''Founded since 1894'' written under it in smaller font. Shop width is about the size of a backstreet liquor store but the length of this place seems to be limitless.


    Violins and Viola are on display at the front. Look closer. You can see old pictures, a cello body, books, a workbench, a counter...... things that belong in a Music Store through the window.


    You can understand what''s inside but the instruments at the display window block out most of the sights. Creating a delicate balance using the inertia of the public.


    You know what''s inside. You believe a glance while passing by had given you all the information about this place. You wouldn''t pay more attention because it''s too much trouble.


    A muscular man is talking on the phone next to Glasgow. Black hair with few strays of gray, gelled back, hand on the belt. An upside-down cross on the back of his left hand which is holding the phone.


    Approaching the shop, I lower my pace. Another tradition of tenth street is that when close to ''legitimate businesses'' properties of the Russian mob, walking slowly is both a sign of respect and no I''ll intention. From the stories of seniors, La Vina used hit-and-run tactics in war. Four or five in groups, they would rush to one of the establishments. Throw IEDs or grenades through the front door before attacking.


    Pretty sure it gave veterans PTSD.


    20 meters away, I casually walk past two hooded individuals in an alley to my right. A string of silver pieces on their bracelets. They''re casually chatting about news from the East. The conversation keeps going but their eyes are on me when I passed by.


    7 meters away, a small group of men in leather jackets strides out of an intersection. I lower my pace even more when passing them, and one of them recognized me. He pats my shoulder and gives me a warning look while passing by. I return him a nod. Guess things haven''t been quiet here either.


    In front of ''Glasgow'' the man on the phone hung up. And walked in front of me, blocking the entrance.


    "Lee. Good to see you''re......well." Arseny''s heavy Russian accent stays the same as I remember. I tried to squeeze a smile on my face but without the inhaler, it probably look like a smirk.


    "Words traveled this far? The fuck did you heard happened to me?" He spits out a yellowish sputum before answering me.


    "Igor said you lost your cock for fucking the Chinese princess." A smile drag its curves through his cheeks, looking like a stitched mark on his face twisting. Believe it or not, this guy is actually quite nice...... before he runs out of smoke.


    "Cool story. How about you skip the part about my cock before spreading it? So I don''t have to take off my pants to prove him wrong every time I heard it." His smile becomes a grin, a hoarse laugh came out of his mouth.


    "So." I put on a grin too. "Why are you blocking the entrance like you''re saint peter at heavens gate?" Arseny stops for a second and looks past me. He''s looking at one of the alleyways.


    "Boss made a few new rules. For both old and new customers," I raise my eyebrow.


    "Limited stock, limited buyers, cash only."


    "Limited buyers?"


    "No ties to the Qins, well behaved, not a chink." My right eye twitched, and my hand formed a fist out of reflexes before I released it.


    "And I''m?"


    "For him to decide." He leans back on the pillar next to the door frame. "Once he''s done." His pose made it clear I can''t wait inside. I take a peak at the work bench inside but the old man is not at his usual spot.


    I shrug and pull out my pack of cig leaning on the other pillar by the display window. Lit mine and take a drag. Arseny''s nose twitched. A light chill runs down my spine, I take a look at the road I came, counting eight sets of eyes from all corners staring at me.


    Some things never change.


    The effects of nicotine can''t compete with an inhaler when it comes to calming my nerves. Especially with a bunch of scouts staring at me. But the taste of tobacco always beats chemicals.


    "And Igor''s been dropping by lately?" He lets out a grunt and tilt his


    "Stealing our recruits like always... but I couldn''t blame him now." The smirk is gone, he looks less intimidating without it though. "The low lives at east been stepping too far."


    "So I''ve heard. Is that all this is about? The rules and...." I draw a circle in the air, specifying the beholders in front.


    I''m not too worried about Luthier giving me the cold shoulder, but the fact that he''s not behind the store counter is strange. And the security weren''t this tight months ago.


    "Yes, and no." I raise my eyebrows. He raises his shoulders. "§£§â§Ö§Þ§ñ §á§à§Ü§Ñ§Ø§Ö§ä."


    Knowing I wouldn''t get more answers from him I take a long drag, a slight sting under my skin at left side of my head spreads. I blame the heat, nicotine and my own actions last night..... goddamn it.


    Last night feels like a nightmare with too much details. But the wooden grip of her dagger pressing my chest suggests reality is nightmares lacking monsters. Come to think of it, I haven''t got the chance to tell Ivan what went down after I left.


    Wonder if he will have any information about Xiao.


    I take another hard drag. Clearing my mind with sharp pain in my temple. Slowly puffing out the smoke, a smoke ring was formed unintentionally. I watch it disintegrates in the air, the corner of my eyes I catch Arseny''s nose twitched again.


    "You out of cigarette?" I say after puffing out more smoke in the air between us.


    "Quitting. Three weeks now." Arseny says with a light smirk.


    "Well." I put the cig back in my mouth. "Consider me your biggest supporter." I take two more steps to the right, leaning on the display window. The reflection of sunlight found its way to land on my shoulder. I avert the light and throw my head back, my back pressing the bulletproof display window.


    "What made you quit it? Last I check, you were chain smoking two packs a day."


    Arseny fixes his jacket collar before slowly tracing them down back to his pockets, his left-hand stops at the position of lung for half a second. I turn my head to puff out the smoke at the concrete wall next to the violin shop. Hoping I made a trivial contribution.


    "And you? Off town for the past months?" He said before his lips curl leftward and spit out another sputum. His eyes relocate me while his head is unmoved. I nod.


    "Vocation," I say dryly. Arseny didn''t laugh. He just nods slowly with a light smirk.


    That, was the most normal reaction I got so far.


    After shooting the shit for ten minutes. Sounds of heavy footsteps came behind me as the door between me and Arseny opens.

 Luthier

    Yuri and Yevgeniy walks out. If it weren''t for the scars on their faces is near impossible to tell the differences between these two. Even though they always denied they''re twins, the resemblance speaks differently.


    Same hawk nose, thin lips, blue eyes, saint perter''s tattoo on left side neck, clean shaven. If it weren''t for the scars on their faces I''ll never remember who''s who. The older brother Yuri has a blade cut mark that goes from his left eye to the corner of his lip like someone tried to axe his head but failed, the younger brother Yevgeniy has a similar one staring from his right eye and ends at his right ear which has a faint purple trail next to his earlobe.


    Some rise in the mobs because of their experience and skill like Igor, some because of their..... ''creativity'' like Pytor, and some proven their loyalty by carrying out tough tasks such as Ivan.


    And there are others that secured their positions in the organization by their capabilities to destroy.


    Yuri and his brother are the definitions of brute force. They''re not muscular like Arseny or Ivan''s bodyguards. But when it comes to violence and bloodshed, these two can outshine most of the members of the mafia.


    Their official job is security for the establishments, running around town, and making sure everything is under control. When there is trouble, most they have to do is show their disturbing faces. What these two truly do and what they''re known for, is carrying out raids and attacks. They''re affiliated cleaners of the Russians.


    ***


    The two of them walk out the door and immediately spot me. Arseny took a step left, with a ''your problem'' face. The twins approach me in strides. With poker faces on, hands sway as they move.


    Yuri is on the right, his brother is on the left. They stopped in front of me.


    Not a word was uttered, the brothers stare at me with a very serious expression. Yuri''s eyes keep tilting their focus on my trouser. Shit, I know what they''re up to.


    My body tense up and got ready.


    They switch a look and, in an instant.


    Yuri''s knees dropped to a crouching position hands goes for my lower body, his arms extended, targeting my thigh.


    Lower tackle.


    I shift my right hand to the side, left feet tiptoe, right knee bolting towards his face. With incredible reaction speed, Yuri changes his hands from wide open with open palms to form a cross, covering his face. The impact was made, but his arm absorbed the force. Not giving me a chance for a second attack, he grabs my leg. And pulls it forward making me lose my balance.


    Only now, does Yevgeniy make his move. Shifting to his brother''s side his right arm extended targeting my neck. With perfect coordination with his brother, that damn moment is right when I lose balance. The subconscious sense I''m about to fall backward, so my dominant hand moves to support myself which leaves me defenseless.


    Right before Yevgeniy is about to hook my neck. Another set of body reflexes kick in.


    I spit the cigarette butt in my mouth at the younger brother. I have done this trick more than a hundred times, but doing it while falling is a first.


    Luck is on my side, it successfully made an impact on Yevgeniy''s forehead. A spark shines as his eyes closed, motion stops.


    "§³§å§Ü§Ñ!"


    I took the chance to regain my balance so I don''t fall butt-first to the concrete ground. I turned my body 180 degrees till Yuri''s behind me in order to pull my right leg back, which drag Yuri forward to me. My body rotates with my left arm for a reverse elbow attack, aiming his face again.


    Before I hit him, I see his eyes widen.


    But my arm suddenly stops. Turning my head I see Yevgeniy grinning wide. His hand clutches my left fist tightly, preventing my strike. The shock lasts for a quarter of a second before my body reacts with a right uppercut, and my left-hand draws back to get him closer.


    But my motion stops again. Yuri''s right arm hooks my joint from my back. Lifting my arm up, his giant hand pressed down on my nape. Locking me in this position with one arm.


    "§ã§Õ§Ö§Ý§Ñ§Û §ï§ä§à!" Yuri shouts behind me.


    Yevgeniy knows they can''t hold me like this for long. His hand immediately dashes toward my pants. A very fucking unpleasant pain spreads at my groin.


    "§Ü§Ñ§Ü§à§Ô§à §é§Ö§â§ä§Ñ?" The younger brother''s face changes into a confused expression.


    "§¹§ä§à?" Yuri let go of my arm and asks his brother with enthusiasm.


    "......§ª§Ô§à§â§î §ã§à§Ý§Ô§Ñ§Ý..." Yuri bursts out laughing next to me. Yevgeniy signs and gives a wrinkled hundred-dollar bill to his older brother.


    "§ã§Ü§Ñ§Ù§Ñ§Ý §ä§Ö§Ò§Ö, §é§ä§à §à§ß §Ò§í§Ý §á§à§Ý§à§ß §Õ§Ö§â§î§Þ§Ñ!"


    "You two psychos could have just asked you know!" I shout while adjusting my cargo pants and checking if any gears fell on the ground during that bullshit.


    I''m going to have a long fucking chat with Igor about this whole rumor thing.


    "Psh, as if a eunuch would admit he''s a eunuch," Yevgeniy says while grinning.


    Of all the killers and gangsters in noch, the twins are the second I want to face in a fight.


    But other than that, when you''ve gotten used to the chaotic duo and their unnatural view of things they become less scary.......though they''re still lunatics.


    "Wait, so did you fuck the Qin Daughter ?" Yuri asks like he just realizes there''s a follow-up question.


    "I was....." As I''m about to put an end to this gossip, an old but still vigorous voice came behind us.


    "What was all that bloody noises at my frontward?"


    ***


    Brit, weegie, Piper, captain, old man, Luthier. Malcom had many names in his longevity. His father was one of the first to come to Faust. Not for pipe dreams and lies but because they messed with the local mafia. Malcom''s not shy about telling his story but he never mentioned what his father did to the gang in his hometown.


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    To avoid retribution, his father came to Faust, the most mixed-up place in the world. Setting up a small violin shop in the most prosperous place at the time.


    According to him, life back then was simple. He goes to the local school at day and comes home at night to help his father tend the shop, on the weekends his father would teach him how to carve a violin bridge.


    Life was simple until the Russians came. They endorsed the shop''s position and its colossal storage spaces. So they use their SOP. Offering ''protection'' in exchange for storing and moving some spare ''car parts'' in their shop.


    His father declined. So they beat him up and asked him to reconsider before they come back. Days later they came again, but the shop seemed empty. They check the counter, the cabinets, and the storage spaces. Just when they thought the father and son fled. Young Malcolm who''s been hiding in the alley sneaked back inside, lock the door, and sent all four of them to the hospital with a baseball bat.


    This action pissed off the russkyes. Two days later a ''Patsan'' lead a small squad of men, ready to take the shop by force. But young Malcolm surprised them again.


    They came with semi-automatic pistols, Malcom prepared them a Scottish fucking high tea. The Russian mobs haven''t cut ties with the syndicate yet, those men were cold-hearted killers from Moscow. They have seen and done things that belong in a horror movie.


    But when they see the son of a luthier sitting at a round table with a spotless white doily on. Teacups at twelve and six o''clock, teapots in the middle. He even got a sandwich plate.


    And there he sits. In a cheap three-piece suit he rents last night. Legs crossed, arm behind the chair. He told me once he was bloody terrified at that moment but the ''patsan'' saw a young man with balls and a bright future in the organization so instead of putting lead in his head, he sits down and drink tea for the very first time in his life.


    Malcom demanded they treat his father and him with respect, in exchange they will let the mobs store and move guns in the shop but every time they do it, they have to pay a fee for storage and buy a case of violin out of respect.


    They agreed, shake hands, and the killer withdrew the squad. Young Malcom sits there for another 20 minutes until his legs stop shaking.


    The violin case was a smart move. As the Russians moved, sold, examines, and uses guns there was always a violin case at the corner. One day, a six came to ''Glasgow'' asking for ''car parts''.


    Malcom, who was already a young adult at the time craves more in his life like every other young man that associates with organized crime. Plus his father''s health had been declining ever since the beat down and is in dire need of more money to cover the medical expenses.


    He asks the six to come back five days later and arrange another high tea with the Russians.


    Then came the best few years in his life, the Russians had agreed to have them keep a part of the firearms that pass his hands and sold them to only members of the organization while keeping 8 percent of the income. The money was flowing in fast, Malcom was officially in the business of crimes and he loves the thrill of it. Days go by as he gets more and more famous in the tenth street and the mob.


    Until the war broke down, La Vina hit the tenth street hard. The good positioning of the violin shop made it one of the main strongholds of the mobs during the war. Except for guns, Glasgow now takes wounded soldiers too.


    One day, a Latino kid got passed the patrols through one of the alleys. He sprints towards the shop while shouting "la santa muerte esta mirando!" And threw a hand grenade through the front door.


    There were four men in there, Malcom at the back looking for morphine, a Russian who took a lung shot and is bleeding out on the workbench, his brother who was praying for him by the table, and Malcom''s father who insisted on helping the gangsters to patch up.


    Only Malcom survived.


    The next day, Malcom joined the mafia, got a Saint Peter cross tattoo on his back.


    He drinks vodka for the very first time in his life.


    He was the most dedicated soldier in the ''darkest decade''. During the war, many left the organization because they can''t take it anymore. Hell. If half the stories I heard were true, I would leave too. But Malcom stays in the shop his father built, which is his now. He fought, organized, kill, raid. Nobody was more ferocious than him. He would often leave the shop to the mobs so he could join raids across the canal.


    Before the war, people called him ''weegie'', ''piper'', ''cross dresser'', and all kinds of mockery because of his origin and height.


    But after his father died and the war broke down. They simply called him ''son of luthier'' or ''luthier of Glasgow''. After a while it''s just ''Luthier''.


    Some rise in the ranks of mob by doing their jobs right, some got lucky, and some earned it fair and square. He became the brigadier of the tenth street after the war. And no one, not a single soul objects to this decision by the bosses. Some even say if it weren''t for him, they would have lost the peninsula at the peace negotiation.


    Malcom joined the war as an outsider and left the war as a legend.


    After peace came, the tides of time shifts the main stage to the east. Some say if the war broke down again Ivan will become the next legend like Luthier. And Lesnaya and rector street will become the next tenth street. But none of that matters to Malcom. He''s the owner of Glasgow. So he stays in Glasgow.


    ***


    The Highlander''s blood did him dirty. Standing 173 or 172 centimeters, Malcom is even shorter than I am. And compared to Arseny, he looks like a dwarf. But there''s no mistaking this man''s the real deal. Those dark brown eyes shine gloomily as always with a hint of cold anger at the bottom of them, a man that''s too accustomed to the world we''re living in.


    White cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up showing the colorful tattoos covering his right arm and wrist. Stains on his shirt and gloves from black oxides add another layer to the burly characteristic.


    White, hard bandholz beard and twisted scars tangling on his face like a bush of thorns. Long broad nose, crow feet extended all the way to his hairlines. Swept back white hair with a few strays of them waving in the wind.


    Luthier steps out of the store, turns to the left and looks at Arseny, and turns to the right to stare at me and the twins arguing about my genital.


    "Shouldn''t y''all get on with it already? Dick jokes and nashgabs can fucking wait eh?" He strides towards the twins as he speaks. The left corner of his lip drops down. The twins lower their heads, putting their poker faces back on.


    "Sir," Yuri says in a careful manner. His brother nods before both of them side steps past me.


    Tectonically, the twins are not under Luthier''s wing but this old man got this effect on people. Even though I''m leaning on the wall I can still feel it. A natural sense of leadership that inspires respect to those who know better. Even these two fuck canons know convergence is in order.


    Luthier watches them disappear in one of the alleys and turns his head, looking at me up and down. His left mouth corner drops lower.


    "Haven''t seen you in ages, Laddie. How ye''ll holding up?" He put his arm around my shoulder as we walk back to the storefront. Being in Faust before I was even born, Malcom had lost a big portion of Scottish accent. But some words are still hard to comprehend as the intonation makes it sounds like he''s singing. Not to mention the Gaelics in them.


    "Seen better days. But can''t complain since I''m still breathing, sir." He lets out a hum of approval. His lower lip twitched.


    "And eh....... did my boys told you the new rules yet?" He gestures towards Arseny by the side of the windows.


    "He did, sir."


    "So you understand my situation eh? Letting you in is making an exception in the rules I made." His eyes tilt to the road in front of the shop and the curious eyes in the alleys.


    Better play it safe now.


    "Rules are rules. You don''t have to explain it to me, sir." I shrug. Malcom lets out a rusty chuckle.


    "Exceptions are disrespectful to rules..... but rules can be changed." I raise my eyebrow at his words. "Tell me ladie, do you know if the epitome of contradiction is a person, who would that be? ..... not a gangster, but in deeper than most. Not a russikye, but living amidst Russian cunts. You know who it is. Laddie?"


    "Got some ideas. Sir." A hint of mischievous flashes through the old crooks'' eyes.


    "Good." He takes off his right-hand glove, revealing a wrinkled hand full of calluses. He spits in his hand and extends it. I do the same and shake his. Luthier is pushing 60 but his grip remains firm and strong. I match it as much as I can. From the corner of my eyes, I noticed the beholders are all gone.


    "Get the words out. No Asians, Qins, Street trashes, or mercs associated with piao jie are allowed to have my services on the tenth street. Unless they have my saining." Arseny nods and flips open his phone again.


    As the luthier push opens the front door, smell of wood and gun grease mixed together got out. Every time I enter the place I''m marveled by how redolent it smells.


    Pass the messy display area a workbench with an unfinished cello neck in the middle, the counter, a draped door and a long hallway. The smell of iron and gunpowder slowly overwhelms pine oil.


    The brigadier stops in front of the door leading to the storage room.


    "Who is it?" In the plainest tone possible. He asks. "The epitome of contradiction." A chill runs down my spine. His Scottish accent came back.


    "You are. Sir." He lets out a dry and husky laugh.


    "Don''t sell yourself short, balach. I saw a glimpse of me in you......A bit less moutit tho." He says as he grabs my jacket collar and flips them upright. Muscle reflexes almost made me twist off his thumbs. "I bargained my place in the street with the cards I was dealt with and I would say........ mine are a bit better than yours."


    Looking at him straight in the eyes I see a tired old man.


    "In the coming weeks. I''ll have some little jobs for you. Clear up the schedule for old Malcom. Would ya?"


    My plate just gets fuller and fuller.....


    Not giving me time to answer, he opens the oak door that leads to the real ''Glasgow''.

 Quartz

    The place feels messier every time I visit Tungsten Filament bulbs on the ceiling illuminated the whole room. A few sets of workbenches in the middle, a L-shaped counter by the east wall. Metal folding chairs, and violin cases are all over the place.


    This room is like an armory, with enough firepower to win the Mexican-American war. Rifles, pistols, sub-machine guns, pump-actions, you name it.


    On the wall, in instrument cases, on workbenches, and in metal cabinets by the west wall. Cold irons from across the world all came to this place. With the gun business monopolized by the Russians, their gunsmiths and shops have all the things you may or may not need. And Glasgow is the biggest one in town so if you can''t find what you want here, you can''t find it in Noch.


    Three of the luthier''s man is chatting by barrels containing fuck knows what. A man is casually dissembling a Glock on a dirty mattress in the corner. Couple more by the work benches, busy with examinations and modifications. There''s a jukebox next to the door I just went through, two men are tossing coins to decide who gets to choose the next song.


    A pool table with worn-out green carpet close to the north wall by a 6 panels hardwood door. A bored-looking girl with a black beanie is smoking on the edge of the table while a lad in shoreline jacket is trying to get the 7 ball. Both have a bracelet full of silver pieces.


    Those two are new.


    A young man pushes open the door at the end of the storage room with a cart of plastic boxes full of cartridges. Two tough-looking fellows guarding the entrance to the loading area outside.


    I still remember the first time I was introduced to the place. The sheer amount of everything made me stand at the entrance for half a minute until another customer pushed me. Back then I couldn''t even get my hands on a


    Colt 38. Now anyone can get a 9mm or those one-used Chinese ''Tu qiang''.


    Reaching the conclusion that I''m getting old. I quicken my steps to follow Luthier in his kingdom.


    ***


    Couple of fellows noticed me walking in. The ones that knew me shrugs with a smirk, the ones that don''t avert their eyes once they saw Malcom next to me.


    Passing the jukebox, across the counter. Luthier takes off his other glove and throws both of them on the table.


    "Now." He puts both hands on the bench and leans forward. "What can I do you for eh?"


    "Check-ups," I say as I pull out my 1911 and Fn 509, unload them, and place them on the table. "It''s been a while since I use them, I did some basic maintenance this morning but thought I better let the pros take a look." I tilt my head slightly forward. Malcom smiles but the sagging skin around his left corner lip makes it look like he''s smirking.


    "Damoh!!" He turns around and shouts. "If you can''t get the bloody ball in after five focking minutes, you might as well give up! And trobhad!"


    The kid in the shoreline jacket ignored him and took another shot..... and fails. He swears something and throws the cue stick to the girl smoking. The girl smothers her cig by the pool table and starts aiming for the 7 ball too.


    Damoh jogs through the crowded storage room. Standing on the other side of the bench next to the luthier with an insufferably arrogant expression and a slight contempt in his eyes, sizing me up and down. Frowning like the view in front of him is a conundrum.


    Please give me a reason to put you through the wall. I beg you.


    "When you''re done with standard shit. Get these two through a test drive in the back, three rounds each would be enough." Luthier says while double-checking the chambers.


    "With ours or the chink''s?" Couldn''t make out the accents, but I''m pretty sure his balls haven''t dropped yet.


    "Ours." Damoh gave a nod and take my guns. Right before he turns around luthier grabs his arm and pulls him back. "Have you met laddie before?" With the same plain tone, Malcom asks gesturing to me. Damoh looks at me for a second, a sly smile and a hum.


    "Na, I have never seen the..."


    "I believe, we haven''t met before!"


    I raise my voice and cut his sentences before he say something that would piss me off. A smile creeps up the corner of my mouth instantly. It''s funny how easy it is to act when you''re facing those that you don''t care about. On the corner of my eyes I notice few fellows are looking this way.


    "Damoh right? Not a common name, I''m guessing you have a different one on the street?" Confusion flashes through his face before the uncaring attitude takes over again.


    "Why do you care?" I shrug.


    "I like to understand a person more, knowing I might meet him again." And stretch my smile into a grin.


    "........ §Ù§Ñ§Ò§à§Û§è§Ñ. My pals call me Moh."


    Christ, that''s terrible.


    "Well. Very nice to meet you Moh." I lean forward and lower my voice. Malcom is watching us with interest by the side. "I always thought it''s strange that there are no Belarusian around here."


    He''s not expecting me to know Belarusian, to be fair, I don''t. I only know this and some swears.


    "My name is Lee. I''m a mercenary." Locking my eyes with this punk''s baby blue I continue.


    "I noticed your mouth was in ''O'' shape before I interrupted you. Sorry about that by the way." I tilt my head forward and remains grinning. "Now, my theory is you were going to call me a ''gook''.......or you have a gift for looking like a retard while talking." His face a bit red, eyes slight bulges.


    "Since this is the first time we met. Out of civility and a higher regard towards you than you deserve....... I''ll take it that you''re just retarded." His right eyelids twitched as my grin disappears.


    "You should......


    "I have many names too. Go ask around, you''ll see. But for now, you can call me Lee. Mr.Lee. Sir...... Fucking hell. Calling me a merc is fine too. But don''t you ever. Addresses me in any other manners. Understood?" Damoh is now venting intensely, with his face all pink and red like he''s suffocating. A sprig of raven hair fell onto his face but that doesn''t stop him from staring at me.


    "Alright, you know him and he knows you now. Damoh, go get Iris and help Dan unload the new batch. You''re not fit for dorbie works now, looking crabbit like that." Malcom break the tension with an awfully cheery tone, for a moment I was ready for the six to grab my collar, fish out a folding knife, a gun, or grab one of the blunt tools on this bench.


    But the young bloke silently turns around and make his way back to the pool table in strides. Glaring back at me every five steps.


    There are at least a few dozen before it''s your turn.


    Noticing a hint of pain on my knuckles, I look down and see my hand had clutched into a fist for some time now.


    "That. Was a cheeky move, old man." I say as the luthier grins like a lizard across the table, propping his hands on the table.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    "No idea what you''re haverin, laddie." He says while brushing his beard.


    "Next time you need to lecture your man on respect. Please don''t use me as a textbook. Where did you even pick up that stray? Sir." Malcom subtly shakes his head around.


    "You can go ask that arse Igor." Looking back at the loading area he says.


    Damoh went by the girl in a beanie and go straight through the back door. She looks at him for a moment, signs, and puts down the cue stick. Heading our way, I took a better look at her and notice there are small burn scars all the way up his left arm. But taking her clothe in account, I suppose she doesn''t care about inquiring eyes.


    "Sir."


    "After the standard procedure. Put three rounds each in the back, both of them."


    "Ours?"


    "Ours."


    She nods. Putting all my stuff in a plastic box and carries it to an empty bench by the wall.


    "I like that one better." Malcom exhales slowly as he propped his hands on the table again.


    "Aye ...... Awright, what else laddie?" He pats the table announcing we''re back in business.


    ***


    The reason I came all the way here instead of just going to the lanes (Even their price is cheaper) is because. As I mentioned, Luthier is one of the biggest arms dealer in Faust that''s open to me. If I can''t find it here, I couldn''t find it anywhere else.


    It''s a long shot but....


    "Do you have some stuff ...... that could get passed metal detectors?" Lowering my voice in this place is pretty meaningless, but I still do.


    Malcom pauses for a second. Frowning.


    "Airport eh? I might have something." He said as he starts pulling shit from under the counter. After he throws an army box full of grenades, a bunch of augmented parts and a roll of toilet paper. He finally pulls out a small carry-on luggage.


    "Fortified metal on all eight corners, but your dag has to be small enough. Even after dissembling." Putting the luggage between us, he starts showing me how the metal lid at the corners can be removed.


    It could work. Though carrying luggage in a high-end club is probably the most suspicious thing ever.


    "Brilliant stuff. But do you have something smaller? Maybe a briefcase?" He stops for a second. After putting the luggage back, the luthier asks in a lower tone.


    "It''s not planes aye?"


    "No. Is..... a more secured place."


    "Well..... believe it or not. Modify briefcases sold out." His lips left corner drags down again.


    Wait.


    "That so? When did you sold the last one?" Malcom scraps his beard and gave me a warning gaze.


    "A while ago. Before you''re back." A wave of very obvious cold anger appears in his eyes, telling me this is all I can get.


    Again. I hope I''m just paranoid.


    "So what else do you have? Except for luggage and briefcase?"


    "Depends. Are you going to be naked while passing the detectors?"


    "......I don''t think so." Malcom raises his eyebrows. Then, he gives me a knowing, almost sympathetic smile.


    "In that case." He raises his palm to face me. Walking past the workbenches in the middle. He came back with a carved wooden box with Victorian-style patterns.


    "I don''t go around peddling this beauty to anyone, laddie. But considering our friendship and never you gave me any troubles."


    God damnit, he''s going to sell me some shit I''ll never use again.


    "I decided to show you this." With a grin and the cunning expression of a magician revealing the card you have drawn was a joker. He opens the box.


    A thin black fabric wrapped the object which sits on the crimson interior of the wooden carved box. Malcom pull the edge of the silk slowly revealing an elegant dagger. Curved hilt, about the size of a bayonet, double edge. Detailed patterns of thorns and roses are carved on both the grip and the blade itself. The carving is so complicated it makes the flora patterns look like spider webs without taking a closer look.


    But the exquisite craftsmanship is overshadowed because the fact that the whole dagger is transparent. Shining under the illumination of the lamps on top of us. The red fur interior of the box conveys a sinister look for the dagger. As if it is a remnant of a witch hunt in medieval Europe.......


    "Beautiful shard of glass." Malcom gave a disappointing look and signs.


    "It''s quartz, laddie. Both Grain and hardness are far better than glass. Or steel in some aspect. Heard it was used by an assassin from Tudor period."


    "And did you raided an antique shop to get it, sir?"


    "Psk, you can''t find a beauty like that in ay bloody antique shop! Balach, it''s a work of art you''re looking at!"


    "But isn''t quartz daggers easy to break?" Malcom lets out a loud hum, his messy mustache tilts forward and slowly falls and slopes down.


    "Try it yourself."


    I can''t help but let out a sigh as I do what he says. The touch of the dagger is cold, colder than steel. I won''t lie. The weight of this thing is amazing, maybe lighter than the one on my sleeve. The edges are a bit thicker than normal daggers probably to prevent it from breaking too easily. Despite the edge, the sharpness of quartz is unmistakable. Even a slow slash creates wind breaking sound.


    I wonder if it''s shaper than the one Qin Yan gave me.


    Spinning it between forward grip and underhand grip. I noticed the balance is also impeccable, though the curved hilt might need some used to.


    But after a few more slashes in the air. A subtle sting on my palm appears and the sweat makes the handle slippery because of my tendency to grip a dagger hard. Another downside of a full quartz blade.


    Just when I''m about to put it back. An idea came to mind. I grab the black silk in the box and wrap it on the hilt. Layers on top of layers.


    Gripping it again. The soft fabric decreases the stiffness and coldness of quartz. Making it easier and more comfortable to hold.


    Bringing a dagger doesn''t make too much change if I got set up at Club 57 but going in there naked(of weapons) feels even worse. Looking up I see Malcom smirking across the table like he already knew what I''m going to say.


    Thank fuck he is a gangster, not an insurance man.


    "How much?" Malcom smiles so wide I can see his white teeth.


    "3 large."


    "........" He shrugs, raising his open palms full of callus.


    "Selling it for less feels like a desecration. I''ll have nightmares, laddie!"


    "And ripping me off doesn''t?" Luthier cackles and slowly shakes his head.


    I swear if that thing snaps in half in someone''s throat I''m going to ask for a refund.


    "Fine. Deal. But I''m going to charge you extra on the job you talked about."


    He smile like a lizard with the corner of his left lip twitching. We shake hands. Taking out one of the white envelopes in my jacket''s inner pocket. I have to add another 500 from my wallet.


    "Have fun in the garrison! The dafty cunt won''t see it coming." I let out a chuckle and lower my head. Shaking my finger at him.


    He thought I was going to prison.


    He closes the box, right hand gently brushes the lid before handing it to me. A flash of..... something gone through his eyes, before I made out what it was. The sound of weathered guitar strings rings behind me.


    7 seconds of intro perfectly captures the vintage sadness and old memories del Shannon is about to tell.


    "As I walk along, I wonder....


    I turned around and sees the two fellows tossing a coin in the back finally decided what they''re picking next on the jukebox.....


    The same question that''s been asked for centres slips through the staircases, reaching the edge of the roof, behind the ''staff only door''.


    "A what went wrong with our love?


    We don''t have an answer, because answers are not needed. Everything was right in the world. I was blindly wasting it.


    A loud ''clunk'' from Iris putting the plastic box back on the bench made me realize I''m slipping again. I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose, sweeping the images in my head under the rug again.


    ***


    "The old 45 is fine. You might need to change the wooden grip since this shit kicks hard, it may slip when your hands are wet. But judging from the spring''s condition you already got used to it." Iris explains while taking out my 1911 from the box. Showing me the empty chamber and the newly cleaned and lubed slide, frame rail, barrel.


    The girl knows what she''s doing.


    Holding the 45 in my hand I have to admit. Though I''m very used to the touch of grip, the slick wooden grip did cause me some problems in the past. I once change it to a texture grip but it just felt..... wrong. Like its not mine anymore.


    I put in the mag, rack the slide, take out the mag to add another round, and put it back again before holster it on my back waist.


    "The problem is with the 509." I raise my eyebrows as she takes out the 9mm and places it next to the Victorian box.


    "I didn''t run into any problems when I checked it this morning." Malcom leans on the table with an amusing look.


    Iris tilt her head to the side. Her eyes are Nordic blue, the color of an energetic youth matching her age. But I don''t see signs of an opinionated teenager in her. It reminds me of Euforia''s shoreline in January with tiny waves in the distances, the cloudy sky blocks out sunlight making the ocean seem darker than it is.


    "When was the last time you use it?"


    "Some time ago." Malcom''s eyebrow twitched in an almost unnoticeable small motion.


    "You''re lucky." She nods slowly. Her tone is not impressed or taunting, just staring a fact she observed.


    She jumps over the counter swiftly. Taking my FN 509 she extracts the magazine and pull the slide back completely. The tilted barrel raises upwards like always.


    "I didn''t notice any problems at first either. Until I ran 18 shots in the back with six different ammunitions. The results are all the same. Shitty accuracy accompanies by shitty velocity." She shrugs and starts dissembling the gun.


    "So I take it back to the benches and ran another set of tests. But still nothing, then I find a identical model and finally found the problem."


    As she finished her sentences, the semi-automatic is now in parts.


    "The first problem is the barrel, see here? The rifling is a hot mess." Iris holds the barrel vertically and points her pinky finger at a spot I can''t even see.


    "Next is the color of it. At first I thought it was just debris but notice the color changed as it reaches further?" Her finger traces from the chamber to the muzzle. "It''s cause by gases escaping."


    Is she nocturnal animal? How the hell did she saw that?


    Malcom shifts to the right to have a look at the barrel too. He raises it towards the lamp suspended on the ceiling, squinting one of his eyes. Eyebrows down and closing each other.


    "And cases rupture." He states before throwing the barrel into the box of scraps. "That piece of yours is done for, I bet the pin is royally fucked too."


    Case rupture..Aren''t that cause by....... Oh. Right.


    "Laddie." Luthier slowly inhales and exhales. "Did you mess up the caliber by some chances?" He asks with a grin bigger than Nan. But his eyes tells a different story and his Scottish accent disappears in thin air.

 Fell off a truck

    The last time I fired the gun was about three months ago.


    They chased me into the subway. As I ran downstairs to the platform, the train to Nochnaya closed its fucking door right in front of me. Shouting all kinds of swears I can think of (most of them probably don''t make any sense) I almost tripped as I jumped down the last few sets of stairs.


    I took a risk and look back, there are five of them, though judging by the size, the one in the back can count as two. Their eyes bulged, veins visible on their necks. It''s going to take at least six minutes till the next train is at the station. The streets of Via Martinase and the city center is not like other areas of Faust. Cops still exist in these parts, I make a mess in broad daylight on the street, the cops might finish the job for them.


    And as far as I know, the police will most likely turn a blind eye when they see who are the persecutors.


    And there are no safe houses or establishments I could hide since they''re all run by the fellows chasing me.


    Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide......


    Killing afflicted members of any gang would have severe consequences but as much as I don''t want to. At this moment I can''t find another way.


    I ran towards the bathroom on the far left next to a wall full of graffiti of racial slurs and an old couple who immediately move to the other side of the platform as they saw me and five angry Japanese racing in their direction.


    "Wish I''m half as smart as they are." I thought to myself as my shoulder bump opens the public restroom''s door.....


    ***


    The muscle of my left thigh tighten up around the stitch mark. A shapeless hand clutches my sixth and tenth rib, tearing it outward, harder and harder.


    "In my defense......a 200kg, grim-looking motherfucker was going to drill a wakizashi into my brain. I ran out of bullets. And there''s a parabellum-looking cartridge on the floor. So....." I raise my open palms giving him an honest to god sorry smile.


    Malcom closes his eyes and scratches his cheek full of scars and stiff beard. "Iris. Throw the rubbish in the bag and go help your brother." In an instant, she swipes all the parts back into the plastic box without a word. When she walk passed me our eyes meet, she tilt her brow.


    "And laddie..... Guessing you''re in the mart for a new piece eh?" With a smile of a Komodo dragon on his face, he opens his eyes. The same mischievous glint shines.


    I wonder if he has a switch to turn on and off his accent?


    "Depends. I could always go back to using my sig. Unless you have some new toys?" A hum stuck in his throat due to coughs, making it sound like a purr.


    "I do, laddie. I do...... A new batch just came and besides the regulars. I got some real quality stuff. Come!"


    Following Malcom across the storage room, some folks are still giving me curious glances. But compared to Icebreaker, the new faces here are relatively less. 10th Street always has high standards Even at the brink of war.


    The two guards in front of the doorstep aside when they see Malcom approaching, nodding their heads as he walks by.


    The loading area is bustling. Cases of


    ''car parts'' are getting unloaded off the truck. Crates stacking in the empty space next to them. I see Damoh leaning on a cart while Iris''s crunching down checking the exterior of the crates.


    Remembering Malcom told the girl to help her brother. I''m starting to see the resemblance between those two.


    I notice the Talaria of Mercury logo by the side of the truck and on the uniform of the driver smoking while leaning on the wheel.


    Straight out of port.


    "Kennel! No fash on the road?" Malcom stopped by the almost empty truck and shouts at the driver.


    "Meh. A dog shouted at me while I drive by, fucking animals spite on my truck." Malcom left corner lip drops lower.


    "What kind of dog?"


    "Xolo." Malcom''s pupils look like cold, hard stones with cracks all over them due to centuries of rain.


    "Was it a big one? Or a skinny one?"


    "Big one. Well fed."


    "Aye...... Nothing else except rude animals?" The driver shrugs. "Splendid. Don''t worry about the dog. A fat dog doesn''t run fast." Malcom pats the driver''s shoulder and resumes his way to the crates.


    Damoh immediately walks away when he sees me leaving his unaware sister. Iris stands up seconds after she''s done examining the batch. She looks around, signs, and pushes the cart to the storage room by herself.


    Luthier picks up a hard rifle case that stands out amongst all the ammunition boxes and wooden crates with ''Context fragile. Handle with care.'' printed on them. I noticed a red cross on the case.


    Humming a three-note melody, he leads me to the empty ''shooting range''.


    ***


    Calling it a ''shooting range'' is a bit too classy for it. The place used to be a narrow hallway between walls which nobody ever uses. One day, luthier found out the wall between Glasgow and the skyscraper next to it has a thick layer of acoustic foam panel in them. Installed by the last owner before he and his father bought the place. The guy couldn''t stand the sound of construction noises when the 10th street was just founded alongside Euforia, so he spent a fortune to make the wall facing the constant noises completely soundproofed.


    With a bit of redecorating, a table, some white chalks to mark the distance on the floor, three practice dummies(that change a lot), and some LED tubes on the wall. Malcom made a shooting range in the middle of a city with theoretically strict gun controls. Which cost less than 500 bucks.


    Luthier kicks open the half-closed door and put his left arm on my shoulder. The range is currently empty. A bunch of 9mm shells scattered at the the half forcibly pushed me towards the workbench at the corner of the room. A big fucking grin on his face.


    Placing the case in the middle of the bench, his fingertips taping a rhyme on its carbon surface. My nose twitched as I catch the scent of gunpowder, burned metal, and the particular smell that only materialize after a considerable amount of bullets were fired in a crank space. Is like burning coal and saltpeter.


    Reminds me of Viv........ shit, I need to call her back quick.


    Refocusing on the reality, I found Luthier still standing in the exact position with a crude grin. His eyes are filled with excitement like a teenager showing his friends his booze stash underneath the vent.


    "Right. So, enough of the ceremonial suspense sir." I place my left hand on the table imitating his pose and grin. "What do you have this time?" He exhales loudly, head shifting back.


    And with a dramatic motion, Luthier unbuckled the safeties and opens the rifle case.


    "Luthier."


    "Aye?"


    "What happened to the ''limited stock'' rule."


    "Meh, that''s for the big motherfucks. These babies are still on the table.... for the right fellows."


    Custom and competition stuff.


    I only know two of them, and it will already cost a fortune even in the most gun-friendly country to obtain them.


    "See anything you like, laddie?" Malcom raises his eyebrows with a genuine smile on his face.


    "I see my own bankruptcy, sir."


    "Eh well.... the price of these are..... fluid. So don''t just fucking stare! Feel them!" He slaps his palm on my back without a warning I almost elbowed him in response.


    "Here. I know you got a thing for these vintages." Luthier says while handing me a variation of 1911.


    "45 as always. Carbon and stainless steel, 43oz is a bit heavy for others if they''re trying to one-hand it, but you''re probably used to it by now."


    Wooden grip with textures. Smooth fucking slide.....too smooth.


    "Standard 7 plus 1 in the chamber. Easy thumb safety. Feed ramp refined to the point it can load a round even if you''re in hell or Desalos."


    There''s a smell on it. My thumb grazed an extremely small plump on its frame. If it weren''t for the fact that I''m so familiar with this model I would never notice.


    Black oxide. Freshly done. The serial number was removed not long ago.


    "So." His left hand slams down on the table making the entire case move. "What do you think laddie?"


    The grip is a bit unnatural compared to my own, the rest feels like one of those remastered version of Ferrari. Newer, faster, smoother. But just can''t stand up to the original.


    "Extremely satisfying weapon." I placed it back on the case. "But I''m not looking for a new 1911 as long as this one is still around." I slowly pull out my own 45 with my finger off the trigger. The extreme comparison between the two somehow made me like the one in my hand more.


    "Eh." Malcom raises his hands in the air. His sagging lip couldn''t be more obvious right now. "Not forcing you laddie. And don''t worry. I got a hunch that thing will still be here when you  decided to come back." A sly smile forms on his face as he moves on to a pistol with smaller frame.


    "This is a glo...."


    "No sir."


    "......."


    "Sorry sir. Really not a big fan of that model." Malcom signs. And moved on to a revolver.


    ".357 Double action. Six shooter. Best of the series. Walnut grip, I got some other models if you want a snubbie. But all in all, this thing is the most balanced one. I''ve done some..... personal adjustments to the trigger. Most revolvers will jam the fucked up if you don''t pull the trigger all the way down. And it''s a pain in the bawbag to pull.....I changed that."


    Looking at the pistol with a small smile before handing it to me.


    It''s heavy. Different kinds of heavy. The same weight and smaller frame make the sensation more obvious. I weigh it out in my hand and check the cylinder. I''ll admit the grip is good, a tight fit for my hand. The barrel could use some work but overall I can see it saving my life in tense situations.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I know a lot of people who carry revolvers. I couldn''t judge them since it''s my own problem of never getting used to these.


    I raise my head and see Malcom''s little smile still there, the left corner of his lips twitches as the muscle tries to form a normal smile but fails.He knows I never use revolvers but still wants me to feel it.


    A cheeky smirk flashes through my face before I put on a serious one. Placing the revolver in my shoulder holster with my left hand(It doesn''t fit of course.) I stare at the wall in front of us. And count to four.


    Pulling out the revolver as fast as I could, I put one at the imaginary guy''s stomach and brain. Two clinks sounded louder than it is in the soundproof room. He''s right, the trigger is amazing.


    I hand it back to him with a grin. He returns me with a nod.


    But before he place it down on the case, I noticed there was a small shape of color at the butt of the gun that was lighter than the grip itself.


    Another one freshly removed.


    "Picky wanker innit?"


    "When I have options," I shrug. "Sir, mind if I ask..... where did these batch come from? These aren''t factory ones. They''re custom stuff." I point at the hard case.


    Malcom was going to move on to the next piece but stop his motions when he heard my question. Turning around, body facing me. Luthier knit his eyebrows slightly.


    "If you''re worried about if it could be tracked. Don''t. They can''t be. As for where they came from...." Malcom pauses and starts tapping the case again. He looks at the red cross on the rifle case, deep in thought.


    "Let''s just say they fell off a truck." As he raises his line of sight towards me again. A crooked smile curls on his face. Mischievous on his face, warning in his eyes.


    "And does the truck driver know something fell off?" I ask in a manner as casual as it gets.


    "He doesn''t. And he won''t. Like I told you. Dinna fash yersel!"


    I raise my hands in the air like I''m surrendering. Malcom nods in approval and moves on as if nothing happened.


    "Next up. This is a new one, invented last year. Not on the global market yet. A multi-caliber pistol, it can hold 7.5mm, 9mm, 10mm, .40 Smooth experience and transitions in all types of barrels, this one is probably the easiest to modify. But the safety is small as fuck you might need some practice."


    He hands me a gun that looks like it''s from one of those cheap sci-fi movies. A big fucking dustcover area at the front. The thing is fully black.


    "Polymer frame. 38oz. You can put a light or laser sight under the big chunk of plastic. I ran through some field testing on all calibers it could fire. I can guarantee it''s a bloody powerhouse even in 9mm."


    It looks like a CZ, weighs like a Barreta 92, and feels like a Jericho. It''s just......


    "It''s fucking strange innit?" I raise my head and stare at Malcom raising my brows. He shrugs and continues.


    "Honestly, couldn''t blame you, laddie. I don''t like it either! It''s like...... a dirty hurdie eh? Anything you put inside her, she takes it. She''s just waiting for it..... And it looks like a polis gun."


    I can''t help but let out a laugh.


    "Like I said. Everyone''s picky when they have options." I hand back the pistol. Malcom grins as he places it back in the case. There are two more we haven''t tried. The one on the left I couldn''t tell which part is the slide. And the other one...... It doesn''t have a bunch of weird or flashy designs which makes it stand out among others.


    "What about that one." Malcom''s mouth becomes an ''O'' shape as he sees where I''m pointing.


    "Good eyes laddie. That''s a work of art.Americans make guns like they''re merchandises, Germans make guns like they''re pocket watches, Russians make guns like they''re tanks. But the Italians. They make guns like they''re bloody guns."


    He hands me the pistol with excitement in his eyes.


    "That''s a Pardini GT9. You''re in luck! I got a full set for this model, any modifications you want, old Malcom can do it for you." For the right price. "It used to be a competition pistol. Invented by some Italian shooter that''s way too picky with guns just like you so he made his own dream gun."


    Full black, wooden panel grip, very pronounced beavertail. Fret checkering at the metal parts plus the fact that it uses a double-stacked box makes the grip a bit bulky but manageable. The whole thing is about the same weight as the last one. But much more balanced.


    "Semi-auto, chambered in parabellum or Italian 9mm(21). 17 rounds. 5-inch barrel. Some don''t like the sight, I could change that if you want. Feed is a bit tricky at first but once you get used to the angle it will become a second nature for you. Oh, and this one also has a tilt barrel like your blasted FN 509."


    Holding it with my left hand. To be honest I can live with the weight is just the thing is still a bit big. My left-hand gun is usually for me to quickly draw in the middle of a confrontation, I need it to be fast, to be smooth.


    I rack the slide a couple of times and found it to be even smoother than the new 1911 I just tried.


    Holstering it in my jacket. I let both of my arms drop down by my thighs. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and imagine the wall in front of me has a head, body, limbs, and a gun in his hand. In an instant, I pulled out the Pardini, unlocked the safety, and put two bullets in his face. Feels slower than usual.


    My palm has a slim red mark on it. Caused by the grip.


    "Full steel?"


    "Aluminum alloy frame, steel slide."


    "39oz?"


    "38."


    "Feels a bit bulky overall. Could you make it lighter?" Malcom tilts his head for a moment.


    "The mag is full steel. I could. Theoretically makes it lighter. But it won''t change much. The slide is already perfect as it is, can''t change it.....although I could do something to the grip."


    He carefully get all the guns in the rifle case out and removed the first layer revealing a lower deck full of all types of gun parts and tools. He rummages through the unorganized mass for a while before he shows me an ergonomic wooden grip in deep red color.


    Clutching it, the same slick wood touch at my palm is as good as the original one. But the slight curve makes my PIP joints suffer less at the vertical part where the frame and panel meet.


    It won''t make it lighter but will make it easier to draw.


    "This could work." I passed the grip to luthier. Within 20 seconds, he changed the panels and screwed the new one in.


    "Try it now."


    It feels like a completely different gun. Initially, I only carry the 1911 around. The big chunk of iron was goddamn unbearable at first, especially for someone who''s always been skinny, but over time it became a part of me. Being extremely familiar with one particular gun can be a double edge sword.


    On one hand, you can utilize it to the fullest, on the other hand, every other gun feels strange in your palm.


    The Pardini''s weight is alright for me. The main problem is the double stack and wide grip. And now with a new one. The thing feels natural in my hand, the ergonomic grip feels comfortable and easy to handle.


    "She¡¯s ready, sir. Can I have a test drive?" A small dose of adrenaline rushes into my blood.


    "Ha! Haven''t seen you in high spirits for a long time laddie." Malcom''s sagging lip twitches again. He bents down and pull out a box of cartridge under the bench. "Old rules, one mag. Standard or something hotter?"


    "Standard''s all good." I grin as I add. "Can''t give you more reasons to rob me."


    ***


    Standing in front of the table. I raise the Pardini to align the sight with my eye. The iron sight might need some adjustments indeed.


    With a striker fire pistol. I always like to pull the lever first even if I don''t have to. I gripped it as hard as I can since it''s a new one, the first round might be rough. My right thumb presses on the ''made in Italy'' mark..... a small buzz rings in the back of my head, signaling something out of place. I tilt it and check the spot I pressed. But there''s nothing but the line of words.


    Resuming the motion, I aim at the dummy 10 yards away with two open eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. My left index finger moves from the lever the feeling came again. But this time I decided to ignore it.


    Finger on the trigger, breath in, breath out....


    I''ll admit I got spooked when I pull the trigger and it immediately fires with zero resistance. Just a crisp, almost silent ''tik'' before the powder ignited the 9mm in my chamber, making it swirling through the barrel. The rifling keeps it steady as it drills through the air until it made an impact on the dummy''s throat.


    "Nice recoil...... considering how robust it seems." And considering it''s a new gun. Malcom nods with a knowing smile.


    I turned around to face the targets. 15 yards, three rapid shots. As my ear rings, I noticed the steel slide racks perfectly and fits the frame tightly which also reduces recoils.


    Putting another three to the 25-yard dummy. I''m starting to appreciate the accuracy. But every time I press down the trigger it always fired before I anticipate it to.


    I change to a bullseye stance facing 90 degrees away. Left hand, one-handed and put three more rounds in all three of them. Even while one handing the pistol''s recoil is still amazing.


    I holster the gun in my jacket again. Staring at the dummy 10 yards away I change back to a normal shooting stance. Some shoots while holding their breaths. I don''t, since most of the situations I ran into will all be over in the manner of seconds before your gun have the chance to sway off target.


    Breathe in. Breathe out. I sneak my left hand into my jacket, palms against the new grip making the initial uncomfortableness disappear.


    Pull out, hands extended, eyes on target all the time, as soon as the iron sight blocks half of my vision I squeeze the trigger. The dummy shakes after I made a new eye on its forehead.


    The slide racks back completely. I tilt the gun to 45 degrees and check the chamber like always. The pleasant smell of burned coal hits my nostrils. As my left thumb brushes past the ''made in Italy'' a weird pressure on the back of my head appears again. I take a closer look.


    There''s nothing on this side of the frame except the the model name and place of production.


    Wait.


    I check the other side where my index finger was placed but there''s nothing neither.


    Where''s the serial number on this gun? Or the trace of removing it?


    Checking the butt, barrel, inner chamber, grip, even the trigger guard. But I found nothing but the Pardini logo on the slide.


    Flipping the gun I found a small carve on the under barrel. It''s in cursive font. Latin.


    Casus Belli


    Cause of war.


    The adjusted trigger, smooth firing, and slide needs no ''break-in'' whatsoever. This was someone else''s piece.


    "Sir. Where did you get this?" I ask as I show him the inscription. Malcom doesn''t even look at it.


    "It fell off a truck laddie......A different one."


    "Italian truck?" Luthier shrugs.


    "Does it matter?"


    "Will it matter?"


    The old man inhales deeply before he says in a plain tone without an accent.


    "I wouldn''t sell you a gun that would get you killed laddie.......Aye, it was someone''s piece once. He was smart enough to erase the numbers a long time ago, and the Latins under the barrel..... I can''t remove them since the cunt carve it so deep that you can''t scratch it."


    I put the gun down and take a step closer. Luthier''s eyes are heavy, the burden of a lifetime long tragedy and roughness. Come to think of it now, he can also be considered the successful example of a dreamer in Faust. And look what that made him now..... I see a tired old man in him. A real man, but tired. He arms himself by disguising the tiredness as a calm and unmoving solemn. Since both will look emotionless in others'' eyes.


    But I see something else. Hiding deep down under that rusty iron which had been penetrated by over the years of living like this. I see sadness. To me? No......to the owner of the gun. He knew the person.


    Sometimes I look at seniors in the organization such as Igor or Eugene they will occasionally slip, and show this kind of expression in their eyes before quickly hiding them under ruthlessness and crudeness.


    "If you say so, sir." I nod slowly. Grabbing the gun and handed it back to him. "It''s a fine piece. Exquisite one. But it''s someone else''s."


    Luthier nods stoically and put it back inside the case.


    "So I''m going to need two more ..... adjustments before I take it." Luthier raises his eyebrows. Confusion in his eyes.


    "I want an inscription too on the frame. Next to the takedown lever, along the slide."


    "Aye..... I can make quick work of it......" Scratching his beard the old man nods again. "What do you want to put on it?" I think for a moment before answering him.


    "Causa latet, vis est notissima."


    ***


    It took him quite some time at the workbench in the storage room before it was done. He uses the same cursive font as the one under the barrel, the space is a bit crank so he has to break it into two lines. But the finish is perfect.


    My fingertips swipe through the impression. Without it, it feels like I''m still holding a stranger''s firearm.


    "That''s all I can do with the machines here."


    Pulling out a brand new violin case, he puts the Victorian box from earlier in the space for the violin body, the unloaded Pardini in the space for pegbox, three spare mag, a box of 9mm, and a tiny screwdriver for me to readjust the trigger in the box for strings or rosin.


    Putting a cover cloth on top of the box and the gun, luthier locks two straps at the corners of the violin case making sure the products won''t shift around. And the interior pillars also help with reducing bumps and jolts. The services of Glasgow are as good as always.


    "The gun itself, the grip, the words which are a pain in the arse to engrave, and the check up. That will be....... 45 hundred ."


    "There''s one more adjustment though." Luthier knit his eyebrows. "The price. It''s a used gun after all." The old man rolls his eyes.


    "Fine 42."            "35"


    Luthier opens his right palm with the back of his hand facing me. Saying this is bullshit without saying it.


    "4 large." I extended my open palm and rolled it back like I''m throwing a ball towards my back. Meaning that''s not going to work.


    "39 Laddie. Don''t push it."


    ".....36 and I won''t charge you extra on the job you mentioned earlier."


    He froze for a second. After a mouth click he extended his right hand.


    "Deal."


    ***


    Carrying the violin case in my hand, Malcom walk me out of his store with his arms around my shoulder all the time. As I step into the long hallway that leads to the storefront my mind drifts to other shit I got the do today.


    A route forms in my mind once we got back to the display area full of all kinds of instruments. But a thousand ravenous borers infested on my stomach wall suddenly starts dragging their little mouths. Making me feel like they''re trying to turn the thing inside out.


    A quick mental math later I found out all I consumed in the last 18 hours are either cocktails, vodkas, cigarettes, or drugs...... Ok, I had an espresso this morning but that just increased the hunger right now.


    1:14 After checking my watch I decided to change the route and go to Noriyaki''s place first.


    The sunlight have become more unforgiving than earlier. I fish out the sunglasses and put them on. Arseny is still on the phone, noticing the sound of the door opening he raises his head and gives me a nod.


    "Hey, laddie!" The sound of luthier rings behind me. I turn around. Luthier puts his hands on the belt as he stands at the doorway head subtly tilting to the right. "What does that mean? The sentence you want me to put on it?" A smirk creeps up my face.


    "The cause is hidden, but the result is well known."


    The old man finally succeeded in smiling normally for a second. Before his skin forces his lips to drop down again. He nods in an obvious motion like he''s silently agreeing with me. Arseny by the door knit his eyebrows looking at the pair of us and shrugs.

 Extra chapter: Caribbean Oneirophrenia

    I was in a prison on a perilous cliff. I have my own little quarter, pictures of flowers, and plants on the wall, in front of my creaking wooden desk. Two steps to the right is my folding bed. No sheets, but in this place I don''t really need them anyway. It''s even hotter than Faust over here.


    The exit and entrance of my cell is a solitary steel door with rusty metal fortifications and rivets the size of an egg.


    7 paces directly from the door is the only window in this place, I should be happy there even is one. Not to mention the view.


    The view lights up the atmosphere, I can sapphire color ocean changes the flow of waves with the season.


    Distant islands by the horizon, a single palm tree on a reef directly under my window, a patrol speedboat with guards fishing on them on every sunset, when the chances of catching yellowtail snappers or Barracudas are better.


    It''s a peaceful sight, I have been staring at it for almost a year now. Thankfully, I haven''t got sick of it yet.


    I didn''t bother bribing the guards, I don''t really need favors from them in here.


    One of the prisoners used his shitty Spanish to hint that he could bring me some grass or a pipe even newspapers while I was in the yard. When I ask him about a burned phone he laughs, next time in the shower the guy picks the spot next to me.


    Under the sound of inconsistent water splashes and men shouting in some foreign language which I doubt they invented themselves. He told me he could theoretically get it in his equally crappy English, but it''s going to cost me.


    I used six different languages to tell him I''ll cut his dick off if he tries anything.


    Not sure if he gets it, since he just carries on talking about how my ''cousin''s brother'' will visit me next Thursday, and he''s going to be conveniently wearing the exact same shoes that I''m wearing now. And since he''s my relative, I can meet him in the big room instead of talking behind iron-bared windows.


    Guessed he run out of favors or got caught before, the guards are on him 24/7 lately.


    I agreed, but just as he was leaving, I noticed a tattoo of female genitalia under his armpit, on his ribs.


    The guy was positively in a Russian prison before, and he¡¯s a thief.


    It doesn''t really bother me. Everyone was a thief once or twice, just happen to steal from the wrong guy and got caught. But it did make me rethink how to approach him in the future. If needed.


    Thursday came. I met my ''cousin'' in the open guest room. An inmate is staring at the table while a middle-aged woman glares at him with watery eyes, a woman in one piece is talking about how her shop''s doing this season while the plump of her pregnant belly slowly deflated while her hands move under the table every time guards moves away their sight. I sat down in front of the only Asian face in this room except me.


    He got into the action immediately, bullshiting a bunch of Japanese words while kicking off his sneakers under the table. I do the same while returning him with Chinese since I can make out more words that way.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Pretending was like second nature of me. I laugh, squint, twitch the corner of my lips, and even made my eyes red while nodding to his gibberishes.


    We keep this going for another ten minutes after we traded shoes under the table. He hugged me before going through the security check.


    The guy with a vagina tattoo came walking by my side with his hand on my shoulder before I get back to my block. Gave me a few instructions about how to get his cargo out of it. Patted my shoulder as I walk back to my cell.


    It was meth, unsurprisingly. Along with some needles that seems more suitable for knitting than whatever the fuck he''s about to use it for. And of course, I don''t give a fuck.


    I spend an hour getting all the stuff in the layers of leather uppers. At least he''s not stupid enough to hide it in the sole or insole, where the guards check first. And would make me look like I''m wearing a flip-flop afterward.


    I hid the stuff in the tube of the front legs, the place was supposed to be completely sealed but the last inmate in this cell did god knows what to it and opened the bottom, there are even tape marks inside them.


    The motherfucker definitely knew the guard would do a surprise inspection on cells the second Thursday of cardinal months, and I would not rat him out even if I got caught. There''s a code for this kind of thing, you just don''t talk to the ''authorities''. You deal with whoever fucked you over after you got out of the box and got three more years on top of whatever you were on.


    The guards came as expected, but since I''m a model prisoner in their eyes for the past 10 months. (some guy tried to ''confiscate'' my dessert at the dining hall, he got to breathe fresh air outside for about two hours before he was declared clinically dead)


    So they didn''t bother me, one of them check the back of my pictures and the inside of my mattress, the other tried to see if I''m writing some sort of code on my letters but gave up when he realized he can''t understand English.


    The next time I''m in the yard the guy came straight at me with the biggiest smile I''ve seen since I got in. He even got two ripped fuckers with him to make sure I kept my word and didn''t shoot all the batch into my vein last night, the idea did came over my mind. But the side effects of those shit were too obvious, and I''m not planning to extend my stay in this place.


    I gave him the stuff while I was ''spotting'' for him in the gym area.


    He was good at this, twiddling his fingers for a single second and he knew I didn''t cut his stuff short.


    Then came the exact scenarios I foresee the moment I saw his tattoo. The cocksucker act like he doesn''t know me when I ask for the phone.


    Usually, this kind of scenario would never happen in Faust of my reputation and the fact that I''ve been a merc for more than a decade and am still alive. But I''m not in Faust, and I''ve acted like a model fucking inmate ever since I got in, this guy doesn''t know better.


    So a few days later, I bribe the guard on duty that night because I know he understood Spanish better than anyone, I gave him all the cigarettes, coins, and bills of six different nationalities I won in card games on movie nights with some cellmates who doesn''t like "the sound of music" either.


    I ask him to ignore some whimpering at night on the second floor of block C and take his time on the first floor''s morning inspection.


    That night, I came with nothing but my bare hands. But it''s plenty enough. The timing where inmates could moves around with freedom between their cells I''m not going to specify what I did that night. Let''s just say I should''ve paid the guard''s double for all the whimpers that night from a certain place on second floor, cell 40152.


    The next day, the guy with a vagina tattoo was walking in a very strange manner. And for the first time, he was wearing the prison-issued jacket.


    A week or two later, he spot me in the gym area. And gave me a flip phone.


    Took a bit longer than expected, but it felt damn good when I get to talk without worrying about getting shanked or bugged while talking.


    Lying on the squeaky folding bed, my fingers move on their own as I dial her numbers, at the sixth digit do I realized what I was doing, but I continued.


    Steady, almost rhythmic beeping came as my heart hardened and sinks, like a peddle for stone skipping. As far as it goes, tip toeing on its fate. It will eventually of the lake in the end like anything else.


    "The number you dialed is not in service... El n¨²mero marcado es incorrecto o se encuentra fuera de servicio......"


    The peddle reached lakebed.


    I''m in an undisclosed prison somewhere at the Caribbean, on a cell overlooking a gorgeous view of distant boundaries between bleeding sky of twilight and the shining sea of cerulean.


    And my mind still decided to drift back to the same place.

 Extra chapter: origin of ‘Faust’

    Before the canal was built, before Faust was first used for smuggling, back before it was named Faust.


    (For convenience I will keep referring to it as Faust.)


    When the city was just a fishing village. The waves of revolution came, people fought, and bloody battles are won by the revolutionaries with methods unknown to the people. The people of Faust don''t care about the change of regimes since it doesn''t affect them at all, why should they care about it?


    That is until one of them starts listening to the radio and found the pirate channel of the guerrillas. Every afternoon they will have a speech about the importance of liberty, fairness, freedom, love, and the significance to dream of a life free from oppression and dictation. The speaker was the leader of the revolutionary army who calls themselves ''mosquetero del rey''.


    Every day, people of this small fishing village will gather around the only radio in town awaiting passionately the deep, stoic but vigorous voice of Rold¨¢n, the charming leader of the resistance, a knight in shining armor who sworn to save the country from all the injustices and torments cost by the evil leader.


    Young men bid their mothers goodbye and joined the guerrilla, wife kiss their husbands twice on the forehead for good luck. They sing while waving their hats in the air.


    Wrinkles crawled on the soldier''s se?oritas, sickness put their mothers in a wheelchair, and television was invented so the people of Faust could curse at the face of their great leader. Because it''s always good to have someone to blame for right? And the more they hate the government the more they adore Rold¨¢n, some historians found records of deification.


    Official record (poor reliability) states the warfare lasted 11 years. The loved ones waited for their returns. Every afternoon, they will listen to the inspirational words of Rold¨¢n, promising that righteousness will prevail and the battles had been won ''We will reach the capital in no time'' This become a slang in the future meaning false promises.


    Years passed until one day, on the National day of our country, the resistance launched a surprise attack in the capital. They won and executed almost everyone in the office. Some say they could see the blood on Rold¨¢n''s ''Manche Mousquetaire'' when he gave a National speech right after the fight ends.


    The war is over. They''re free, everyone is freed. But most importantly, the sons and husbands of many can come back home. They name the little plaza where folks used to listen to the radio ''Mosquetero'', and not just Faust but all over the country people changed their street names, and their children''s names after the revolutionary army.


    There is no official record of how many guerrillas died in the span of warfare. All we know is not even 1 out of ten came back home. And those that did came back with PTSD, drug addiction, alcoholism, and waking up at 3 in the morning with cold sweats. They were the broken souls of time. And the one thing they have in common is these soldiers never speak of what happened after they left home. Not even to their own.


    What comes after, no one anticipated...... well, no one but them.


    Rold¨¢n announced the abolition of Congress, the restoration of monarchy. And declare himself a ''Humble servant of the people, pioneer of the new age, founder of our great nation reborn! .......and its new king." That''s when people realized ''mosquetero del rey'', the ''Rey'' was referring to himself all this time.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    Absolute power corrupts absolutely. He was worse than the family he executed. The whole country was in lockdown, riots broke out. The sound of people was ignored, but now it''s being monitored.


    Three weeks after the manifesto and the legislation of the new law. At Faust shoreline, in a bar where veterans of revolution like to go for a drink or two.


    16 old guerrilla fighters killed themselves, leaving their journals and a letter with all 16 of their signatures (now in the museum).


    They exposed what Rold¨¢n did during the revolution in the name of a better tomorrow. Some of the details are still classified today, the official reason is ''Not suitable for the eyes of public''.


    Veteran suicide is not news but 16 at once caught people''s attention even in a little fishing village like Faust. The king''s man came days later, then, Rold¨¢n himself came to Faust to attend all 16 of their funerals.


    He made a speech in the town square to express his condolences to his brave brothers in arms, he wept, the camera zoomed in and he continued talking.


    Close to the end of the speech, a little boy squeezed through the crowd of people and the crotch of personal security of Rold¨¢n.


    He was off town with his mother to visit relatives in a nearby city, in the amphitheater there he saw a foreign opera name ''Faust''. He didn''t understand the play completely so he asked his mother to explain the plot on the way back home.


    The little boy''s mother used the easiest way to explain it but he still doesn''t understand why there is blood on Faust''s hand. The mother told the boy he could ask his father to explain it again.His father''s always a better storyteller.


    But he can''t. Because the little boy''s father drank the same poisoned wine with his 15 other comrades. The people in town hid the journals and the letter from the king''s secret police and gave the freshly made widow the journal of her husband. The mother read the journal over and over again. Even today, you can still see the words on it blurred by tears.


    The mother who was drunk as it get at the time, pointed at Rold¨¢n''s face on television and shouted "Maldito diablo! Maldito diablo!"


    The little boy doesn''t have a clear understanding of what''s ''the devil'' but he remembers that''s what his mother told him on the way back. Mefist¨®feles


    The little boy doesn''t have a clear understanding of why his father killed himself since his mother doesn''t allow him to read his father''s journal. But by his mother''s reaction and what people told him he understood the man on TV killed his father somehow. And he''s coming here tomorrow.


    So the boy waited. In the crowd of people. Until the moment came he passed the guard, pull out his father''s pistol, and shouted.


    "Muerte a mefist¨®feles!"


    The bullet didn''t exactly kill Rold¨¢n right away, in fact. He died of infection 18 hours later. But the boy was killed by the guards immediately after the shot. The whole process was televised.


    So begin another round of chaos and bloodshed. The last words of the boy became the motto of a new revolution. Dictators come and go the country gets into an endless cycle until two things came. Money and canal.


    In some way, the canal saved the country and made Faust what it is today. Whose idea was it to build the canal still remains a mystery. Some say it was the Americans or the advisor of one of the rulers or some rich opportunist.


    People fight when their lives are shit, but when you can live in the wealthiest country on the continent. Who gives a damn about revolutions or totalitarianism? The freedom fighters, the people, and even the dictators in the capital know that opportunists of the free world don''t work with dictators.


    Money made them soft, since why the fuck would you care about democracy when you can get even more filthy rich just by stamping the ships passing through? As time passes by, the regime slowly lets go of its iron fist until the curtain drops. The country became a ''republic''.


    Causa latet, vis est notissima.


    Now the country became one of the biggest business centers in this part of the earth. Nobody cares about the grim and depressing history of it. The government is now working ''for the people'' as the congress are back. The Mosquetero streets across the country are getting renamed, Rold¨¢n and his followers belong in the history books along with dozens more after him.


    The only thing of reminder is the little fishing village by the shoreline which is now a  metropolis. The citizens changed its name to Faust after the assignation of Rold¨¢n.


    What was meant as a warning now seems like a mockery.

 Underground

    Three blocks east of Glasgow, I take the subway to avoid walking through downtown. After all the mess I went through three months ago, it''s best not to push my luck with the japs.


    Sitting between a businessman in his 50s talking loud on the phone with headsets on and a young fellow in his 20s staring at me from time to time from the edge of his hoodie. The idea of getting a car crossed my mind again.


    But it''s merely an idea. I got an international driver''s license but I can''t remember the last time I was behind the wheel. Never did have the chance to buy or drive a car when I was still another fool running around the city like there was no such thing as mortality. And after watching too many folks getting whacked while they''re driving or just getting lit up with the whole car. The idea of cornering yourself in a metal box seems impractical in all kinds of aspects.


    Vera agreed with me on autos for different reasons. Mainly because they''re easy to track, way too loud and obvious so when they absolutely need one usually it will be stealing someone else''s (Mainly by Viviane) and burning the car afterward (Mainly by Vera) like the night I met them.


    The guy in the hoodie is getting on my nerves but thankfully as the metro reaches the station I could disappear in the flock of physically and mentally exhausted men in suits and get off the subway.


    They''re like a school of fishes surrounding each other, creating an ecosystem and society of their own. When two men are both moving towards a set of door at the same time, they will immediately notice it and quickly take a peek at the other person, taking his appearance, apparel, age, and general sense of presence into account before deciding whether to turn down your pace out of politeness or ignoring the person completely. A sight that greatly reminds me of my trip during the past three months.


    Following swirls of businessmen, office workers, secretaries. Girls in brown flax vests, oversized white shirts, and sunglasses. I slowly approach the stairs with nonslip pads.


    A ray of ultraviolet squeezed through the small angle between the metal canopy and the stairs itself, falling on my chest. Like the angry white eye outside is squinting to see if it''s me.


    I grip the violin case harder and harder, I fix my jacket to make sure my stuff is still safely hidden under the fabrics, and I pull my pants higher so no one will notice the big chunk of iron. Every time I''m in downtown or business center the uncanny intuition appears, warning me this is not where I should be, I don''t belong here. This is not the lawless land like Noch.


    When the angry eye in the sky is able to cast its full malevolence upon me. I enter another world.


    ***


    Two streets north of Via Martinase, couple miles south of Monclea. It''s the business center of Euforia, Saint Elisha. But most of the people besides the politicians in Congress still call it Mosquetero Street or Manche Mousquetaire.


    Passing by a statue of 16 screaming men in various poses, I turn right and follow the crowd into ''Encrucijada''.


    Skyscrapers from downtown shine in the distance an extreme comparison to Saint Elisha. Because of the conservation of historic buildings, the reconstruction of the exterior is prohibited. Since this area was the first to be developed in Faust, there is a considerable amount fits the category.


    Therefore walking on the streets of Saint Elisha, especially on ''Encrucijada''. You''ll notice how the heights of buildings are very inconsistent. A five-story high, marble historic court could be standing right next to two 40-story high, glass business buildings of foreign corporates.


    Completely different from the damp and bumpy asphalt pavement of Noch. Saint Elisha is the front of Faust, the place where foreign brokers and companies reside. Most of our taxes went to the white and gold marble pavements and Victorian-style dark green lamp posts. Even the air taste much fresher.


    I make another turn and start heading south toward downtown. Bright street, wide pavement, the unavoidable sound when my shoes step on marble ground...


    Some say this part of the city is second next to Monclea as the most ''pleasant'' neighborhood in Faust but all I can think of is the lack of cover or alleyways to hide and how every single window above me has a set of eyes staring at me.


    The outspread avenues made my eyes wander around from the edge of the wall to the opposite side of the street. A hint of pressure in the back of my head kept signaling to me I''m in an open area with too many blind spots.


    God fucking damnit. I could use a puff right now....


    The idea flashes through my mind. But remembering I almost faint last night, I shake my head slightly and rub my temples.


    A 40ish man in an impeccable full suit tilts his eyebrow while walking past me, an unnoticeable smile made the corner of his mouth curl upwards. A glint of delight in his eyes like he made all kinds of assumptions about me in his mind before reaching to an amusing conclusion.


    Three blocks more down south, the historic buildings and sculptured marble pillars are slowly taken over by glass giants made out of rebar. The closer I am to Via Martinase, the younger the age of pedestrians become.


    To be honest, with the lowest crime rate. Folks in Saint Elisha''s are generally just old man in suits or brown wool coats and husbands in blue golf shirts with their wives in cardigans. Occasionally some poor college kids on bicycles working part-time jobs too.


    But I sure ain''t going to let my guard down ever again like what happened three months ago.


    The buildings on both sides are going through dramatic changes it''s like I''m not walking on marble pavements but the thread of time.


    Streets narrowed down, buildings got taller and taller, and full glass skyscrapers in all shapes and purposes rise up towards the sky pointing their lighting rods at the angry eye above as if it were a declaration of war.


    Wonder which will come first? The judgment day or when the guy upstairs decided to do another Tower of Babel incident.....


    It''s almost 2 o''clock, and even with my sunglasses on the sunlight still pierced my eyes and the full-glass business buildings doesn¡¯t help.


    Boutiques and scaffoldings reaching the apartments above shops tell me I''m getting closer and closer to Via Martinase. Nariyaki''s shop is about four streets away from here.


    Strange, usually close to this part there should be some of the...... fuck.


    Three sarakin walks out of a rusty metal door next to a food joint. The first one is holding a plastic garbage bag, the other two follow behind closely. All three are wearing biker jackets.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    I can''t tell if they''re affiliated or not. Might be small fishes but I''m not going to risk it. I press the sunglasses on my face and keep my hand on the bridge of my nose while lowering my head.


    When I walk past them the one holding a garbage bag knit his eyebrows. I double down and place my right foot directly in front of my left foot and ''tripped'' in a dramatic motion while making my body face his opposite side, acting as clumsy as possible while narrowing my shoulders.


    The guy let out a silent hum and moved away his line of sight. The two followed closely behind him. I watch them be on their way in the side mirror on a car by the road, after making sure they''ve moved on I pull my jacket upright and resume walking normally.


    ***


    Few miles north of Via Martinase. I make a right into an empty alleyway parallel to the ring. Passing a row of rickety bikes parked by a sign stand with a giant arrow put together by neon tubes pointing at the stairs bu the wall.


    I''m slowly walking into a minefield. The back streets here, downtown, and the financial district I just went through are infested by the boryokudan. And they''re still infuriated after I expiated for their casino which I may or may not have trashed.


    I walk past a concrete roadblock sign in the middle of the road stating no cars, motorcycles or bikes can enter and the asphalt trail starts getting narrower until two men can not walk side by side in this alleyway. Continue down the back street of Via Martinase for another 2 blocks give or take (it''s pretty hard to tell in an alley).


    Another left turn took me to a dead end, a Korean with a sketchy face is leaning on the wall while chewing something. He''s wearing a green army jacket over a band shirt with chinos and boots. About 28 or older.


    The man gets off the wall when he sees me approaching. He takes two big steps forward putting he''s hands in jacket pockets, mouth stops moving. I take off my sunglasses and raise my head. He stops, and a reptilian smile creeps onto his face.


    His left foot steps back, heel on the wall. Body spins 90 degrees counterclockwise, left hand extended towards the small set of stairs next to him, his right hand behind his back. Giving me an invitation.


    "It''s been a while since I last see you, sir." I nod at him while thinking how many times does he say the sentence a day?


    His eyeballs rotate slowly as I walk past him. The smile is still there, so is the hand. I take out my wallet and tip him three times more than normal, plus three cigs.


    He spins his palm and curls his fingers. The money and the cig slides inside his sleeves in the blink of eye. Once a thief, always a thief.


    The guy is a kobun in the clan, but not much committed to the ideology of respect, honor, they value. And he wouldn''t mind slipping a wanted merc in the organization to their business property. In Xiao''s words, he''s a ''Bie San''.


    As I walk past him and descend down the stairs he''s smile never fades away.


    The stairs are lit by red and blue neon tubes. Glittering from time to time since their cables are wired to the shops on Main Street. Some poor manager''s probably wondering why their electric bills are expensive as fuck in all seasons.


    Two sets of stairs later. Graffitis of all languages starts appearing on both sides of the wall.


    A portrait of a girl from the side with blue-green hair and a striped sweater, she''s holding a bouquet of flowers, covering her face unconsciously. A giant green ''LSD'' spelled in the ugliest font I''ve seen. A tendencia rotar helicopter carrying five bleeding hearts in the air while a load of people opens their mouths to an unnatural extent on the ground, trying to taste the blood dripping down the hearts......


    All manners of ''art'' in people''s eyes left a mark on this stairway. The colors collide with each other, stepped on each other, fight and merge with each other. Under the dim neon lights, together, they created harmonious chaos.


    But if you take a closer look(probably going to need a flashlight). You might just catch a glimpse of what a specific work carries or what the artist was thinking.


    ***


    Three more sets of stairs straight down. I enter one of the ''Jile jie'' or ''little Kabukicho''. Much like the real one in Japan, this place looks damn deserted in the daytime with only a tattoo parlor with.... concerning hygiene problem since a rat just springs out of it with a bald Japanese man following behind trying to stomp it is opened right now.


    The pachinkos are turned off, rows of rolling doors hide the hostess clubs and bars behind their cold metal.


    The place used to be a metro station left unfinished just like many others around the city because some pigs in the congress realize this is the easiest way to ask for more funds for ''local modernizations''.


    Time passes, and if I remember correctly, the senator that first issued the plan and a few with her were busted for graft. With the fingerprints of yakuza all over the place.


    By the time she was arrested, the place had been abandoned for 6 years, the congress decided they need to ''fill the holes the rats made'' and ''stop meaningless expenses'' so all the underground metro stations across the city became white elephants.


    And the japs made good use of them downtown and financial district. Underground casinos, pachinkos, private banks(loan sharks), and a shit load of hostess clubs and karaoke.


    Got to hand it to them, those fellows single handily created Kabukichos all over the city and made them extremely popular amongst business men and fatigued office workers because their bosses will occasionally take them to these places for a drink or two.


    Of all the gangs in the city, these guys can be considered the most far-reached of all. Their strings go from the top of encrucijada to the leather seats of congress since these guys were businessmen in bones and achieving what they did in their homeland is much easier in a depraved, vigorous, and young country full of potential like Faust. Some even called them the new colonizers.


    They work in a more discreet way compared to everyone else but never the less they are a force to be reckoned with, the Italians test it themselves during the darkest decade.


    And I got on their bad side for reasons I don''t even remember....


    I walk passed the seventh row of rolling doors and finally see Dojo¡¯s shop. The sound of my steps sounds extra loud in an empty underground street even if I soften my steps. The light tube which sways on top of me glinted as if signaling my presence.


    Nariyaki''s place is not exactly a shop. More like a food stand that got stuck between two store. The hallway which was originally designed to lead to public toilets is rearranged by him.


    Seven stools by a wooden counter are the only seats in this place. Steams slowly flow out from inside. The guy even went through the trouble to install traditional noran curtains to block out unwanted prying eyes as it perfectly hides whoever sits on the high chair''s upper body.


    A wooden sign hangs outside which reads ''Open for business'' in Japanese. In all my years of visiting this restaurant, I''ve never seen the owner flips the sign. The joint is always open.


    I take off my sunglasses and move the curtain aside. The smell of soy sauce and charcoal mix with a distinctive sweet materialized. The borer in my stomach is having a blast.


    "Irrasashaimase!"


    A 50-ish man in a deep blue tracksuit greets me behind the counter with a hand in his pocket and the other holding a food clip. A small piece of his full body tattoo peaks out on his neck. I nod at him and pick the seat second closest to the bottom of the place and rest the violin case by the wall behind me.


    "Four on plate, one bowl."


    "Hai........chotto matte kudasai." The cook raises his eyebrows as he sees me picking that seat and says. "Kare wa sugu ni kimasu."


    "Wadashi wa isoide inai." I shrug as he puts a new grill grate on the burning charcoal.


    Fancy not seeing Nariyaki in his usual spot.


    The whole place is narrow and so poorly lit you can only see your own food. Four or five lanterns sparing whirling shimmers to this small ramen shop. Behind the seats, the left wall is full of black and white photos of ''Bozozokus'' from the past. Under the lantern lights and the steams, they seem somewhat melancholy.


    Only when I say down on the wooden stool(uncomfortable as hell) and rest my feet on the footrest do I realize how sore my legs are.


    Walking around the city is a good way to see the changes in the atmosphere and situations of different regions, plus it gives me reasons to skip leg days, But every time I take a break the lactic acid can be a bitch.


    10 minutes later, the chief brings me a plate of yakitori. Old habits die hard. 2 minutes later, I''ve finished them. Soy sauce in my mouth leaves a dried and sticky texture, the sensitive cook hands me a glass of tea before resuming to move the noodles to a Tebo. After draining the water he pours them in a ball of soup and brings it in front of me.


    Another 8 minutes passed, I''ve finished my noodles but Nariyaki is still nowhere to being seen. Bored out of my mind and don''t want to smoke right after lunch, my mind drift to the tailor Ivan mentioned.


    "Give them a bit of hint about who you are they will also provide you some....extra services. With your reputation, they wouldn''t block you.....


    Hope he was right or else I''ll be walking into a tailor with a bunch of cold steel.... My hand unconsciously moves to the dagger Qin Yan gave me. The pommel makes it easy and comfortable to hold while reverse gripping, I¡¯m willing to bet this thing was designed to be held like this.....


    The sound of leather shoes on tiles came from outside. I move my hand out of my jacket and turned around. A man in full black walks in. He''s rocking a long slick back haircut with way too much wax making it look like he''s wearing a shiny helmet. His leather jacket makes a squeaky noise every step, complaining about it doesn''t fit him.


    "Kyodai!" He opens puts his index finger on the middle of his right palm which is missing a pinky.


    "Hai, bosu."


    The man moves passed my violin case with effort and sat down next to me on the first chair to the left, the stool made a crying squeak.


    "Mata sete gomen." The owner of the shop turns towards my direction and slightly lowers his head with a smile.


    "Taking your time is a virtue Nariyaki-san. It means you''ll never be bonded. Not even by the most primordial limit of man." He smiles, looking like a potato with a knife cut. The tattooed koi carp on his neck squint its eye.


    "So..... what can I do for you.... Mr.Lee?" Cracking his knuckles, he leans forward on the counter.

 King of pawns

    Nariyaki, nick name Dojo. Used to be a shateigashira. And a very capable one. Now he''s one of the abandoned pawns of the gumi. The nickname ''dojo'' first came from the inner circle of the organization, later on, it became known in the streets too since this guy got a lot of ''friends''. Instead of dedicating himself to the organization and his new brothers and seniors, dojo likes to wander around the organization''s territory, making accountancies of all kinds.


    Back before he was punished, he used to be seen around the many underground casinos of the southern ring (Via Martinase). And some of the folks with more insights at the boryokuda, mentioned he also managed some of the debt-collecting business but he never do the dirty work himself, always got some of his shatei or many of his ''friends'' to do it for him.


    He was a player too, his name was known around downtown and even in Noch for being well-connected and.....less rigid about the rules of his gang. (Some said he prefers Glen Avenue more than some of the kyabakura)


    The days when he can walk around the city center with people bowing at him left and right came to a dramatic end. The reason is completely oblivious to outsiders, all we knew was that he must have done something truly fucked up to get himself where he is now.


    After a certain incident, the yakuza released an open contract for his head, not metaphorically they want his ''head'' for good money.


    As soon as the bounty was announced, he disappears. Many of his friends were questioned by the gang and freelancers but the answers are all the same, they don''t have the slightest clue where he is.


    Eventually, mercs and the gumi got tired of searching. They believed he skipped town which was the most reasonable action considering everything. But two months later, he came back.


    Most of the outsiders thought his name ''Dojo'' got something to do with the bullshit samurai stuff the japs won''t shut up about, for the word is commonly known as the place where swordsman practice.


    But the truth is, the pronunciation of ''dojo'' has more than one meaning in Japanese. Such as loach, which is the real meaning of his nickname. They called him dojo because the guy is one slippery motherfucker and no matter how hard you try to catch him, he always gets away.


    Nariyaki came back and convinced his former brothers not to gut him on sight and listen to what he had to say.


    The rest is unknown to outsiders again, I''ve only heard parts of the story from some of the seniors in the mob. All we know is, they committed a ''sakazuki'' and cut off both of his pinkies which is rare because usually sins that can''t be amend with one pinky is paid in blood.


    After the ritual, the yakuza withdraw the bounty. He''s a member of the family again, but the glorious days are over for him. He can only manage this specific entertainment area and nothing more, he can not recruit new members (theoretically), and he can not expand, if anything goes wrong here he will have hell to pay. And so, this small kobukicho became his cage.


    But as the organization basically ostracize him and left him to rot in this place, the dojo got his own plan. He starts contacting all his old pals, not for favors just to ''chit chat''.


    The guy knows his way around small-time gangsters, hustlers on the ring, and thugs from all over the city. After a bunch of phone calls and some gatherings, he opens his new business in an under-construction station. It was about 10 years ago, not long after I came to Faust.


    During these ten years, he had turned his cage into a palace, his own little kingdom. Before he was assigned here, the place only has a few sets of pachinko machines and plastic benches.


    Now it''s one of the most well-known underground streets in Via Martinase, and every bouncer, bartender, clerk, receptionist, playgirl, manager, thug, doormen, and guard are all his ''friends'' who monitor every little detail of customers, they''ll lick the words accidentally slips from people''s mouth and sing it in dojo''s ear.


    He became a fixer, trading information for the price he sets to the folks he chooses. And a very successful business man who got half of the thugs, homeless, street punks in his pocket. Those that are rejected by gangs and society come to him and became one of his ''friends''.


    ''Dojo'' Nariyaki transformed from a gangster to a kuromaku, a king of pawns...... Though his weight remains the same over the years.


    But if anyone knew about club 57 and is willing to tell me. It''s him.


    ***


    "As you know. I''ve been off town for a while," A smirk forms on my mouth, and my eyes narrowed. "Now when I''m walking down the street I felt like I missed out quite a lot in the past few months. So I thought I might pay my friend a visit to see how he''s holding up and let him help me catch up on the latest news."


    He raises his head up slowly until he can see the ceiling as his mouth clicks. All of a sudden his head drops back to facing me in a violent motion, a smile forming on his face faster than a blink. Layers of fat on his neck shakes, a drop of sweat squeezed out of his skin, falling down from the tail of koi carp.


    "What''s the gloom for than?" He starts laughing with the sound of a hyena. "Just an innocent chit-chat between friends...... nothing serious." Dojo pushes his seat back and crosses his legs, head resting on the wall behind us, right neck to my case.


    I smile wordlessly.


    "Last few months..... uh. How long are we talking about?" Nice fucking try.


    "Few," I said with a wider smile. Dojo''s eyes drift up to the ceiling again.


    "Well..... war is about to break down in the southern parts. But you already know that." His lips twitched at the end.


    "Kind of a long time going eh? What makes everyone think is going to happen now instead of dragging another five years?" He shrugs.


    "Five years of anguish is enough reasons...... Mr.Lee, things had heated up quite a bit since you were gone. Heard there were 9 Russians dead just this month alone."


    "And the Qins?"


    "Around the same number I guess, my friends and I tend to.... Keep our distance from them. But I''ve heard they offed some scouts on rector street a few days ago?" He raise his eyebrow. That was a question towards me, not an answer. I sign in my head and nods slowly, turning my body towards his direction like I''m about to tell him something big.


    "Aye, nasty business. Those two were Igor''s scout...... between you and me..... I heard his preparing for a retaliation very soon."


    The place is dark as hell but I can still see Dojo''s left eyelash move as he quickly memorized what I said.


    "And what about the other saints of Faust? Been keeping it down while the other two are playing?" I quickly change the topic before he asks for more.


    "The Italians stated they want no blood, Chinese or Russian, in their lovely neighborhood. They don''t want shit from this conflict or coming towards them either......Although some of Don''s boys are itching for action." I raise my eyebrow, he shrugs gesturing that''s all he knows......or that''s all he can tell.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Not surprised. They have been keeping it down for some time now, no reason to suddenly get involved in this bullshit. But the tinos on the other hand...."


    "It''s been dead silent over there too, my friend. Besides the usual bloodshed on Desalos, the priest''s many ''child'' seem to be uninterested either. Ha! For the first time in history, Desalos isn''t number one district on body counts." His Adam''s apple moves up and down as he laughs.


    It''s not like them to let go of such an opportunity


    "So everyone be sitting at their porch eating popcorns and watching the bloodbath down south?"


    "At least in the gumi....."Dojo raises his open palms. But then, a glint slashes through his eyes. "But in the freelance market ..........I''m not so sure." Again. It''s a question towards me instead of talking to himself.


    "I came back two or three days ago. I only got a chance to have a drink at the lanes yesterday and from what I heard...... the market demand for.....physical labors is basically the same. The Qins are still a bunch of petty motherfuckers not releasing anything worthwhile to outsiders even at war. And the mob...... let''s just say they''re only testing the water now. Not much different to the freelancers anyway."


    I watch Dojo slowly digest what I said, thinking about what he can make out of it.


    "What about the reapers?"


    Some folks in town likes to refer to cleaners as reapers since that''s what they are essentially.


    "The big names in the industry haven''t done anything dramatic. If those celebs were involved in this shit I''ll definitely hear about it ...... but the ones inside organizations though...... I''m not too sure." I said in the same tone he used a minute ago. Dojo smiles a crooked smile.


    "No works of white death at Nochnaya or Piao Jie for the past few months. A friend told me he saw her when he wander off too far off Lesnaya late at night......."


    ".......And ?"


    "He ran a marathon back to his apartment, lock the doors and lay on his bed with a fruit knife for the rest of the night. And the next morning he wakes up, he found his bed sheet drenched in sweat and piss."


    Dojo smiles softly while shaking his head. For some reason, he looks ridiculous when trying to express compassion.


    "Did he..... mention anything about her? How did she react?" Dojo tilts his head to the side, his cheek pressing down on a photo of three teenagers on Harley Davidson.


    "Now thinking about it. He did mention she whistled something, but he didn''t quite catch that as he was running away."


    If the guy is smart he''ll leave this life behind and never go back to noch again. He was damn lucky she wasn''t in the mood.


    "Sounds about right... What about the yakshini? Any news?"


    Yakshini (or Yaksha) is one of the legends in this city, a very capable assassin owned by the Qin family. Known for sneaking through people''s backyards and killing them when they least expected.


    Fame is a double edge sword in the city as I mentioned before. These celebs such as the white death, yakshini, and many solo cleaners were known for their work, and some for their.....''ways'' of operating.


    But no matter the case, being one of them means you''re destined to face retribution and unwanted late-night visits. So they developed their own way of dealing with it.


    Yarkshini can be seen as the best at hiding tracks. People only knew of the person''s existence because one of the Qins slipped it.(he payed for it)


    Although haven''t been proven, Yarkshini is commonly refer to as ''she'' since the guy who slip it used a female noun.


    From past records, she seldom leaves witnesses or survivors. The person was known for wearing a full Oni mask (the image of oni actually originated from Yarksha) to hide the identity of her or him. Even with such an obvious trait, the person was still mostly regarded as a myth since she is very very less seen compared to other folks of her caliber.


    And considering my situation, it''s best to know more about her too.


    "That''s the interesting thing, Mr.Lee..... You see, my friends and I are all very......keen on collecting interesting information." Gossiping rumors. "But over the past six, maybe seven months she''s been out of sight."


    "That. Sounds.......unsettling. I might go ask around some of my own friends about it."


    Dojo nods slowly before tilting his head to the side. A flash of greed goes through his face as he gets off the wall.


    "Bosu." The cook had brought him a plate of six yakitori.


    ***


    "What about you, friend?" He asks while munching his mouth full of food, a drop of dark brown sauce was going to fall down from the corner of his lip but his pink tongue licks them off first.


    Two minutes in and dojo already finished half of his food.


    "Tea, please!" I don''t answer dojo right away instead, I raise my empty cup to the cook. He nods and mumbles something as I turn my head back.


    "What about me?" He swallows the rest of the meat on stick and grins. Eyes narrowed down to a thin line which made me question if he can see like this.


    "Are you going to stepped in the eyes of storm or wait it out like others?" I laugh with my teeth in full display and turn back facing him completely.


    "I''m going to buy a nice little condo downtown, every morning I''ll go to one of those fancy coffee shops and sit by the fifth street, drinking geisha coffee from Jaramillo while reading newspaper to see which side is still standing."


    And definitely not going to get myself meddling with some emperor''s only daughter....


    Chewing the chicken meat off the fourth skewer, dojo nods rapidly. The cook refills my cup wordlessly.


    "Smart move....but I would recommend you buy the little condo up north. My other friends......still have some issues with you, Mr.Lee." I tilt my head.


    "And what may those be?" Dojo knit his eyebrows as his lips curl downward.


    "You still worth a lot, I''ll tell you that. But the contract changed about two months ago..." He stares at me with a hint of smirk. "As long as you don''t go into one of their establishments, the contract is dispensable." Moving down to the last stick of chicken meat, dojo finishes it in one go, his fingers twirling the bamboo stick.


    "Meaning...?"


    "Meaning if anyone sees you in our establishments and they kill you. They''ll still get paid. But only in that situation do they get paid ....... such as now."


    The fat fuck launched the bamboo stick to my face and stop in mid-air as broadly as it begins. I remain motionless the whole time. Dojo rolls his eyes and return to his comfy position.


    "I almost forgot you''re the calmest person in the city......when you''re not drinking." I exhale like I''m letting out laughter.


    "Welp, that''s because I have faith in you, my friend. If it was someone else I would''ve left three gaping holes on their head." I shrug casually. He wipes his mouth clean with his sleeve.


    The tea is getting cold in my hands.


    "Hum...speaking of which. I wonder what made them loosen the web. The fathers treat disrespectful acts very seriously you know?" I put my hands around the cup, feeling its warmth slowly dwindling.


    Yeah, I sure as fuck know.


    "Don¡¯t have even the slightest clue. All I know is I''m extremely grateful of this outcome."


    "I''ll let them know if I have the chance." Dojo rubs the sweat off his neck as steam from the grill behind the counter heat up the joint. Dojo starts pursing his lips.


    ".......When you said I still have a price on my head. How much are we talking about?"


    Dojo takes a quick glance at me before he raises his right hand, thumb curling inward, the other three and a half fingers extended. His jacket sleeves drape down showing a glimpse of a full-body tattoo.


    "Grand?" Dojo let out a high-peach laughter that sounds like a newborn then proceeded to cough like a heavy smoker.


    "....Add another zero."


    I can feel my mouth curling downward while raising my eyebrows. As I nod slower and slower until I''m freezing in the seat. From the corner of my eye I can see dojo''s expression changes a few times like he''s thinking what should he respond to this situation.


    That''s almost the same as three months ago...... still enough to give people funny ideas even though the contract is limited now.


    "Tomoyo. Kanpai!" All of a sudden, I dragged my facial muscles to form a smirk and raise my cup to him in a vital motion. Dojo laughs like a deflated ballon till he starts coughing again.


    "Kyodai! Ocha o kudasai!" Before the cook can react to his order. I pull out a relatively heavier envelope in my inner jacket, place it under my cup and push both to his side.


    Dojo''s eyes tilt to my side as a smirk forms on his face while his still coughing. The greed in his eyes is palpable. He ignored the tea and pulls the envelope first to weight it before stuffing it in his pocket then finishes the cup in one swig afterward.


    "Something else on your mind, friend?"


    In his shop, asking questions comes at a price. Most of the time you can pay him back by sharing some stuff he''s interested in.


    But sometimes when you''re asking some serious stuff or you want to keep the fact that you asked the question a secret you need to give him some extras. And what I just gave him suggests both.


    Nariyaki leans forward, elbows on the table, stroking his chin, staring at the broken piece of white tile in the kitchen across the counter. The smile and carefree attitude on his face is gone.


    "What do you know about Club 57?"


    I clenched my hands together and lowers my head before asking. Nariyaki side-eyes me with his eyebrows practically stick together, glints of many things rush through his eyes. Anger, doubt, speculation, warning..... pity. He chooses warning at the end as he makes a mouth click and nods.


    The cook decided now is a good time for a smoke break and walk out with a towel hanging on his neck.

 Dine and dash

    "What do you want to know about." Dojo''s voice sounds much less..... ups and downs in intonation.


    "Everything." The man next to me slowly exhales a long breath.


    "The club is a member-only place not open to the public. It was founded, protected, and owned by us. Originally built for oyabuns and their business associates to have some private conversations years ago. But the number of associates kept growing and after a while, even the ''fathers'' couldn''t stop them from spreading rumors about the place to their friends. And believe me, Mr.Lee, those guys have a lot of friends."


    Dojo moves my cup to his mouth before he realizes it''s empty.


    "The place used to be for business only and nothing else, but after the associates starts bringing their pals along for..... mostly for showing off but also to introduce them to the Oyabons." Dojo rubs the stubbles on his left cheek as he studies my face to see what the fuck am I thinking.


    "Word got around the city about an exclusive club in the city center for the top players in town. Club 57 became a threshold for the top one percent of the top one percent in the city to filter the other 99.99 percent."


    "And how does a certain someone become a member?" Dojo''s mouth purse into a thin line like he doesn''t know if my question is amusing or idiotic.


    "To become a full-fledged member of that joint you''ll need to be filthy rich, the kind of rich that''ll reshape your understanding of this world. And extremely powerful in both our world and theirs. But most importantly, you need to represent something. Something they fancy...... Being known in the city is not enough." Dojo shoots me a warning glare at the end.


    "What about invitations? What if a member decided to bring friends along?" I crack my shoulder joints while asking. Sitting in this position is damn uncomfortable.


    "It will make them a guest. They can''t get in without being with a full member, nor enjoy all the services." Dojo stood up from the stool, walk passed the counter to the narrow kitchen and grab the clay pot next to the grill to refill his cup but he ran out of tea halfway.


    "This place......is it still directly run by you guys?" After he confirmed shaking the pot couple of times didn''t help either. Dojo bent down under the counter.


    "Mr.Lee. Everything here is run by the Gumi. Just a matter of who." The idea of a fat man crouching in a tiny kitchen to find tea leaves made my mouth curls upwards without noticing it.


    "And the who is....?" Dojo made a squeaky sound which I interpreted as a laugh and speak with a taunting voice.


    "Hayashi-San."


    Saiko Komon, the senior advisor of the company, is the so-called ''foster father'' in the family. Never heard much about him except he''s been with the oyabun for a very long time.


    "Tell me about the members. Do they allow other gang''s affiliated fellows in too? Or is it just the rich fuckers in downtown and Saint Elisha?"


    "Of course. Like I told you, as long as you represent something they like or deemed worthy, that includes the other big shots in the city that we''re more familiar with. Vors, Don, the pries and the family, I''m pretty sure the Qins too." Dojo finally rises up from the storage cabinet under the counter with a box of tea leaves.


    "And what if they tried to kill each other in the club?" Pouring out the leftovers in the pot, dojo turns on the water tap to wash the used leaves off the bottom of the pot.


    "They won''t. Weapons are prohibited in the club, not even a pocket knife is allowed. Besides, the place was built for the high society to network and socialize in peace. Act of violence or disturbance is a disrespect towards the whole gumi, an open invitation for serious retaliation even war."


    "So what? You can see La Vina and the mobs taking a Sona bath together?" Dojo shrugs as he taps the tea box four times, loose leaves of green tea drop into the kyusu.


    "More like sipping drinks while furiously giving each other glares from their booth. But rules are rules, even the bosses understood that they need a private and safe place in the city to discuss business too. The higher you climb in our world, the more you act like those rich geezers."


    "In the end, we''re all climbing the same pyramid. Maybe we start on different footing but we''ll eventually reach the same peak."


    Dojo is completely fixated on pouring hot water into the pot. Making him look like he''s talking to himself.


    "Any other rules except arms banned?"


    "Some.....likes to wear masks in public areas outside their booth."


    "What kind of masks?"


    Might as well.


    "All kinds. Carnival of Venice is always a trend, I heard there''s a ballroom in there."


    God damn Phantom of Opera.


    "Sounds like a cult gathering......wait how big is the place?" Dojo lets out another annoying laugh as he closes the lid on the teapot and place it next to the grill.


    "Every floor above 57 is a part of the club, my friend. The place got all the things you can think about. Heard they got an indoor swim pool." Dojo says while leaning on the counter from the kitchen, his four fingers tapping a rhythm I don''t recognize.


    A fucking theme park.


    "And what about the security? Tight?"


    Dojo flips his hands, palms up, slightly lowering his head as he keeps eye contact. Saying ''duh?'' without saying it.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Tighter than a nun''s private. I''m not talking about the ones by the coast or up north. I''m talking about the old British ones... Let me put it this way, the number of securities are usually the same as the members."


    Dojo brings the teapot around and fills his cup with freshly made sencha, the steam clouds the air between us.


    "Are they allowed to carry weapons?" Dojo shrugs again and takes out another cup under the cabinet.


    "Knifes. Mostly. Some might be packing heat but nothing too serious, this is downtown after all. People are sensitive about those things." After pouring the rest into another cup. He passes it to me across the counter.


    "Hontoni arigato....." I say as I blow off the steam. "And are they members of the gumi too?" Dojo lowers his head for a second before nodding.


    "Yeah. All of them."


    Alright...the mask is essential.


    "Entrance?"


    "Same route to the casino." Fuck.


    "Don''t go downstairs, pass the exit sign and keep going until you see a couple of fellows in white suits.....and I would suggest waiting till the guy with broken ear goes for a smoke break."


    Dojo blows off the steam and takes a swig from his cup. I do the same and found an astringent taste dangling around my tongue that wasn''t there.


    In conclusion, Club 57 was built for business use by japs, then it became a symbol of power and status in the city. The members consist of some of the most influential people, the rulers of this city on and off the table. Except for all kinds of facilities, the club is still business-centered as dojo implies. This means the folks in there values solitude a lot..... to the point they don''t mind looking like a band of 12th-century heretics.


    All things considered, the place sounds secure enough for the meeting......maybe not for me though. The 40k on my head still makes me feel like I''m about to walk into a hornet''s nest, the fucking arms banned is a bitch too, if shit goes south all I got is a Cristal dagger. But the rule and general dynamic of the club also makes it hard for Qin Yan to set us up which is the most important thing right now.


    The rest is my own doing.


    "Sore wa mondaide wa arimasen? Lee-san?" A distant voice retakes my attention. Dojo''s still leaning on the counter but his head is so low I can''t see his eyes. "You just got off the hook. Within a few months, no doubt my organization will forget about you .... Why so eager to be hung again?"


    The corners of my mouth feel stiff as it stretches into a grin without my permission. I don''t need a mirror to know I look like a fucking lunatic right now.


    Dojo raises his head, just enough to look me in the eyes. I see mockery, contempt, hesitation..... and reminiscent in that thin line between his plump cheek and drooping eyelids.


    Who the fuck do you think you are?


    "I''ll be alright..... As long as you''re alright. Isn''t it? Friend?"


    "Depends. A customer came to my shop at noon. He ordered two plates of chicken and a ball of noodles, then he asks me to tell him what I know about Club 57...... That''s what happened ...... for now."


    The emotions in his eyes were replaced by a calmness with greed and a longing for violence. The guy survived this long for good reasons.


    "The customer has some commissions. If the person finishes it without tribulations, attention, and blood spill. You can tell them you refused to give information about club 57...... if they have reasons to question you."


    Dojo remains unmoved. But I can see his pupils expanded and narrowed simultaneously like it''s a beating heart.


    "What if..... the customer fuck up? And it backfired on me?"


    I stand up from the chair.


    Stretch my arms and legs.


    And pulls out my gun pointing it straight at his forehead where a drop of sweat slowly slides down.


    It''s been a while since I draw my 1911 in a scenario where time is the factor. But doing it faster than this motherfucker is more than enough. Standing up, at the corner of my eyes, I see his left hand is on a revolver this whole time he was leaning on the counter.


    Smart move.


    But I caught him by surprise, his left hand is stuck in an awkward position. The gun is off the kitchen table, but he hasn''t aimed the muzzle in my direction yet.


    "Easy now. Buddy." My eyes shoot a glance to his left hand.


    Got to give him some credit. He''s not fast but maintaining a poker face this whole time is not a small deal.


    "This is what happens when he fucked up. And it backfires on you. You tell them, he put a .45 on your head, your man is out for a smoke break, it was noon like you said so there''s no one outside yet. You have no help. At first, you still refused. But then....."


    I move the pistol four inches to the left and squeeze the trigger. Before the slide is back in position again, I''ve already moved it back on his face.


    The sound of an old 1911 is like a small explosion, especially in a confined space. As pieces of tiles fall behind him, he will probably have hearing problems in the next 30 seconds to 30 years. A flash of panic flies through his face as he''s breathing heavies.


    "This happened. Under pressure and shock, you spilled what you know. That...." I point at the hole behind him with my left hand.


    "....And this are the proofs." I picked up the shell on the smoking shell on the table and place it right in front of him like it''s a tin soldier. Dojo seems a bit back in control of himself now, the poker face is back on again as he slowly nods.


    "That...could work......... but the gumi will ask why I didn''t report this." I let out a dry laugh.


    "But you did! You report back, right after the customer leaves. But the incident already took place at the club." Dojo knit his eyebrows for a second before a knowing grin creeps up his face.


    "And if the incident never happens....."


    "You''ll have nothing to answer for and nothing to report."


    The fat man starts giggling with his high-pitched voice. His left-hand moves away from the gun.


    "The customer owes me a big one........ wouldn''t you agree, Friend?"


    "Obviously, after the customer''s done with what needs to be done. Appreciation can be shown in..... many aspects, which is up for discussion next time." I slowly lower my gun but keep the barrel pointing at him.


    "And when would the hypothetical incident might occur?" Dojo is back in his usual self again with an upbeat enthusiastic voice


    "Soon. Don''t you worry, the commission is supposed to be nonbelligerent ..¡­ In theory."


    "I wish I can believe that, My friend." Dojo shrugs as he rubs his hands and massage the back of his ear.


    I fish out two 20 dollar bill from my wallet and place it under the cup of cold tea.


    "For your trouble. I''ll be seeing you very soon, Nariyaki-San." Dojo tsk and grins a malicious smile as he waves his hand like he''s trying to swat a fly.


    "Lunch is on me, you can pay for the wall next time." I let out another dry laugh at his words.


    "That was for the tea." Dojo raises his open hands in the air like he''s surrendering.


    I put my gun down, fix my jacket, and grab the violin case by the wall. Without turning my back on him this whole time. Nariyaki is standing there motionless, grinning like a fool.


    "Save travels. Mr.Lee. And good luck....for both of our sakes."


    Why is everyone telling me that lately? The thought flashes through my mind as I move the curtains before stepping outside.


    ***


    The LED lights outside form a strong comparison to the almost pitch-black food joint.I squint my eyes as purple and gold dots block out my sight. The underground street is still disturbingly empty, steel rolling doors are still shut. It''s just me and the sound of my footsteps in this place, I subtly turn my head to make sure dojo isn''t trying to do anything in any way.


    Ten more steps later (I intentionally soften my steps) I strap my pistol back on the holster.


    Closing the stairs up I sneak a peak at the tattoo parlor but find it empty too like the rest of the small Kabukicho.


    Strange. I was half expecting the bald fellow to come rushing to his boss when the gunshot happened. He would have made a perfect witness.


    I walk past the last few closed shops and start climbing upstairs. The narrow alleyway greets me with the ferocious sunlight and the smell of nicotine. On my left, the cook, the bald guy, and the Korean are leaning on the wall smoking....... my cigarettes that I gave the doorman earlier.


    The three of them nod at me with cordial smiles, I returned them with the same while thinking about something else.


    I take out the business card Ivan gave me while navigating my way out of this maze. 2:45 I''m back on Main Street. As I make my way north once again to Via Martinase.

 When in doubt, wear black

    Two blocks north. I turn right, stepping into Via Martinase. The place is bustling even though it''s three in the afternoon. The ringed Main Street of Faust consists of boutiques and three-story high stores with electronic screens covering the entire front. Expensive-looking leather shoes in shabby and confined stores, shabby clothes in luxurious, high-end stores.


    To people on business trips and tourists, this is where they''ll spend most of their time since it''s one of the safest and ''cleanest'' areas in town.


    For lots of folks, Via Martinase represents Faust because they wouldn''t dare wander off the ring too far. Some bold young couples might visit Nochnaya to experience a different kind of nightlife but most will stay within the state of law at the city center.


    Naturally, congress threw increasing amount of funding to Main Street. They encourage all types of small business owners to set up their shop around the ring, basement pubs, bistros, foreign restaurants, suite hotels specifically build for business travelers, old fashion barbershops, and even some clubs at northwest close to lanes.


    They intentionally make the area around v¨ªa Martinase as packed as possible, filled with authentic stores and international brands. Giving you all the reasons to stay in this place without venturing outside to see the real Faust¡­..


    And it''s hilarious how ordinary the place turned out to be compared to the rest of the city. But after constantly looking over your shoulder for too many years, some fellows in my line of work would still rant about moving here to experience a more peaceful life.


    ***


    This part of the main road is too close to Saint Elisha therefore to my relived, there aren''t many neon lights. Especially at this hour. All I got to worry about is the sun and any signs of boryokuda.


    Despite what dojo told me, I still preferred not to be recognized by them. 40 thousand is a lot of money, someone could pull me in a ven, stab me and throw me at the doorstep of their establishments to make a quick score. Though it''s unlikely to happen on Via Martinase, not just because of the police respond time but also because there are way too many eyewitnesses on the street.


    Three blocks later I make a left and head north towards the address on the business card. A group of students walk out of a headphone shop forming a circle on the pavement while slowly moving forward. Blocking the whole path.


    I take two steps closer walking right behind them but the kids don''t seem to notice.


    Judging from the same backpacks they carry I''d say they''re in junior highs. But if I remember correctly, schools are not out yet. And the excitement underneath those vibrant eyes, the smiles that are barely held back by Zygomaticus Major, and the kid in the middle of the circle is hugging instead of carrying his backpack all confirm they had a great time today.


    The human mind works in a mysterious and accursed way as I start wondering if I was given the chance will I be like them? Skipping classes and shoplifting with classmates, faking a doctor''s prescription and teacher''s sign, walking around the street without worrying about someone following you with their hands in hoodie pockets. Biggest problem in life is what the girl sitting behind you is whispering to her friends.


    What a fucking fever dream that would be......


    I take out my pack of cig, put one in my mouth, light it with Ivan''s match, and take a deep fucking drag. And puff out all the smoke toward the kid in the middle. Half of them immediately cough, and the other half turn around and realize there''s a not so friendly looking guy behind them.


    As I put the filter back into my mouth they finally moved aside. I walk passed them knowing damn well they are staring at me.


    ***


    About six blocks west of Little Italy, one of a small branches of Via martinase. I finally spot the tailor shop at the end of street by the corner.


    Despite what Ivan told me I still take a right into an empty alley and put my shoulder holster, mags, colt, and Qin Yan''s dagger in the violin case. Throwing the cig to gutters before moving towards store front.


    Its exterior vaguely reminds me of Glasgow with the same structure. But instead of oak, the tailor uses deeper shades of wood and there are no pillars by the front.


    The shop name, Emilio&Fulvio is engraved on top of the entrance with copper in hard font. There''s another row of smaller words under it in Italian that roughly translates to ''Stitching with blood since 1899''.


    Two bay windows display with a front door between them. Wooden mannequins dressed in Burgundy red tails suits and black double-breasted coats standing tall. The red curtains behind them and spotlights in the corner make the lifeless dummies look sophisticated and respectful.


    I look at the card in my hand and the suits on those mannequins thinking what I would look like in those things. The reflection of myself appears on the window as I take a step closer, thank heavens I''m wearing shades so I don''t have to see my own eyes but the idea of putting the man in front of me in those sumptuous clothes seem laughable.


    As I mentioned, lots of folks in my line of work tend to dress the fuck up after they got some spare change. For me, it always seems like trying to quench the deep-rooted insecurities and a sick need to be seen and praised ....... and a really fast way to throw away your money.


    I''ve seen guys show up at Stynx in thousand-dollar suits and a big smile after a score only to walk out of the place with it cover in dark beer, vomit, blood and palm-size holes.


    I take another look at my reflection, baggy black bomber jacket with the sleeves faded grey caused by years of brawling and miscalculating laundry detergent, plain white v-neck with a side of sewing thread loosely tilt to the left, a normal-looking cargo pants, and a pair of sneakers...


    Screw it! If that Slavic bastard could get a suit done here, why can''t I?


    I take off my sunglasses, put the card in my pocket, take a deep breath, and push the door open with my head slightly higher than usual.


    ***


    The smell of deer musk, new print paper, and coffee immediately assaulted my nostrils as I open the door.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    The place is huge and packed to the brim. Dark brown color carpet (some parts darker than others) covers the entire floor and red wall with carved wooden pillars at four corners. Two identical sets of chandeliers hang from the ceiling.


    On the left, a giant square table covered by cloth, fabrics, tailor scissors with fading brass handles, and garments. Dozens of blazers hang on the cabinets by the east wall consisting mostly of black and grey ones. Some mannequins in seaweed pea coats, dark red wool coats, and navy blue striped blazers are standing around the table like loyal consultants of the tailor.


    On the right, are two leather sofas by the fireplace on the east wall with a coffee table in front of them. By its side, a giant cabinet of ties in all kinds of colors and styles sits.


    A wooden desk sits vertically by the sofas with stacks of unfinished letters, documents, and a cup of coffee on it. Behind the desk is a small corner occupied by two huge bookshelves and lamps.


    Across the room, by the bookshelves. A hallway leads to what appears to be the fitting room with lots of full-body mirrors, a man saw my reflection in the them and hurried out the back room with an apologetic smile on his face.


    The bad habit of sizing up everyone I met for the first time came again. The man is in his late 40s or early 50s, broad shoulder, lost half of his hair, the other half is grey but lucky for him the amount left is still enough for a Caesar cut.


    Glasses hang on the pocket of his three-buttoned black vest, covering a white dress shirt. But the shirt sleeves seem to be too short as I can more than glimpses of tattoos on his wrist while his hands sway as he walks.


    Despite his clothes covering 90 percent of his body, I can still tell this man is very lean and well built for his age judging by the fact that his shirt can''t hide the plumps of his biceps.


    His face is clean-shaven without a trace of scribble. Strong jawlines, sharp nose, slightly concave cheeks. Wrinkles gathered around his forehead and carve a trail down by his brown eyes.


    He walks with his upper arms swaying, big steps with shining leather shoes on the carpet creates no sound at all, but you can feel the weight of each step. I don''t even need to look at his eyes to know he''s a very confident man, in his work, his skills, and himself.


    The small traces of details on him also confirms what Ivan mentioned, this place definitely has some level of connection to the families in the East. The man standing in front of me is no stranger to violence and ugliness.


    I suddenly don''t feel out of place.


    With both of his hands clenched in front of his abdomen. The man tilts his head very subtly to the side, thinking about what should he make of me with a smile that can give June a round for her money.


    "Afternoon..... I believe this is your first time visiting?" I nod slowly. The ''t'' sounds a bit dragged like it''s ''thh''.


    "Indeed. A friend of mine recommended here." I say with a smile that implies nothing.


    "May I ask who? We don''t do much promotions. Usually, it''s just the regulars." He asks with sincerity in his voice and eyebrows slightly tilted. I wait for a second before answering him.


    "Ivan Vasiliev..... he said a lot of good things about you fellows." The tailor is now smiling with his teeth out, eyebrows raised, and knit together. Amusement in his eyes.


    "Ah, a friend of Mr.Vasiliev then? Welcome, to me and my partner''s establishment. My name is Maurizio, very nice to meet you... mister....?" He extended his right hand towards them. As I shake it with a firm grip I can feel the calluses located in his palm, before the first knuckles and close to the wrist.


    These aren''t from holding a scissor. I bet he''s ambidextral.


    "Lee." A flash of doubt rushes through his eyes as he matches my grip with ease. After we release each other''s hand, he seems to get the slightest idea of who I am.


    I''m not exactly as famous with the guys from the old country as with the Russikyes at noch. But they know me. As I said, I take jobs from all over the city and there''s always something in Little Italy, maybe not as much as pre-war days though. It might be some micro-size favors or somebody needs a lesson, it doesn''t really matter as long as they can afford my standard rate.


    But a very interesting thing about works at Little Italy, it''s that the hit jobs, the jobs in which you actually pull the trigger, were seldom done by outsiders. It still happens, these guys aren''t like the Qins but they also tend to ''take care'' of their own by their own.


    They only get mercs involved in the really dirty ones, the ones that they don''t even want to get their own guys to do it, the kind with targets who are the enemy of the fucking public. The kind that everyone oked.


    Because of some..... friends I met out of coincidences. I sometimes take care of those guys for them, and act as the mediator in some scenarios where a third party with no ties and interests involved is needed.


    But that''s not how I get around. My name is known around these fellows for couple of crude jokes and a setup that happened years ago. What happened that night can only be seen as complete bad luck but after it, my reputation was acknowledged around this neighborhood. I was the guy you go to when you got a situation.


    Judging from the constantly changing facial expression, Maurizio caught a notion of who I am now.


    "Ah, I''ve heard good things about you as well... Signore. Lingua d''argento..s¨ª?" With the smile unchanged, he gestured towards the sofas in front of the desk.


    "Lee, would do just fine." I lounge on the sofa closer to the exit and placed the violin case by the fireplace while the tailor leans back on his desk, arms crossed.


    "Very well, Mr.Lee. What can I do for you today?"


    "I need a suit that will make me look unrecognizable." I shrug and put on a smile too. Maurizio lets out a laugh.


    "Sir, no suit can hide who we are. But I''ll do my best..... what kind of occasion?" I take a second before answering.


    "Let''s just say it''s something big." Maurizio raises his left brow and grabs a pen and a small notebook on the table behind him.


    "Wedding?" Ha!


    "Not really."


    "Funeral?"


    "....Hopefully not. It''s more of a social event."


    "Ahh........ Respectful people, respectful places s¨ª?" I smile without explaining. "Now, is it for day or for evening?"


    "Evening."


    "Indoors, correct?" I nod.


    "Is the person you''re meeting a lady or a man?"


    "Lady."


    "And the meeting is supposed to take place in a......?" The tailor asks without looking up at me as he scribbles on his notebook with his left hand.


    "Club." The sound of graphite over papers stopped. Maurizio''s eyes drift off for a moment before he shoots me a new set of questions.


    "Any preferable style? American...... Italian?" I shrug. So he added. "Judging from your stature... I think the Italian style would suit you well. American might not be fitting for your shoulder, English doesn''t seem to..... exaggerate your presence enough." Maurizio raises his eyebrows, asking if I''m fine with the decision.


    "It''s what you do, Maurizio. I trust your judgment." And I have no idea what you''re saying.


    "Great, now what about buttons? I suppose you would prefer maximum movements all the time?" Maurizio grins as he added.


    "Certainly."


    "Single-breasted, two buttons, the classic it is! One is always up while you''re walking, and the other is never up no matter if you''re sitting, standing, or gauging another man''s eyes out." His tone sounds like a prep school teacher but never the less I made a mental note of that.


    "Lastly before we move on to details. Is there any preferable color or patterns? I think you would look sharper than a bayonet in plaid or madras....but let''s get back to it when we''re picking the fabrics. For now, let''s focus on the color?"


    "Surely, what do you recommend?" Maurizio''s eyes drift up and down on me, putting my image through a thousand different styles and colors before he lets out a chuckle and a bitter smile.


    "My father always says, In caso di dubbio, vestiti di nero!¡± A smile creeps up my face as well.


    "When in doubt, wear black."


    "Precisely, now. Mr.Lee..." Maurizio claps his hands hard as the sound echoes in the empty guest room, he gets off the desk with the notebook in his left hand. Standing by the bookshelves, he raises his left hand towards the changing room inside with his right palm at his abdomen. The motion reminded me of the Korean at the entrance of little kubukicho, I thought to myself as my grab the violin case and stand up from the spacious seat.


    "Let''s get started with the....." His sentence was broke off by the sound of front door opening again. Tilting his head slightly to see who it is, the professional smile from earlier returns in a more toady style. "Mr. Massino, So glad to have you here again!"


    Not this guy. Not this fucking guy....


    "Anche tu amico mio!....." Heavy accent pair with raucousness, Enzo greets the tailor before he pause for a second. "And look who crawled out of his grave again."

 Crude jokes

    Back when I first started out as a freelancer, on a summer night. I just finished dealing with some loan sharks at West, and head back to one of the Italian''s joints on the second floor of a restaurant to collect my cut. Went passed three crooked hallways, two sets of stairs, a bunch of doors, and guards smoking indoors while on duty. At the time, little Italy wasn''t completely under the control of the family like today. Small factions of scumbags and lowlifes occupy their courters of the street.


    After taking my compensation, my employer''s employer, a fat fuck in a gray tailored (only way a suit would fit him) suit, pressed down on my shoulder and ''ask'' me to stay and get a drink before hitting the road.


    The guy was called Nicola..... something. There''s a nickname after it but I can''t remember. By that time, people thought he was going to be the one to prevail in the power struggle, though about six years ago he was killed in his own car, three shots to the head right when he was leaving the city. But before that happened, he was the biggest and meanest fish in Little Italy and got a reputation for being mutable.


    Someone mentioned there was a stench on his sleeve from the sauce and made a follow up "You should get someone to clean it, a laundry shop or something. That shit''s hard to come off."


    And to that, Nicola replied. "You''re right, Lee boy! Come on, do what you people do best!" Everybody laughed.


    About a hundred things went through my mind, but I didn''t say a word..... until he added.


    "Oh, what''s up with the gloomy expression boy? Here, you get it cleaned, and I''ll give Pete''s dog to you. It''s a lazy animal, never saw it run, sure the meat is tender."


    Everyone in the room bursts into laughter, except two guys at the corner, they noticed the intent on my face. And I noticed them. Thank fuck I did, or else I would have killed him with the booze courage. I forced myself to laugh with them and relaxed my clenched grip.


    When the laughter and bullshits are wearing off. I said with a cheery voice.


    "Nah. I''ll do it, no problem. Shit. I''ll even dye the linings pink for you!" The guys and Nicola gave each other a confused look. So I added. "You know. So when you go visit your family at the farm, you don''t have to tip off the owners! Just wear the jacket reversed and crawl on all fours! No one will notice! You''d fit right in!"


    I really shouldn¡¯t drink however much I drank that day.


    Next thing I know, I''m pined at the table with my press on the surface. Nicola was standing right behind me with a steak knife, face so red he looked like Santa Claus.


    The second before he guts my belly, my mind comes off with something. I shouted.


    "He didn''t laugh!" Nicola''s hand stopped mid-air. He flipped me over facing him and asked.


    "What the fuck are you on about now?" I pointed at one of the two guys at the corner.


    "The guy didn''t laugh. When everyone else in the room was laughing their ass off he didn''t, not just when I said what I said, but the entire time. Now I know what I spoke was disrespectful to you and your family, but Sir. You have bigger problems than a foul-mouthed man. He didn''t laugh, but he did something else!" The guy''s pupil expanded, even in that state, at that distance I can still see it.


    "Ever since I walked in here. He''s been fixing his shirt, sweating, fidgeting, he''s nervous about something." The other guy at the corner gave him a look and noticed a drop of sweat rolling down his temple. "When you''re about to stab me, he places his left hand inside of his collar, pulling something........ I bet he''s on to something. Hell, maybe he''s wearing a wire right now!"


    I could have pulled that off more gracefully or more believable if I wasn''t panicking. But the oldest trick in the book always works, you throw a bunch of mildly connected facts and observations, then you drop a speculation as if it''s also a fact. Leading the others to connect the dots.


    Now, normally the guy would just take off his shirt and show us he''s not. Or starts cursing. But instead, his face turned pale. There was just Nicola and his crew in the room, the restaurant downstairs was closed hours ago. His silence seems extra uneasy. Even Nicola himself turned around to glance at him.


    All of a sudden, the guy gets off his seat and rushes towards the front gate, he said something but it was too quick I didn''t catch it.


    I know this guy is my lifeboat so before everyone else reacts. I twist Nicola''s thumbs, with just enough force to have him let loose. The timing was just right, as the guy ran passed Nicola, he let go of me.


    I pull out the dagger in my sleeve and stab him in the belly, the force of him running into me plus the adrenaline state I was in. Imagine my surprise, when my dagger stuck. That one second of complete silence in the room where everyone was in shock felt like an eternity.


    And the man reacted first, he went for the gun in his jacket with his right hand, and the motion kicked in my muscle memory. I clutch his wrist with my left hand to prevent him from pulling the gun out of the holster. Then I pull the dagger out and tried to slit his throat, but he catch my wrist when the point is inches away from his pulsing windpipe.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The man''s eyes are bulging like it''s about to pop out of his eye sockets and hit my face. A ferocious grin splits his face in half as he slowly twists my wrist and the point of my dagger back on me.


    He would have got me, but the man was too focused on my hands to realize my right leg took a step forward to the back of his left foot.


    A drop of saliva drops down his chin, the primordial anger his brain produced in order to survive took complete control of him. But as I suddenly opened my right palm and let my dagger fall on the ground, a flash of confusion flew through him.


    Fun fact, the human wrist can turn to about 75 maybe 80 degrees vertically but only 20 degrees parallel.


    I move my right upper arm completely forward towards him while all of my strength, rotating my palm, forcing the strength of my entire right arm on his joint. He let go as the pain wriggled his face. That is before my right elbow sunk him. As his face along with his mass shifts back, my right leg hooked the back of his knee, tripping him as he falls down on the floor.


    And of course, the first thing he does is reach for his gun again. This time I waited till he pulled it out before I stepped on his hand, pinning him and his arm on the ground.


    The whole process was about 13 seconds maybe shorter. But the crowd of drunken Italians in the joint took another 5 seconds before they pulled out their weapon, unsure of who to aim it.


    At the corner of the room, I noticed the guy who was sitting next to the man on the ground remained motionless in his seat.


    Nicola walked over and gave me a stare, telling me what would happen if I was wrong without a word before he ripped the guy''s shirt open.


    He isn''t wearing a wire, he''s wearing a bulletproof vest.


    In Faust, folks in my line of work almost never wear vests. Even if it might save their lives, walking around the city at 30 degrees Celsius while wearing it will put you off commission faster than a punch, another downside is you''ll sweat so much that it is impossible not to be noticed.


    Nicola''s crew put him in the exact spot where I was held, only this time, the fat man was holding a pistol.


    "Isn''t it hot wearing that thing around Alonzo?" Nicola smiles like a snake with venom dripping down the edge of his mouth, and talks with a sound sweeter than a jar of honey. "Now, tell me what you''re wearing this for hm?.... Are you in some kind of trouble? Somebody on your tail?"


    The guy was sweating again, his face looked like a waxed corpse, glinting unnatural shimmers as his mouth moved but no comprehending words came out of it, his eyes darted to all the faces in this room and found doubting strangers instead of the people he called brothers.


    "Or.....did you go to the Yanks behind my back? Didn''t I prohibit all of y''all to loan from them?" Seeing Alonzo in his state of mind, Nicola decided to threw him a life jacket filled with aluminum. And the fool went straight for it.


    "I... Yeah, I''m sorry I didn''t come to you immediately..... I just...... didn''t want you to find out I was out there doing it again.... You know... And I was afraid man, I was afraid they''d come for me on the streets or..or...."


    "I know I know..... It''s alright boy, you''re alright but..... tell me....... Why the fuck did you ran?" The slightest traces of blood returning to his face disappeared, and a sick paleness took over.


    "What.. I was worried man... I was worried you would pressure me on this and...... I wouldn''t want everyone to find out I have been messing with the Yanks again and.... And the stresses lately....it.... It made me take one too many hits in the back... I wasn''t thinking, I was just.... Just on edge Nic...."


    The guy was stuttering harder than an 80-year-old man in a wheelchair, without teeth, and diagnosed with dementia but Nicola kept nodding as he pieced together a broken alibi. To be honest, it''s not a bad story, just that no one would believe him with the way he delivers it.


    Nicola licks his lips as his thumb fidgets the hammer of gun.


    "O¨ª, Enzo! What do you think? He''s telling the truth?" The guy who was sitting next to him takes a step closer.


    A tall man with sharp nose, strong chin. Middle part with strays of dark brown hair falling on his forehead. Three-piece black suit, double-breasted but not a single trace of antsy as if he was born in them. Blue eyes convey a calmness and amusement, under its deep blue sea, at the bottom of it, swims sharks and whales.


    I didn''t know things like I do now. But even back then I could tell he is an extremely dangerous man.


    "I want to believe our friend here, I do! ....Alonzo shoot too much of that shit and acted weird, and that''s that..... oh, and he''s wearing a vest because the Yanks were on him." Enzo was about 30ish at the time, but his voice was already husky as a 60-year-old chain smoker.


    "But uh.....Alonzo...." Enzo bent down, closing the distance between him and the poor bastard. Whispering. "I''m afraid you''re a terrible liar."


    Something''s off.


    "You know why? Cause you weren''t like this last weekend. You, were bragging about some blonde doll at strings&arrows gave you a sloppy oral behind her man''s back weren''t you? And now you''re saying how nervous you are about not being able to pay those slimy fucks at West. The only possible explanation was that...... you borrowed from them between this time. But...."


    Enzo made a small pause as he exchanged a look with Nicola.


    "......two weeks ago the Yanks accidentally fucked over the japs and skipped town.... Not some big news, the whole thing was all hush-hush. But it contradicts the explanation of you borrowing from them since nobody knows where the hell they are."


    I watch Alonzo have a mental breakdown in silence as Enzo slowly tears him up piece by piece. He subtly knits his eyebrows, raising his eyelids every time he makes a statement as if he''s a patient teacher telling his student where he did wrong. But under those crystal blue eyes, I know he''s enjoying this too.


    "So, Nic. I think he''s full of shit." Nicola makes a dry laugh while grinning.


    "Agreed."


    In a blur of motion, Nicola slams the butt of his .38 on Alonzo''s mouth. Breaking his lips and sinking two of his front teeth inwards blood quickly rolls down his chin and side of his mouth. Another slam. This time harder. Broke his front teeth as he let out a whimper from his nasal, the lower half of his face is a vivid contradiction to the paleness seconds ago.


    "Now. I''m going to ask you again Alonzo, and this time you better don''t treat me like a fool, thinking you could slide with those horse shit."


    I was going to bounce the fuck out while all of their attention was on him, but what he said next stop my motions to the door.


    What happened till that point was just some regular disputes, even though I almost got killed. But what comes next makes me wonder in the future days if there were some zodiac, horoscope events or as the Chinese called it ''dao xuemei'' which brings me a year''s worth of bad luck.

 Set up

    "........The O''deans......" Alonzo coughs out the answer along with some blood. 10 steps from the door and nobody''s going to notice,


    My left foot slowly shifts back as he finally gives up.


    There''s nobody by the door now, and the fellows outside wouldn''t know what happened and.......


    "10....maybe more......They got Knox''s crew with them...."


    Back then, before I met Vix and Vel, cleaner crews were like mythical creatures to me, never seen one, never met one, but heard all about them. And Knox''s cleaning group was no joke, they specialize in good old-fashioned clean houses, precision and not leaving loose ends are what their services guarantee. I heard there were about seven maybe eight in that group.


    What surprised me was their employers were the O''deans which is not a big name in Little Italy. If I remember correctly they occupy the far east of Little Italy, by the train station, business involves peddling, extortion, protection rackets, the usual.


    They never got into any disputes with Nicola''s crew and generally not much of note..... at least that was what I thought at the time.


    The room went quiet as the idea of a group of reapers and gangsters waiting outside the building slowly sink in, Doubts and fear creeps up their and mine shoulders, slowly penetrating my skin and bones until it reaches my heart.


    I take a deep breath and tried to ignore the feeling of deja vu.


    Nicola scratch his ear with the empty hand as his eyes momentarily lost focus. Then he backhanded him with that hand, so hard that blood from his gums spilled out on the table. Not giving him the lecture of a break, Nicola presses down on his forehead.


    Bending his neck to an unnatural degree as he presses the muzzle of his revolver on the front of his neck.


    "And what was your use in this? What did they ask you to do? You cocksucking snake."


    "They.....told me to get you all relaxed and drunk.....and when the timing is right.... I''ll walk out from the back..... go home...... and leave the back door and the steel door unlocked...ahem." In the end, Alonzo starts coughing, blood from the wounds in his mouth are slowly dripping down his throat because of the way Nicola is pressing down on him.


    "Why?" After a deep breath. Nicola asks.


    The coughing became gurgles, the gurgles became..... it took me a while to realize he was laughing as his lips curl upward even in this situation. I take a step forward to see his eyes. Delirious, rage, fear, desperation, and contempt from the bottom of his soul which burns so strong it surpassed all the other emotions.


    "You want to know why? Ahem...... you want to.... want to know why I agreed?..... You wanna know why? They offered me money, good money...... but I said no. And they threatened me with some bullshit evidence about that heist...... I said I don''t care .... And then, they threaten to kill Jennice, I said let the bitch die I don''t care either.... Holy shit.. you guys...." Alonzo''s line of sight is jumping from one man to another, implying ''you guys''.


    "Y''all should have seen their face! They were fucking speechless!...... Then I told him I''ll do it if you fuckers promise me...... to cut you to little pieces." His eyes stop at Nicola. The fat man''s chest stopped moving ups and down as a wild, primo rage consumed him. His face became a color so red, it looked purple. But Alonzo wasn''t done yet.


    "You were always one fucking joke away from killing one of us.....ahem. Fuck. Sometimes for no reason at all, being in your crew is like consecrating a loose canon. Ahem!" The laugh returns as he coughs out more blood.


    "The mercenary gets it. Hey boy! you get it right? You were two fucking lines from getting skewered too, weren''t you! Ahem, akem, aha. Ha!" His laughter grows more and more hysterical, eyes filled with a deep hatred and a genuine glee as it locks onto mine.


    Strange. Of all the things that are happening. Those eyes are the most terrifying thing for me at the moment.


    Five subjected perceived seconds later. Nicola, with his left hand still clutching Alonzo''s forehead. Slam his head down on the table. A muffled thud, the sound of accidentally hitting a table leg or shutting the closet door too hard. Alonzo limps down on the floor as if all the bones in his body disappeared, with his hand by the edge of the table, head lowered, nape leaning against the table.


    "Gotti, check the window, see if there''s any van on the street, but don''t spook them." Nicola''s voice is like a booster, not intimidating, desperate, shaky, or reassuring. It''s a direct order, a cold hard order, and it''s exactly what they needed now.


    A man in a brown blazer and hideous necktie nods as he walks towards the window with soft footsteps as if the guys outside could hear them. He stands with his back against the wall as he pulls the edge of the curtains, opening a small slit just enough for him to peek outside.


    Standing five steps from him I can see his pupils expanded as he immediately let go of the curtain.


    Gotti turns around and slowly nods at Nicola.


    "Two cars. They just got out, but doesn''t seem like they''re in a rush..... 7 maybe 8 in total but I didn''t see any O''deans. Just the cleaners." A guy next to Nicola takes a swig of someone''s drink left on the table. Nicola stares at the curtains for a second.


    "You and Angie go downstairs, warn everybody but keep it quiet. We don''t want to scare our guests. Enzo, you take a minute with our pal Alonzo to see if he''s still got something or still alive, and come to my office when you''re done....." As Nicola''s line of sight examines the room, issuing commands like a bloody general. His eyes and words stop when he sees me. For a moment, I''m pretty sure he thought of killing me but the moment passed, he simply announced.


    "You. I''ll give you 3 hun in cash for every cleaner or O''deans you kill. How''s that?" I nod wordlessly. "The rest go check if the alley is clear and find those fuckers, now!"


    As his crew gets in motion to follow their separate tasks, I do a rough observation of the situation. There are 7 men in this room not counting Alonzo and Nicola. Plus the ones I saw earlier on the hallway and ground floor in total are about 10 maybe more in this building.


    Tommy grabs a bottle on his way out of the room, his other hand is trembling before he clenched it into a fist and takes a big swig of the bottle.


    Angie and Gotti gave each other a look before they go downstairs with heavy steps.


    Mo keeps mumbling something to a younger lad with similar jawlines and narrow ears like him.


    Dino finished his drink, checks his smith&Wesson and walks out of the room before giving Alonzo a final look.


    Nicola was the last one to leave.


    The smell of burned iron and blood. Adrenaline can only do so much on dwindling the pain all over my body and the effects won''t last long, but that''s not any of my concern.......


    The flash of memory, no not even memory. Just a familiar feeling I felt back then gone through my head, reminding me how it was about to end......


    I clench my hand into a fist and keep clenching until my nails are biting into my palm. I shut my eyes for a second to clear my head. And starts thinking how am I going to get out of this? When I reopen my eyes and find Enzo still in the same position next to Alonzo, I was dumbfounded as I completely forgot about him.


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    He is smoking while looking at Alonzo limping on the floor. Left hand on hip, right hand with a cig falls down next to his trouser''s pocket. The left corner of his mouth twitched in an unnatural way. His blue eyes shine with a cold glint.


    ***


    I walk past them to the window. Mimicking the movements of Gotti, I move the curtain aside just enough for the eye to peak. The visibility is pretty shit, but the unmarked black Van parked about 30 maybe 35 meters away across the road is unmistakably the cleaner''s. Though I don''t see the reapers themselves......


    On the empty street, in the dark of night. A flash of spark flew across the pavement from the alleyway next to this building. Squinting my eyes and opening the curtain a bit more as I try to get a better look. A triangular shape small black object jut out the corner before quickly disappearing.


    Was that.... the stock of a riffle?


    A spark appears abruptly again, this time inside the alley. Instantly shines the corner of the street, next to this building.


    Two seconds later, a face pokes out of the alleyway. A cigarette in his mouth, dull brown eyes, weather-beaten cheeks ruffled by scars and scribbled beard. The eyes survey the whole street while the man uses his left hand to take the cigarette out of his mouth letting out a puff.


    As his motion shifts, I finally confirmed his identity, as the muzzle of a riffle peaks out the corner of the alleyway, 30 centimeters below his head.


    As if the man has a sudden intuition, his head rises up as his eyes suddenly met mine at the second-floor window. I drag the curtain to conceal his view. My heart''s pumping faster than a racehorse on crack. With my right hand still pressing down on the curtain as if the man is going to poke his face out the window if I don''t, I tell myself to take a deep fucking breath.


    And it didn''t help at all, so I walk back to the cabinets behind the table where Alonzo who''s still moaning like a sickening dog. And drag a half-empty whiskey bottle out of the back.


    Enzo''s looking at me across the room with a hint of laughter. I take a look at the bottle I find. 18 years, single malt. And decided not to throw it at his face. The guy''s getting on my nerves for some reason, the way he talks. No, the way his eyes talk. The pressure on the back of my head and the occasional shiver down my spine just keep on giving me hint about how this guy is one nasty motherfucker.


    Not bothering with a glass, I pull the cork out and take a quick swig from the bottle directly. It burns down my throat leaving a trace of smoky scent. My heart is still pumping as if it would help somehow, but the nerves are becoming quieter. At least quiet enough for me to think.


    It''s absurd how booze is the best anesthetic to put off all the useless voices in my head but also the constant reason why I got into trouble in the first place. (At the time, I haven''t got my inhaler made yet)


    My mind runs through the situation I''m in as my thumb brush through the words on the base of the bottle.


    Right now, there are about eight maybe more cleaners in the alley next to us. And a squad of O''deans somewhere with possibly more men. The cleaners haven''t breached yet probably because their employers haven''t given the orders yet.


    Bet the reapers are agitated outside, those killers could whip off the entire building by themselves.


    As for the O''deans, they''re possibly still waiting for Alonzo to open the back door.


    A bloody stalemate.....for now. Sooner or later one side is going to act on their own. Knox, O''deans, Nicola. But unless that fat fuck ate four aces for dinner tonight or else he''s as good as dead and I''m 95% certain the fellows outside wouldn''t care if I''m affiliated to him or not.


    I''m not interested in getting into a shootout with cleaners, outnumbered and outgunned, it''s a death wish. Escaping seems like a possible solution, but there''s no telling if they would shoot me at the doorstep. Which leaves me with one option.


    I have to dispatch the cleaners first, but not with force. They might be the most dedicated freelancers in Faust, but none will be interested to put their life on the line when their employer can''t pay them. But I have to make them believe it somehow, and if....


    "You''re going to doze off right now, chino?" A finger snap and a half-assed concerned tone from Enzo shattered my thoughts. I raise my head and find him standing exactly where he is, but the cig in his hand is now cinders on the ground. The calculated eyes shine brightly.


    A shiver rushes down my spine again. Warning me to be careful.


    "Shouldn''t you be at Nicola''s office right now?" I answered him dryly.


    "I''m not done with my dear friend here yet." He said while his head tilted forward, from this direction it''s hard to tell if he''s referring to Alonzo or me.


    "Getting sentimental? Half and I''ll take the burden off your shoulder." A series of chuckles so hoarse and short came out his mouth as if he was coughing out the laughter.


    "Putting a bullet in a half-dead worm''s brain and getting paid. Is your job always so easy?"


    "Not really, but it doesn''t usually get this complicated either." Watching Enzo adjusts his blazer made me notices his left shoulder pad seem a bit too thick.


    "Someone''s trying to kill us. He''s a snitch. What''s so complicated here?"


    Why the hell is he so casual?


    "And what are you going to do about it?" I ask after taking another swig from the bottle again.


    "Whatever I can. When I can." Enzo replied while extending his left arm in a lazy motion to check time..... an idea pops out of my mind.


    The back door isn''t connected to the alley of this building or the front door. It leads to a parallel street on the north. According to Gotti, Knox''s group is all at the front which means they''re separated from the O''deans. Suppose they initially planned to coordinate the cleaners and wait for the opening created by Alonzo.


    The cleaners are waiting for the O''deans''s order, the O''deans are waiting for the back door to open. But when? When is he supposed to open the door?


    The cleaners are already at the front door, blocking any chance of me getting out from there. But the back....


    I stride towards Alonzo with the whiskey bottle in my hand. For the first time, I see a sense of uneasiness wash over Enzo as his facial muscle twitched.


    Alonzo is still limping there with his eyes half shut, an irrational smile hangs on his broken face. Blood drips down the corner of his mouth and nose, and half of his cheeks are painted red. I splash the liquor on his face. His eyes closed out of reflexes but after that, the fucker remains in the same state.


    I crouch down next to him and pour the liquor directly into his mouth, on his bleeding wounds where his front teeth were.


    His eyelids rolled up immediately as he let out an incoherent scream and spits out a brownish fluid made of whiskey, saliva, blood, and sputum along with his teeth.


    "Fuck!" If it weren''t for the situation I would probably laugh since the ''F'' is almost silent cause of him missing a few teeth.


    "May I have your attention, please? What did you mean when you said ''when the time is right''? When exactly were you supposed to let them in?" Alonzo knit his eyebrows tightly, his pupils going crazy darting left and right before they lock on to mine. Then, he lets out a few waves of laughter that sound like balloons rubbing each other.


    "You''ll know when they start knocking, merc." As if satisfied with the answer he gave, Alonzo lies back to his former position with his eyes half shut, but I can see the pupils are still jumping around.


    Why does people who knew there''re dying tend to be selfish cunts?


    I clutch his nose with my thumb and index finger, stopping air from entering his trachea. His eyes are wide open and full of rage again while his head bobs left and right as he tried to escape.


    With little strength he could musters, Alonzo launched his fist at my face. But it''s no use, he can''t even reach me in this position. As his face''s getting red, he stops trying to hit me and focuses on making me let go of his nose. He pulls, punches, grabs, and even scratches the back of my hand but he wasted most of his energy and oxygen already. His eyes are darting around again, at me and all over the..... wait.


    His eyes are darting between two specific spots in his view. One of them is me, the other is something behind me.


    In the end, as strength slowly leaves his body and eyes, he gave up. As soon as his mouth opens to catch a breath I stick the bottle of whiskey into his mouth while still clutching his nose. His eyes begin to water, the red slowly takes over the white. Hatred and pure disgust are surging through his eyes as he stares at me. But I noticed a subtle change of emotions as soon as his pupils shifts slightly to my left.


    I took a risk and look back but there was nothing behind me except Enzo.


    As the bottle is about to be empty. I let go of him altogether and took three steps back, so does Enzo as Alonzo''s body falls forward. He vomits out his dinner, blood, the whiskey I just bought him, and whatever the fuck human body produces when you vomit. Catching breaths between waves of digest coming out of his mouth, this goes on for another thirty seconds.


    When he finally stops puking, shakily raises his head and sees me with another bottle I grab from the cabinet while he was on the floor. Alonzo finally gave up.


    "Nono. Wait!... stop....they were...Ahem! They told me to find an excuse to leave and open the back door at..." It was quick but I caught him darting his eyes towards Enzo again.


    I had enough.


    "Don''t look at him, look at me you fucking wop! He made it pretty clear by now he''s not going to help you. I might die full of lead tonight, but believe me. I''ll make the time before that happens more miserable than anything you''ve experienced in life. You got that? Now tell me, when are you suppose to open the back door for your pals? When are they supposed to be here?"


    "...between 11:30 to 11:50....."


    5 minutes later before it starts......


    "So are they here yet?"


    A flash of fear runs through his eyes. As he starts darting his line of sight towards Enzo again but something''s off, a shiver runs down my spine as I realized I''m being watched ...... that fear wasn''t towards me, it was towards the man standing behind me.


    The pressure at the back of my brain and every single nerve inside me tenses up.


    I turned around and see Enzo''s blue eyes now no longer resemble a calm ocean but the glaring glint on the edge of an unsheathed knife. The killing intent wasn''t just towards Alonzo but both of us. The second our eyes met, no words are needed, we both know what is about to go down.


    How could I forget? There''s always more than one.

 Mourning ring

    It''s quite amusing, how two people knew exactly what''s about to happen. But neither incept actions for both are thinking if there''s an alternative way.


    Until the moment I look back do I remembered how often Enzo peak at his watch in nonchalant stretches or adjusted his shirt sleeves under his black jacket. The suit he''s rocking hugs the waist perfectly to emphasize his slim but tall figure, it is clearly tailored, then how could it have misaligned shoulder pads?


    The three people in this room. Each felt a distinct coldness at their coccyx, a taste of metal and the smell of fish''s intestines on the edge of their tongue.


    Enzo''s face now matches his eyes. Stern and ready with a smirk that drags the lines by his eyelids. Shining blue pupils depicts a vision of the purgatory I''m going through when I''m dead.


    Iron or hand?


    He''s standing, I''m crouching with my back facing him. From his position, I''m at 2 o''clock, one meter away. Execution position.


    Hand.


    His Longines is on right wrist but that doesn''t necessarily mean he''s left-handed. Shifting my focus off his eyes for a millisecond. I noticed there is a bronze signet ring on his pinky and a silver mourning ring with no name or date on his index finger. Both on left hand. His right hand is completely free of any decorative objects.


    Mainly right-handed, I bet he''s keen on his left hand too. But gut instinct will tell him to use his right hand first.


    A small movement almost went unnoticed. His left index finger twitched.


    Did I guess it wrong......


    Before the voice in my head could finish the sentence. The frigid blue ocean broke apart, the venom, bitterness underneaths it rising from the seabed, to surface.


    I rotate my body with my right hand shooting forward toward his hand, which is moving away from his belt with a CZ 75. I was a blink slower than him, my right hand barely reached him when his sights were already in the adumbration of my face, my right eye can almost see the round through his barrel before I dash to the left.


    Thankfully he didn''t want to fire without consent, probably because it''s going to be hard to explain why there was more than one gunshot and the merc is dead.


    His caution gave me the chance to grab his right wrist and force his line of fire off me. An irritation appears on Enzo''s face as his brows slightly got closer to each other. The kind of face you make when you missed the mosquito on your arm.


    Almost at the same time, we both launch a punch with our free hand and they landed on each other''s face simultaneously. But I''m still applying pressure on his right arm which pushes him further from me. Despite his reach is further, punching someone at you right with left hand while not being able to rotate your body wouldn''t do shit.


    The punch only touched my nose leaving a pressure on it and destroying my sense of smell for the next few minutes.


    Ain''t nothing compare to him.


    Mine landed directly where his jawline connects his ear. My right-hand draws back a bit while I wind up my punch, rotating my body to make my punch pack an extra speed. The adrenaline accompanied by the feeling of breaking your own hand felt goddamn nostalgic, especially when you see your opponent''s face turned in a violent motion because of your strike. I swear Enzo''s eyes roll back for a second as his head lowered, and his right upper arm''s tensed muscles seem to let go a little.


    But he didn''t go that easy.


    Half a second later, the pale blue eyes rolled back, burning like the center of a roaring blaze.


    His right arm draws in with an unstoppable force, dragging me forward. At the edge of my eye, I see his left thumb brush the mourning ring then came a glint, straight at the center of my vision. Muscle memory kicked in and force me to turn my head to avoid whatever it is as much as I can.


    His left palm clutched half of my face tight. So tight that I felt his rings sink into my skin. No wait, there''s something else. The sharp pain from a blade. The skin around the edge of my brow is squishing together. Enzo let out a frustrated grunt.


    He moves his palm towards my nose, trying to poke my eye out with his thumb. The sharp pain drags across my brow, cutting deep into my skin. Pain blooms simultaneously a second slower than action, breaking through the threshold name adrenaline.


    Razor ring. He cut me with a prostitute''s self-defense weapon.


    Playing dirty eh? You really have no idea how I spent my time before I became a freelancer huh?


    I slide my right foot back and apply more pressure on his right arm so the side of body is facing me. My right knee accelerates to his kidney, the softness between rib and ilium. Enzo squints as he coughs out a silent scream. I position my left leg a step forward, between his legs while my body rotates to the back facing him.


    My right hand still clutching his right wrist, and his left-hand drags the cut deeper and longer. I extended my left arm forward till its limit. Then send it back with all of my strength. The elbow landed on his mouth, his left hand shook but the blade is still gauging my skin. So I do it again, this time hitting his nose, sending his face backward dragging the cut on my face longer. I can feel my eyes watering. The third one hit his eye socket.


    Finally, his hand let go, strength leaving his right upper arm. I slam my right fist down the barrel of his pistol, making it drop to the floor without effort.


    Blood finally starts dripping down, blocking my right eye''s vision, forcing me to shut it. But it only keeps the stream of blood dripping till it forms a stopping point at my chin.


    I let out a voice I don''t recognize and push Enzo away with my shoulder, he falls on the floor, panting in small inhalations. I pull out my 1911 from my back holster and point it not so firmly at his face, I can''t even see properly like this let alone aim. But he gets the idea.


    I kick his CZ 75 on the ground to the wall with my feet and change my gun to my left hand. Then set down on the floor, panting long breaths, not looking much better than Enzo probably.


    ***


    Blood keeps dripping down the nasty wound Enzo tear, the burning sensation slowly transforming to a constant itch, like worms consuming your flesh. A tiny portion of it got into my mouth, and now the taste of iron is all on my mind. Nothing new, all as irritating.


    With my hand on my knee, I get up but kept my .45 at him. With not-so-steady steps, I tremble myself to the cabinet again. On the way there I almost step on the vomits of Alonzo, and Alonzo himself next to the pile. He''s got an unseen emotion in his eyes, not sure if it''s shame that he couldn''t help, or despair that his last chance of getting out was vanquished. Either way, I don''t care.


    My butt bumps the sink while I was focused on Enzo across the room, I grab the towel (hopefully a towel) next to it and open the water tap. The sloshing sound of water, Enzo''s short breaths, and the grunts of my throat, all seemed extra loud in my ear.


    I dip the corner of the towel wet and wipes off the blood on half of my face until I can open my right eye and my reflection on the steel sink doesn''t look that scary. Then I fold the corner back and press the dry cotton fabric on my wound, start applying pressure on it. With my back leaning against the cabinet, I take a look at Enzo on the ground.


    He is in far worst shape, the knee to his side potentially caused internal bleeding, and felt like he got hit by a car. His face is all messed up, the color of purple and dark red prophesying later bruises and swells, a small trickle of blood rows down his nose. He quickly whips it clean before it ruin his vest. And by some fucking miracle, his suit remains completely fine after the havoc, spares some wrinkles.


    After he can finally breathe normally again, Enzo raises his shaking hands with redden knuckles to envelop his nose, with an unnervingly loud crack he pushes the bridge back to the center. The trickle of blood fell down again but he didn''t make a single grunt or scream of pain in the process.


    He''s used to this too.


    I grab another bottle from the cabinet and the unmovable power of habits makes me look at the bottle first again. No age statement, cask strength...at least I won''t feel bad about it.


    I think to myself as I take a sizable swig, feeling 56% of alcohol blunting the sharp edges of my nerves, dulling them before removing the towel and splash oak color liquor on my wound.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    A scream broken by a cough roars out my mouth as my brow and forehead are set on fire like a line of gun powder leading to the keg named brain. The worst part is that this pain isn''t momentarily, but continuous. And all I can do is take another swig and pressure the towel back on.


    With my shit taken care of, looking at Enzo''s forever shining blue eyes, I found it hilarious how me, Enzo, Alonzo are back exactly where we stand minutes ago.


    "Talk." Enzo slowly stood up with his back arched. "Now." I clock back the hammer.


    "You sure this is what you gonna do? Shoot me? You think the boys next door would believe what you say?"


    This fucking guy.....


    "There''s a whole world outside this room, but we are not. So how about we focus on that? And I ain''t exactly in the best mood tonight, so you better start talking before I put a bullet in you out of frustration." Enzo let out a sign that sounds like he was spitting and pointed at his spot at the corner of the room where he sat.


    "May I sit down first?"


    "You can stand, keep sitting on the floor, or lie flat on the floor." Enzo momentarily closes his eyes before he takes two steps back and falls back on the floor, with his back against the wall, palms up.


    "So what you want to talk about, Chino?"


    "Alonzo opens doors, what were you going to do?" For a while, Enzo''s completely motionless. His chin tilts down so I couldn''t see his eyes. Then he cracks his shoulder, straightens his back when he raises his head again. The glint in his eyes becomes calmer than before, what used to be the deep blue sea now is a solid sapphire with anger in its core.


    "To make sure nothing goes wrong, and Nicola stays in the building tonight."


    "And wait for the fireworks to start?" Enzo''s mouth clicks before he spits out a gooey blood sputum. "Employer of the damn month here..... the O''deans, they outside yet?" Enzo''s eyes shift down to his empty right wrist. I must have ripped it off during the fight.


    "Care to tell the time?"


    "Just pass 11 and a half." He smirks with his blood-stained teeth out.


    "Punctuality is a virtue among us you know?" I take another swig from the bottle. "The way I see it chino......You can try to sneak out from the back, or take your chances and stay inside. Either way, shooting me wouldn''t help and you know it."


    I briefly considered killing them both and then jumping out the window which¡­¡­ considering all this doesn¡¯t sound too bad.


    Enzo is resting his head by the wall smiling and Alonzo''s staring at me while sitting on the floor. These two know time is on their side, there''s nothing I could do in this situation. And there''s nothing they need to do except stall...


    Between 11:30 to 11:50. There are still 20 minutes left.


    I could get out from the back and make Enzo to vouch for me if the O''deans suspect something. Would be tricky to get him to do that especially without much time left, but right now it is my best bet. The place is going to turn into a slaughterhouse, the reapers will smoke the ground floor while the O''deans sneaks up from the back door through the stairs, Nicola''s man will be waiting but it doesn''t matter since the reapers are going to draw their attentions first. That fat fuck and his crew upstairs wouldn''t even have time to react.


    Then, 12 gauge shotguns and automatic rifles will wake up the whole neighbors and blocks out the sound of screams, not from the ones got shot but the once hasn''t. The cop''s fastest respond time is about 8 minutes, the whole incident will end in five. When the blasted door is open, first came the sound of broken glasses on the floor clicking, then the smell alone will make them stop at te door front, machinery, an eche like there''s something hot at the bottom of throat. Then the iron, the kind you taste in the air of a nursing home or ICU if the smell of fear is real it would be that.


    Last, eyes will need to take a second to gather the information in front before it sends it to your brain. And a sweetness came rushing from the bottom of your throat to the end of your tongue. You throw up, because the view. And you try to say something, but nothing comes out. Nothing at all. It''s only when the part of my brain decided what cocktail of chemicals it should produce for the scenario. Then my feet gives up, along the.........


    I take a huge swig of the bottle, an obnoxious dizziness clouds my mind.


    Fuck me. It''s getting more and more frequent...


    A wild idea surfaced, before I could stop it my mind already presented me an entire act in details. Goddamn it! What am I expecting? Fucking relief?


    Between Alonzo and Enzo, the latter is definitely more convincing but harder to control. Though now is not the time to play it safe.


    You dumb piece of shit..... you helpless little orphan...


    Alonzo wouldn''t be of any use if he keeps on acting like that, more so if he wasn''t acting while Nicola questioned him.


    Beyond saving and reasoning...... Throw your bloody life away in honor of them, or live through it and see how you feel afterwards.....


    ***


    I raise my gun and take a few steps closer to Enzo and Alonzo whose pupils expanded as I stop three steps away from him, still holding my pistol with my left hand and pressure the now bloodied towel with my right hand.


    "I have a proposition that would benefit.... almost everyone. But first, I''m going to need you to answer my questions gravely. Cause if you don''t, then I''m officially a dead man and I''ll take you with me just for the heck of it."


    "Ask then. You don''t have much time left." Enzo''s initial reaction was amused but as his eyes met mine, he puts away his smirk.


    "Alonzo did it out of spite.......What''s your excuse? What do you get out of this?"


    Enzo tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed, hand on knee. Silently contemplating what this has to do with anything, a million thoughts are racing inside his skull, his left eye bag lowered making him look older. After 13 precious seconds. He exhales slowly.


    "Mostly money."


    "Anything else?"


    "Many." He adds with a hint of a smile. "But at this moment. I know you''ll be satisfied with this answer." I felt a grin climb onto my face.


    "How much?"


    "A negotiable amount."


    "Good enough for me. How well do you know the O''deans?" Enzo pauses for a second.


    "I spoke to the crew a couple of times on east, they like me. Their greasy bosses don''t, but I doubt if they will get their hands dirty."


    "Wait, wait. Enzo..." Alonzo finally got a grip on what was happening in front of him. His head turns back and forth between us.


    "They any good?" Enzo let out a laugh and immediately put his hand on the spot I hit him, dark brows knit tightly together.


    "They wouldn''t need to spend a fortune on reapers and two Judas if they are."


    "Enzo what are you...."


    "You want me to talk them out of this?" The amused expression in his eyes is back as he cut off Alonzo''s words. I let out a chuckle, the muscle movement made the wound starts to bleed again.


    "I want you to stall them, as much as you can..... While I deal with the reapers." Even I don''t believe the words that came out of my mouth. Neither does Enzo, who starts laughing with the voice of terminal lung cancer case before the pain in his kidneys stops him again. Alonzo just looks at me like I''m a madman. Not far from the truth though.


    "And how would you do that, chino?" I shrug.


    "I''ll talk them into it. You worry about the O''deans, keep them busy, keep them distracted, keep them away from the radios and phones. When I''m done with Knox''s group I''ll let you know."


    "And? They aren''t mercenaries, these guys have been planning this for a long time and invested too much to fail. They won''t back down."


    "Oh, they will, once they know the cleaners bounce off, Nicola knew their coming and this was a trap."


    A tiny crack materialize on the set of blue sapphires, and for the first time, Enzo was moved. Then came an awfully long silence. Alonzo keeps looking back and forth between me and Enzo, his vision once shifting to the gun in my hand and the CZ75 by the wall.


    "....Your little plan all relies on convincing the cleaners to step out." Enzo hissed with a husky voice. "What if you failed?"


    "Then I ride shotgun to hell and you carry on with your delayed retribution." I shrug again.


    "....and what makes you think I would do as you said?" With a poker face on, right brow slightly raised. Enzo almost look innocent when he asked. I let out a sigh and starts pulling off the oldest trick in the book.


    "First of all, this." I shake the .45 pistol still firmly in my grip. "Second, because we''re going to tell Nicola the truth." Enzo''s pupils expanded, the lines of his face stiffen.


    "That ain''t going to cut."


    "Relaxed, I haven''t told you what''s the truth yet!" I slowly move back to the wall where Enzo''s gun is while facing them.


    "The truth is, we managed to crack everybody''s favorite pal Alonzo over here," I said in a mockingly grand tone while gesturing to the poor guy on the ground still couldn''t keep up with what was going on.


    "He told us their whole plan, and we came up with a risky but plausible way to get out of this." Crunching on the ground I let go of the towel to pick up Enzo''s CZ75, the part of my face is basically numb and swollen but the action still stings.


    "The plan is to use the bad connection and distrust between those two groups outside to alienate them, so he could actually live through tonight. You would go through the back door to negotiate with the O''deans before they smell something fishy about Alonzo''s absence. And buy me time. While I, will embark on the road of a martyr and face the grim reapers outside. Either we succeed or not, everyone inside will be waiting passionately with guns loaded...."


    "At us and them......" Enzo lets out a hum. "And what exactly do I get out of this?" Enzo asks with little concerns.


    "Favor of both sides, not getting shot. And I''ll match whatever they offered you." Enzo chuckles an ingenue laugh.


    "One more thing, in the future days. I''ll come to you for something, maybe I need a favor, a problem needs solving, a job needs an action pair of hand. And you''ll take it, no matter what. Promise that and you have yourself a deal." Smiling ear to ear Enzo got up from the ground and starts walking towards me, the shiver down my spine came back, feebly warning me of this man.


    "Deal." Three steps away from me, he extended his right hand. The lamp on top of his head cast a shadow upon me with his tall figure, his face is in poor light all I can see is his shining blue eyes and a glimpse of his white teeth from smirking. The shiver continues. But I ignored it again and extended my right hand to shake his with the gun in my left grip still pointing at him. Mimicking his smirk.


    I think about that night constantly in the future, thinking if I could find a different way to end that mess or a different approach to the scenario. Came up with a few, but at the time, that was the only way I could think of. And I was naive enough to believe I was in control.


    ***


    I pick up the bloodstained towel on the ground, wash it clean at the sink before I wrap it around my head as a bandage.


    11:43, I survey the room one last time, Enzo''s leaning against the wall with the most casual expression you could think of since no matter the results, he''ll be the winner. His ringed left pinky tabs his right wrist where his watch was. Telling me to hurry the fuck up.


    I ignored him and make sure the towel is secure in place again and holster my .45 back on my waist. When I look up again, I inevitably saw Alonzo. Still sitting on the floor next to his dried vomit, head low, eyes lower, shoulder sacked downward, elbows resting on knees. Still shocked by how things went in the past 30 minutes.


    I can feel the weight of Enzo''s gaze on me.


    11:44 I''m out of time.


    Walking towards Alonzo, he didn''t move or twitched even when I''m standing behind him.


    "Did you mean what you said back when Nicola asked you why?"


    The statue in front of me tilts his head back a little, good thing I can''t see his eyes like this.


    "Does it matter?"


    Does it matter?


    Euforia taught me lots of things, some of which were forced on me. I learned as much as I can. But sometimes, I felt like I skipped some very important lessons.


    14 months later, on a rainy night, at an alleyway next to a street of neon lights. I would share my thoughts on this kind of thing with a girl I just met that night. And many times in the future too.


    Consequences.


    I thought of a few, but none of them affects me negatively. So I take out Enzo''s CZ75, thumb brushes past the offed safety, and rack the slide back. Of course he already has one in the chamber. Standing at his 8 o''clock pointing the muzzle at his head. Execution position.


    Good trigger squeeze, but the bang is so loud no wonder he hesitant to pull the trigger. Everyone in the building must''ve heard it.


    11:45 Walking passed Alonzo''s body on top of blood and vomit. I open the door, leave the room with Enzo.

 A hand of eights and aces

    The air''s even thicker outside in the hallway. Men running up and down with guns in their hands and masks of dour on their faces to conceal fear. I walk past purposely not making any eye contacts. Though our faces are practically covered in bruises and wounds, so between hurried footsteps and creaking floorboards, some still stop to give us a few questioning looks.


    Enzo occasionally gives me a few glances when he has to squeeze past someone. More specifically, my right hand in my jacket pocket.


    Through the solitary door at the end of the hallway, we bump into Dino. He gave me and Enzo another glimpse before he walked towards the room Alonzo in wordlessly.


    Tommy is sitting on the staircase, reducing half a cigarette to ashes with a single breath, three extinguished cig butts line up next to him, filter towards the ceiling, standing bolt upright. His thumb brushes the cylinder of his gun. He added the one between his fingers to the bunch when he noticed us. And our faces.


    "Please don''t tell me you two couldn''t kill a half-dead whimp......." Enzo let out a grin and slam his hand on Tommy''s shoulder.


    "Go check the room and see for yourself. Oh, and bring a mop." Tommy waves his hand like he''s flapping flies and pull out another cig from the red-striped pack next to the cig butts.


    "Nicky is downstairs waiting for you like a widow waiting for her only son to visit..." He put the cig in his mouth after sniffing the filter. Then he shifts his eyes on me. "And you, go to the back of the kitchen and grab whatever you need, it''s on the house today."


    "S¨ª, s¨ª. Fratello." Enzo bypasses him and the line of cigs on the stairs. I follow behind after a nod at Tommy, who lit the fifth cigarette.


    ***


    Ground floor, behind the restaurant. Through the back of the kitchen and a set of iron doors, a guy walks out with a crate. Judging by the way he tenderly holds it, it''s probably full of ''last results''. I step away to let him pass the narrow hallway.


    11:46. Enzo stops me in front of Nicola''s office. With a throaty voice and a smile of a snake, he asks.


    "Last chance to back down, kid." My right eyelid twitched and a half-hearted laugh came out of my mouth.


    And now he''s acting like he gives a fuck.


    "Back down to what?" Enzo tilts his head for a moment, eyes shifting to the red patterns on the wallpapers.


    "To save yourself first."


    Great, even he acknowledge my life more than myself.


    "I am doing exactly that. So that''s get this over with eh?" I clutch the CZ75 in my right hand, feeling the handle of this clumsy, robust but reliable weapon and how odd Enzo choose this pistol.


    Enzo''s gaze is still locked on the fleur-de-lis on the wall. A second later, the left corner of his mouth dropped, and a glint of spite or interest pass the blue eyes before he push open the door to Nicola''s office.


    The crank room is full of unorganized sheets everywhere I lay my eyes on. There''s a huge square table in the middle, surrounded by too many folding chairs. On it, are a pump-action shotgun, a load of shells, and 9mm cartridges on top of a poorly drawn map of this building and nearby alleys. The room is surprisingly quiet compared to the army bunk of hallway outside, the only sounds here are the ceiling fan and Nicola''s heavy breathing.


    The big fella is sitting on the floor next to an opened save at the corner of the room. I don''t even need to see his eyes to know he already gave up.


    Seconds after we walk in he tries to get up and collect his scattered decency.


    "Enzo, how''s the snake upstairs?" Patting the invisible dust on his trousers, Nicola asks.


    "We were in a bit of a rush, can''t find a tuxedo his size. But I''d say he looks sharp enough to leave an impression on the devil''s mind when he drags him to hell." Nicola lets out two short laughs and beckons Enzo to come closer.


    "Good, good.... now tell me about.." Nicola stops mid-sentence when he sees me standing behind Enzo. The fat around his mouth falls downward. "Merc, go to the back door with everyone else. You got no business here."


    "Actually, he does." Enzo grab a folding chair and sat down. Kicking his spotless leather shoes on the square table while Nicola knit his brows together. Enzo gives me a look that says ''Your idea, your pitch'', tapping his wrist again before he pulls out a pack of cig.


    I take a deep breath and sum up what happened in the past 20 minutes as short as I can. (leaving lots of details of course). Enzo listen with a cigarette in his mouth tilting towards the ceiling, Nicola''s facial expression got tenser and tenser.


    12 seconds passed 11:47, I told him the plan. He laughed.


    "So you think those sons of bitches out there are here for chitchats? Christ, are you fucked in the head? A-and, Enzo you''re on board with this?" Enzo, who remains in the same position for the whole time, lets out three words.


    "Yeah, I do."


    20 seconds passed 11:47, Nicola exhales a long breath and lowered his head. The facade of calm demeanor left his body along with his sign. The notorious Nicola in Little Italy seems so small and unimportant right now.


    Waving his hand aimlessly in the air he mutters.


    "Do whatever the hell you want to do then." The words were whispered out of his mouth in the end as if he was out of breath. Enzo walks over and pats his boss''s shoulder and sang some reassuring words about how this will work.


    Wonder if Nicola looks up right now, would he notice the spiteful contemptuous hiding under those blue eyes?


    35 seconds passed 11:48, the crew was split in three. On the second-floor room where Alonzo died and behind the bar counter at the restaurant area on the first floor, and the third one is in one of the back rooms behind the kitchen. In case we failed, these guys could at least gain the upper hand in the fight. All got a pistol, revolver, shotgun (I even saw a bolt action rifle) aiming at me and Enzo.


    In the hallway leading to the back door and employee smoke room, my heart beats like a sewing machine. The sounds in my brain keep telling me how crazy and stupid I am, how I''m rushing towards a death wish, how all of this is meaningless for me and them.


    Fucking hell..... I don''t even want to justify my actions to myself since it''s impossible. Is this what suicidal people felt halfway falling down a building?


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I check the watch to take my mind off. 70 seconds...... punctuality really is a virtue around here.


    Enzo is still the same, calm, and collected, as if what''s about to happen has nothing to do with him.


    11:49, he tossed away his burned cigarette and crack his neck.


    "You put my number on fast dial?" A part of me tries to laugh at how suggestive that was. And I did, but it came out more like a sick dog barking than a laugh.


    "Yeah.... Yes I did." Enzo side-eyes me and lets out a silent sign.


    "If things escalate out of hand, make a call whatever it takes. Flip your phone open and put it in your pocket. And if you pulled it off, give me a call too. It would make my part easier. Oh. And give me back my gun."


    My hand moved on its own and pulls out his pistol, and hand it back to him. He put it back on the back of his belt, under his jacket. In the whole process, I couldn''t catch a single hint of haste or a sign of shakiness.


    "Grazie and good luck, merc." Without even looking at me, Enzo turned around and strides towards the back, the distances between footsteps are completely the same.


    40 seconds left, by strength I found at fuck knows where. I walk towards the front while checking if my 1911 was properly clocked and loaded even though I already know it is.


    32 seconds left, I walk into the empty break room next to the stalls with my hands clenched.


    27 seconds, I push open the door to the dining area. Peeking at the back of the bar counter I see sets of eyes hiding in the shadows. Doubts, anxiety, and the look you give unconsciously when you''re watching a train derailed on the news.


    22 seconds, I unlocked the bolt on the front door of restaurant. The sound of brass sliding triggered a hazy memory of me playing with the lock on my parent''s door. Sliding it up and down because I like the sound before my father''s voice interrupted me.... The memory disappeared as abruptly as it happened. I shake my head and felt an itch in my throat.


    19 seconds, I put my hand on the handle. The coldness still clouds my nape and the back of my head, all my strength got pulled into the floor beneath me by gravity, leaving me emptied and fragile.


    12 seconds, my mind went blank. I turned the door nub.


    ***


    Searing wind accompanied by summer damp. Dimming warm light from lamp poles along the desolate street gives off enough illumination for late-night passersby to see where the road leads, but not what lies in the alleyways and shades. I take a deep breath of the humid air.


    A rain''s coming.


    A click came from my left. Subtle, almost missable if it weren''t for how quiet the street is.


    A sound of machinery like the barrel bolt lock of the front door.


    They heard me.....


    I soften my steps as much as I could while approaching the alley. In the corner of my eyes notices a significant increase of cigarette ends on the ground earlier. Two steps away from the corner, I stop with my back against the wall.


    7 seconds passed 11:50, but there were no gunshots from the back and the reapers haven''t started yet. Enzo¡¯s doing his part.


    I take a look at the second-floor window above me and see at least three muzzles pointing at me. A part of me wants to laugh at how fucking awkward of a position I put myself in.


    I rest my head on the wall, staring at the lamp pole while adjusting my breathing. With my hand pressing on my chest, I was shocked to find my heart is now beating at a normal rate, shit Maybe slower than normal as I''m completely numb the second I walk out of the front door but the urge to laugh kept growing.


    25 seconds passed 11:50, I take another step further by the wall. The distance to the corner was reduced to under 1 meter, I can hear the rhythmic breathing of cleaners in my arms-reach and the heavy odor of cheap tobacco.


    Never thought my life would end in some dramatic fashion....but if I get shot the next second I''m going to be so pissed in hell...


    I take off my bomber jacket and throw it to the concrete ground in front of the alley, then my .45 pistol, the daggers in my sleeve, and on my ankle. Feeling as naked as a newborn, a wave of warm breeze sends a chill down my spine. I shouted with a voice more collected than I anticipate.


    "If any of y''all heard there will be an Asian mafioso in the kill box. Then put a bullet in me right now. I''m unarmed! But if not, then how about y''all put a pin on that and wait a few more minutes to hear what I got to say?"


    My heartbeat slowly fasten for the only response was the sound of a moth banging the lighting of lamp pole in front of me.


    "And don''t worry about duty calls. Your employers won''t be giving the green light any time soon!" That sure got some attention as I heard the sound of leather rubbing and a long exhale. I lowered my voice.


    "I''m going to take two steps forward with my hands up. If any of you have a single doubt about why you''re still pissing in an alley after the go time, just know that I can give you the answers...."


    Oh, what the hell.


    "One more thing, there''s at least three snipers staring at the back of my head. Waiting for me to draw you guys out..... those wops in the building? They ain''t my pals, and I don''t intend to do what they told me to. What I''m trying to do here. Is helping you."


    I turn around and see the fellows upstairs still pointing their guns at me. Good.


    My mind races through all the possible outcomes of this and found myself not giving a fuck. There''s only one choice left for me anyway, why bother worrying?


    "I''m going forward now." I raise my hands in the air and take a deep breath. The sound of moth hitting the lamp pole disappeared as my foot slid across the pavement. Time slowed down when my head turn toward the alleyway, a glint pokes out of the corner and disappears the next second.


    Then a hand shoot out of the corner at a speed I couldn''t register until it had gripped the collar of my shirt and dragged me into the alley. Away from the illumination of street lights and the gangster''s vision.


    Before I could pronounce a word or see the guy''s face. The person yanks me towards the other side. My back hits the brick wall squeezing a grunt out of my throat. Not giving me time to catch a break, he immediately pins my throat with his upper arm while his left hand quickly searches my sleeves, back, both thighs, legs, and ankles.


    The man raises his head and gives me a glance when he reaches the flip phone in my pocket. Dull brown eyes with little emotions and scars rearranged the sharpness of his face making his jawline seem sharper. His weather-bitten cheeks look more like dorsal of a viper, leathery and coarse. Dragging his eye bags downward.


    The man I saw from the window.


    The cleaner threw the phone to a slightly younger man next to him while he kept his dull brown eyes locked on mine.


    I take a peek to my right and see 5 other men armed to the teeth with Galil rifles and submachine guns while each one of them is wearing hard body armor over black tracksuits. Two are smoking by the wall, a big guy is standing straight up next to the dull-eyed man with a pistol firmly pointing at my face. The other two take point at the position by the corner, fingers flat on the safety next to the triggers.


    A man with blue eyes takes out a small mirror attached to a stick. Turing it vertically, he sticks the mirror out for a single second before retrieving it.


    "Panoptes?" The guy behind him raises his brow and asks in a deep clear voice. ''Panoptes'' shake his head.


    "Street lights ground pounded the visibility. Can''t see shit except for heaven''s grace." The scout blurts in a silvery voice.


    A grayed beard cleaner smoking in the back put his cig back in his mouth and press on the radio stick to his vast''s velcro.


    "Second-floor window. You got eyes up there, birdy?" Two screeching white noises later a husky voice came out.


    "Aye aye, rifles and shotguns between curtains. Mate, my fingers are twitching may I please do my job?" The grayed beard man massage his eyes when he heard the confirmation.


    "Stick it in your twat and keep on the lookout." Cold sweats spurt out my back as the idea of a crosshair on my head this whole time sets in.


    The dull eyed man put some more pressure on my throat, his brows twitched. The turns to look at the cleaner standing farthest.


    He''s wearing a dark green beanie. A hard, full beard occupied half of his face, entangling with itself. Hooked nose with a darker shade of skin ranging from its bridge to the sides of his cheekbones. He raises the cigarette between his gloved fingers to his mouth, taking a long drag before puffing out an impressive amount of smoke at the night sky.


    Hands clinging to his body armor, Galil ACE dangling by the right side of his hip. The cleaner walked towards me in steady and silent footsteps. The big guy with a pistol at me and the dulled eye man both step aside.


    Standing right in front of me, I found him a bit younger than gray beard. Fewer wrinkles around his eye sockets and fairer skin too. I would say he''s in his late 40s but his dark hazel eyes remind me of the annual rings of olden pine trees. Emotions are carved as ring after ring but each seems to be completely independent of the other. Conflicting emotions coexist inside this man''s mind. Irritate, interested, amuse, contempt, impress..... But all of them, are carved on a piece of lifeless stiff wood. An object.


    Before this point, I felt like I was watching a dream I''m too numb to control. But staring at this man, a sense of fear resonated. Reality hit me like a bucket of cold water and hollowed my body, leaving me a shell. But it also made me more conscious than ever tonight. So I return his stare, not to show him I''m not afraid but I got nothing to hide.


    Vulnerability and fear are good things, it keeps you vigilant and sane...... goddamn it old man, wish I paid more attention to your rumblings.


    After I lost track of time, the cleaner squints his eyes to a slit. A mouth click later he takes a step back to speak with a surprisingly smooth voice.


    "I hope you have a good hand, kiddo." Taking another drag of his smoke, the cleaner extinguished the burned cigarette on the ground and pulls out his pistol. Standing half feet taller than me, he place his left palm on the back of his right hand. "Cause you''re facing four of a kind here.¡±


    Finger off the trigger, barrel off the target, safety off as well. I ignore the ache slowly coming back from the wound on my forehead and start my first job as a mediator.

 Mediator

    "Let''s start with introductions eh?"


    Compelling a normal and genuine smile out of yourself in scenarios like this is something I suck at. In fact, one of the reasons I had my inhaler made is for me to get into character smother, and it still took a shit load of practice to make it look believable. (''A touch too dramatic'' in Vera''s words)


    And as green as I was, I could only imagine later on how fucking sorry was mine acting that night.


    "I''m a freelancer..... Took the wrong job at the wrong time from that greasy wop." I nod towards the street outside. "And y''all are Knox''s group. Employed by the O''deans for sanitizing reasons right?" The man in the beanie tilts his head to the side for a moment, deep in thought.


    "More or less. My turn, why haven''t my employer called yet?" Scythe through a field.


    Regarding the situation I''m in, no matter the case Enzo''s agenda will play the defining role. In this guy''s words, Enzo is the one with four of a kind while I''m stuck with a dead man''s hand. Anyone would have put all the marbles on him. So I''m going to do the same.


    "Because. At this moment an associate of mine had convinced them to..... reconsider their options." His facial muscles drag his skin at the corner of his mouth to form an insidious smile but there are no traces of joy in his eyes.


    "So you''re telling me that... Those O''deans at the back, who are hell bound to do this..... Who threw everything they got into this raid. Who already paid us a considerable amount of commission ..... bailed just now?" Taking a step forward, he tilts his head downward slightly to match my gaze.


    ......Oh, I can work with that..


    "Only commissions eh?" A grin forms naturally on my face as I scoffed. The scout by the corner turned his head towards me, frowning. I take a deep breath and go over the play again, making sure there''s nothing he can use to see through my bullshit.


    "The associate of mine, whose name y''all may or may not know. Is Enzo." I quickly shift my line of sight off the man in a beanie to see how the others react. As subtle as they''ve shown most of them register the name.


    "Earlier today Alonzo who was going to open the back door for them to penetrate from the rear while you guys spit roasted them at front." Panoptes arch his back forward slightly his lips twitched, almost slipping a smile.


    "But Alonzo is dead." The man in front of me squints his eyes again. Narrowing his eyes into a brown slit like a reptile. "He was caught wearing a bulletproof vest while sweating like a catholic priest in an elementary school''s pool." Panoptes turned his face to the wall, holding out a laugh while the scout behind him raises his head to the sky trying to control his facial muscles.


    "It took 20 minutes and minimum effort to crack him. He spilled the whole thing, including Enzo''s involvement before they open a third eye on his forehead." Irritation, tiredness, and...... a hint of glee. He doesn''t like rats either.


    "But Enzo struck a deal with Nicola. He.... Convinced Nicola to let him talk to the O''deans at the back...."


    Now for the bait.


    "Question, when was the last time your employers contacted you?" I take a look at the crowd while asking with a sarcastic tone.


    The beanie guy remains unshaken and emotionless, at least in terms of facial expressions. The others couldn''t compose themselves as well as him but were pretty good too, yet the idea of doubt was planted, some narrowed their eyes, and other''s breathing gradually spiral to heavy exhales.


    "Let me guess, been a while isn''t it?" I shifted my gaze to Panoptes by the wall and found a glint of cold in them. Got ''em.


    "That''s because Enzo told them this was a trap, that Alonzo was busted already and Nicola was waiting for the O''deans tonight. I only met Enzo for a few hours and I already know how much of an effect he have on people."


    Words came out of my mouth before I registered them in my mind. As I keep on lying, the smile on my face becomes more and more relaxed and I can feel my back lean towards the wall. An intoxicating thrill writhed in my chest for the idea of getting out of this felt real for the first time.


    It''s an addiction, to throw yourself in a pit of fire. As much as I don''t want to admit it.


    "Now ask yourself again, is it really that much of a fairytale for a smaller crew of half-asses to run as soon as things didn''t go as planned?"


    The seed of doubt bloomed, I can see it in the faces of those two scouts that they started to question if this will also affect them. The dulled eye man''s dark brows slowly close together while the face of the guy pointing a pistol at me became more defined, especially the line under his ears, giving up he''s gritting his teethes. The grey beard lights up another cigarette as he contemplates what I said.


    The only one I still couldn''t get a read on is the man in front of me. All of his reactions and expressions seemed so...... fake.


    With the cigarette dangling on his lips, a grey bearded man walks up to us again.


    "How you wanna do this?" He asks. The man in a beanie raises both of his brows and tilts his head toward the grey-beard man. For the first time, he showed surprise in his eyes.


    "Oh, you believe him?" He returns the question with another. The older man puffs out a thin trace of smoke toward the sky.


    "Not really. But I don''t like to fuck with odds. Something happened, we don''t have the means to know what. And I''m not too excited to walk into the dark." The man with a beanie lets out a chuckle.


    "Age really did you in, old man. Messed you all up." The grey-beard man takes a step forward and hissed with an oppressed voice.


    "I''m been practical here. This. Is a bad business." The man in the beanie stops his eyes on the older cleaners for a moment. One cold as steel, the other elusive with a trace of disdain. And all of a sudden, the man with the beanie darts his line of sight back at me with a smirk.


    "Why don''t you finish your testimony first?" His voice was as smooth as before but now pressed with a layer of belligerent. I swallow hard and try to remain as composed as I was.


    "According to his words, after Enzo made them believe this is a trap. The O''deans, very conveniently decided to ditch y''all without informing this is a setup. Expecting you guys to vanquish here tonight so they don''t have to pay the rest of the contract..... bit of a cunt your employers are, I''d say as a fellow freelancer." I shrug in the minimum movement I can portray right now.


    The beanie guy drags the left corner of his lips like he''s chewing gums before his mouth clicks. He turns around to look at the rest of the guys. No doubt my words had mind fucked them, especially the two young scouts, both of them had a nameless blaze in their eyes. Dulled eye man''s eyelids drop with his face, gray beard spits out the cigarette and turns around to radio the sniper again.


    Before I showed up they were the dominant force in this field but what I said originated the idea that they''re abandoned and have no reasons to stay and carry out the work. It doesn''t matter if they buy it or not, as long as the possibility is planted in their head would be enough. As I said, at the end of the day, the reapers are mercenaries as well.


    "And what you got to prove it, merc?" Surprisingly, the one to finally ask the question is Panoptes. I can''t help but let out a silent laugh.


    Enzo you better do your fucking part.


    "You can call them right now, see what happens." Panoptes turns his eyes to his leader. The man in beanie adjusts the channel key on his radio while keeping eye contact with me. Time slowed down again as he move his left thumb to the orange button on the side, I tried to keep my head clean and restrain my amplified heartbeats. The first was pretty easy, the second is impossible since my lies are one poke away from exploding like a balloon.


    "It''s passed the designated time, what do you want us to do?" A screeching white noise came followed by a long silence, I slowly lean back on the wall behind me as I can feel my legs shaking.


    One heartbeat.


    Two heartbeats.


    Three heartbeats.


    Four heart.....


    "Hold." A single word came through the radio before white noise takes hold of the microphone, then, silence creeps in again. Through the fabric of my shirt and the steel and Kevlar of their vests, they cling on your shoulder and slowly choke you out.


    Until the man in beanie drag his thin lips to the side of his face and takes another step closer to arms-reach. With a light voice and an unsettling glint of hunger in his eyes, he says.


    "Didn''t catch your name earlier. What do they call you, kid?" A pressure returns to the back of my head, and it escalates, like a giant palm gripping my head harder and harder.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ".....Lee would be fine." Annual rings in his eyes lit up, a roaring blaze consuming it. His emotions are no longer fake or for sarcastic purposes they''re now burning bright.


    "Lee..... they call me Knox."


    ***


    Knox wasn''t a big name in any sense, his group was efficient, precise, and charge relatively more reasonable than others (most of the time). In today''s freelance market or in lanes, they wouldn''t be much of a note, just an old-fashioned cleaning group.


    But six years ago was a very different period of time than present, the city''s rules weren''t concrete yet, and lines between factions were blurry. Piao Jie and Little Italy weren''t under single influences like nowadays, it was chaos. Everybody wants and has the means to be somebody before another comes and rearranges the tides.


    Vera once told me peace is the worse factor for her work. To some extent, I''m positive a shit load of mercenaries and cleaners in the lanes want the Russikies and Qins to go to town on each other. Tragedy and war take thousands of forms, some see it as a way to make a name or a quick buck, while others see it as an inevitable nightmare. Either way, it''s good for businesses.


    And that''s where Knox and his group shined. They took jobs all around the city during the later period of power struggles among eastern Faust, even some japs told me (before I theoretically fucked up their casino) they had enlisted Knox''s group''s services once or twice long ago and they were very satisfied with the results.


    This is what Knox''s group mean back in the day, a constant paid force on different sides, and never once fucked up. Some even said they had never once lost a combatant....... before that night.


    ***


    I feel as if the air around me materialized into cold iron and engulfed me. I''m not afraid of this man in front of me but what''s inside of him.


    "The story is mostly convincing but there''s a thing I can''t get over..... you. Why would they send you?"


    Tilting his head slightly forward, he gaze upon me with a smile and a frenzy in his eyes. Before I notices, my back is completely against the wall as I keep leaning back out of reflexes. I take a deep breath and force myself to stand straight as my brain scrambles through all the stuff I could pull out of nowhere right now.


    "Nicola''s man saw you guys getting out of the van and walking into this alley. He didn''t think you guys would listen to reason, that he has to kill y''all in order to see the sunrise again." I pause for a moment as I grit my teeth like I''m caught between anger and doubts, not sure how well I sold that but at least I know everyone''s focus is on me.


    "So that brain dead fuck decided to go as Enzo''s lies and set up the scene to position his man around the front thinking that he could get the drop on you by surprise. And now all they need is for you guys to step into the open street.... And that''s where little ol me came back into their mind." I let out a chuckle and dart my focus to the right.


    The burly guy lowered his eyelids while his eyes are full of contempt, grey beard looks a bit more stoic than he was with his brows slightly moved close to each other, Panoptes switch positions with the other scout and leaned on the wall in front of me, resting his hands on rifle stock. Knox nods subtly from time to time with interest in his eyes.


    "Enzo and the others in there practically forced me to do it or else they''ll kill me before you do....... As for why they don''t send someone else, well......." I slightly lower my head like I''m nodding and drag a grin on my face.


    "Because no one have the balls to face the grim reapers." For the first time tonight, I heard the dulled eye man let out a grunt-like laugh.


    "And you got an extra sack or you''re secretly pissing your pants right now?" Panoptes asks in a dead serious tone that made the big fella and Knox grin while grey beard lets out a sign.


    "Well, that depends on how many you have, and uh.... they let me use the restroom before shoving me out here so probably neither." I let a smirk form on my face naturally and turn my focus back on Knox. "I just hate not having control over anything. If I''m out to die, it ain''t going to be sitting dock in some damp back room of a shitty dinner. I''d rather take my chances."


    Knox scratches his beard with his left hand while his right hand is still holding the pistol firmly.


    "So they told you to lure us out but you decided to....."


    "Have a civilized conversation."


    "Christ." Holding his chin, Knox hums. "You''re a blackjack kind of guy eh? So what does this civilized conversation suppose to lead to?"


    "Everyone waking up on their own beds tomorrow instead of the morgue." Knox raises his brows. "Your employers believed the words of an accomplice and ditched y''all, hoping that you guys will get killed. Your contract ended before you even got here, hell. I might get paid more than you guys tonight. The point is, y''all have no reasons to engage now. None. Nicola''s man could be quickly convinced to let y''all be on your merry way. They, got no interest in a bloodbath with cleaners. While you have no need to follow orders anymore...... There is no point or gain for either side to do this."


    In the end, my voice became shaky like I''m trying to contain my anger and laughter. I was invested in my own lies that the idea of Knox and Nicola''s crew having a shootout seem generally ludicrous and the adrenaline rushing through my veins made my ear rings.


    As my words sunk into the cleaner''s mind I can visibility see their doubts clears out and turn their gaze to their boss. Knox, whose smirk still hangs on his face while he scrutinized my words in his head. Suddenly, his focus shift to the towel (or napkin... I still can''t tell) wrap around my forehead and points at the edge of my brow where an icky pain still stings ever so often.


    "What happened to that?" My right hand reaches to touch the fabric on my face unconsciously which triggers the big fella with a pistol at me.


    "Doesn''t matter." Knox''s smile disappears but the flame in his eyes burn ever so brightly. An unwanted emotion returns in them. Suspicion.


    For fuck''s sake I''m at the brink.


    "......I''ve been wondering since you start blabbering. You. A merc. Why would you try so hard to save them wops inside?..... You made this a fucking peace negotiation for them who carved up your face and force you on a suicide mission you didn''t sign for according to your words." Knox crack his neck''s joint as he continues on.


    "Makes me wonder...... if you''re not a merc, maybe Nicola have some Tokyo joe no one heard of stashed in his sleeves, and maybe...... you also fake the whole O''deans scenario." Knox now stares with the same frenzy in his eyes, anger, thrill, doubts, and disdain all mixed into one as his dark hazel eyes suffocate me.


    The captain of the cleaning group once again presses the orange key on his radio. A short static came through before Knox asks again.


    "It''s been way too long. Are we doing this or not?" Ten seconds of silence came before the voice came from the other side again with a dry answer.


    "Hold." A slight hint of anger rushes through Knox''s face before he conceals them back into his eyes.


    This is it.


    He has nothing to prove me wrong. I have nothing to prove I''m right.


    A real life Rashomon.


    I take a deep breath and close my eyes to barricade every single emotion in my mind and replace them with sullen and intentionally narrow my eyes when I reopen them. With a light voice, I say.


    "All I have against your words, are mine which are the truth. I''m a mercenary who took a job from a proxy at the lanes to deal with some loan sharks in the West. And when I return to Nicola, shit gone south. I was trapped in a conflict I have no interest in." I pause for a second to meet every single one of their gazes, to see theirs, and let them see mine.


    "What happened about the O''deans I only have Enzo''s version of the story but I saw them leave with my own eyes. And I''m also sure that none of you." I nod at the two scouts by the corner, grey beard, the big fella, dulled eye and of course, Knox. "Are going to get paid tonight." I scoffed at the words and carry on.


    "You ask why I would try so hard to save them ginos inside..... Let''s just say I have some personal reasons that would not affect you in any way possible.... Oh, and this?" I point at the wound from my brow to my forehead. "This is from Alonzo, I was the one that caught him snitching." I take a moment to breathe and act like I''m ''cooling my head'' even though I''m more terrified inside than angry and count to ten in my head before I forced a grin on my face.


    "...Now it''s up to you. You''re a gambler so tell me, am I bluffing? Or is it that all your cards were exposed by your partner who folds the second he sees his hand?"


    Staring down Knox''s eyes, I see conflicts, contradictories, self doubts. He knit his brows as his eyes narrowed. I lock my focus on him not daring to break the eye contacts, his dark hazel pupils is like a surgeon dissecting me, cutting through my skin, stretching my bones extracting my organs to find any sign of lies.


    And I ignored them all. I know the more I try to decipher his thoughts the more uncertain and insecure my body language will become, so I let my mind wander off on the little details around me. The obnoxious feeling of blood soaking the rug on my forehead, the brown stains on Knox''s beanie, the wry lines of his left ear, the tattoo on the neck of the burly man who never let the line of fire off me, the vague stink of garter and cheap tobacco in the air, and the oppressed sound of thunder from afar.


    When Knox finally take a step back his motions were slow. He turns the channel key on his radio two and a half times and presses on.


    "Birdy. How''s the view up there?" Three seconds of static later he replied.


    "They changed gunners a few minutes ago. Nothing new under the sun, chief."


    I can see the moment Birdy finishes reporting. Knox compromised. The cleaner stared at the street few meters away from this alley wordlessly. Grey beard man walks up to him and break the silence among the cleaners.


    "Say the word then." Knox closes his eyes momentarily, his breath heavy.


    "Give him back his phone, we''re leaving." When his eyes open again, the flame is gone. Emotions once again become lines of carvings on a lifeless stele. Doubts didn''t leave his eyes but other thoughts surpassed it.


    Almost every one of them, except the dulled eye, looks relief. They gather their equipments, the big fella finally put his guns down and throw me my phone back.


    I flip it open and dial in Enzo''s numbers slowly since my fingers are still trembling.


    Calm down. Don''t break character at this fucking moment.


    I clutch the phone in my hand to steady it. I double check the numbers before phoning it. Enzo pick up before the first dialing tone finished. I press the speakerphone key five times to minimize the sound before putting it on.


    "Took your sweet fucking time, merc?" A rage runs through my chest and spread all over my body, I grip the phone harder to calm myself down.


    I take a peek to the right to make sure no one is paying attention to me, luckily since Knox gave the order I''m no longer there focus as most of them took position by the corner, grey beard resumed smoking in the back, Knox is still on the radio answering to birdy''s questions about why they''re bailing all of a sudden.


    "They agreed to leave." Silence.


    "......You sure?" An ominous squeak came from my phone''s keypad. I take a deep breath.


    "Yes. You done? Or were you having a fucking wine testing back there?" A series of short laughter came.


    I should''ve stomped on his nuts when he was on the ground.


    "Easy now, merc. they''ve been gone for at least ten minutes by now."


    Wait...... I take another look at the cleaners before I ask.


    "They answered the radio from the cleaners about three minutes ago."


    "Yeah? What did they say?"


    "They told them to hold." Another series of laughter came.


    "Don''t you worry about that...Oh, and tell your friends they can come out now."


    ***


    After Birdy confirmed the gunners on the second floor are gone do Knox and his man clear out the alley, they kept their guns pointing at the restaurant''s front door and the widows while crossing the road back to their van.


    Though there are still millions of questions in my mind, I''ve run out of strength and will to care. I put the phone down, watching the black van''s slide door closes and hit the road. As the car passes the alley again. My eyes met Knox''s who gave me one last look from the passenger seat before rolling up the window. There''s something in them. Bitterness? Indignant? Loathing? Speculating? I''m too tired to care.


    I dust off the mud stein on my jacket before putting it on, and strap my .45, daggers back. Feeling whole again.


    A drop of rain landed perfectly on the top of green lamp pole creating a clean metallic noise. Then the next one landed by my feet, at the concrete walkway followed by another one and another one and another one.......


    One landed on my ear, pulled me out of my trance. I shake my head and look at the empty street as the rain starts mercilessly befalls onto it.


    The towel on my head was soaked in a moment, weighting it down. My hands shake uncontrollably because of the sudden drop of temperature or the aftermath of what I done which I''m still in disbelief.


    A series of acute pain triggered by the rain soaking through towel and stimulating my wound. I thought about the closest clinic around here and turn right towards the same direction as the Knox''s.

 Silver and iron

    I made my way down south to one of the Salvador clinics close to piao jie that''s still open at midnight. They did some basic tending to clean my wounds and stop the bleeding. The doc was a 60 years old lady with shaky hands and a fragile smile that somehow remains on her face despite the line of work she partakes.


    She insisted on sewing up the wound for me, but judging from their standard of sanitization I politely refused and promise her I''ll go to the hospital right away before I took the last subway ride back to Nochnaya. The train was empty asides from me and my thoughts.


    The hospital of Faust charges almost as much as all the other underground clinics, not to mention they would poke around your personal belongings and ask to see your IDs if they deem your injury could be related to criminal activities and would leave a record in the data.


    In comparison, a clinic in the back of a taxi stand in Kirov seems much more preferable, and the doc there actually had three Ph.D. in medical fields...... before his medical licenses were suspended for being high while performing surgeries.


    He takes one look at my wounds and immediately reaches to conclusions.


    "Bad news is, it''s going to leave a scar. The other bad news is, your blood fucking stinks which means the knife that cut you wasn''t clean and it''s very likely that it''ll swell or you''ll catch a fever if you don''t treat it right now....... The good news is, There''s a discount right now! Half price for every 5 mg of extra morphine!"


    I took about 45 mg and slept through the surgery and next sunrise on the operating table.


    On my way back home I got a call from Enzo, said Nicola wants to see me. So I rush back home, armed myself to the teeth, and bombarded Ivan out of his bed through phone calls to drive me there. He parked the car right in front of the alley I was in last night and told me he''ll start knocking if I don''t come out in 20 minutes.


    The reputation of Nicola was real. He was trying to rip me in half 15 hours ago, and now he and his crew are treating me like I''m some kind of war hero. They sit around the room listening to how I tricked Knox and his man to leave with interests piqued I their eyes.


    When I finished, Enzo in the corner of the room like always was the first to speak.


    "Diavolo dalla lingua d''argento eh? Signore."


    The silver-tongued devil. He said with a sick glint in his blue eyes. And the others went along with it, Nicola grab my shoulder and pass me a drunk like last night which I hold in my hand the entire time without taking a sip.


    Minutes later I found some bullshit excuses to catch a breath outside and tell Ivan I''ll be fine. Which he replied with a grunt.


    A set of footsteps made of leather shoes on brick pavement approached me As I watch Ivan drove off.


    "What did you tell the O''deans last night?" I ask without looking at him.


    "Does it matter?"


    God, I fucking hate him.


    "You tell me, Does it?..... each of them told me a different version of what happened in the back last night." I tilt my head towards the front door with a ''closed'' sign on.


    "Then pick the one you like." The thought of elbowing his face again crossed my mind. I take out my pack of cig and put the last one in it in my mouth, throw the package to the alley Knox''s man was at last night.


    Before I could find my lighter, a burning match between Enzo''s index and middle finger was presented in front of me.


    I take the smoke out of my mouth and place the tip on top of the flare.


    "Grazie." I put the cig back in my mouth again and inhale a deep breath, feeling the taste of mint and spice reaches the bottom of my throat, concentrate into a dot then exploded in my lung.


    "500 thousand." I cough out the smoke. "That was the O''deans offer." I feel my eyes water as the smoke rushes back into my nostrils.


    "Can I check the receipt real quick?" Enzo let out a chuckle as he takes out a cigarette case.


    "Those were your words. Never exaggerate your words when others can hold you accountable." Enzo puts the second smoke on the right case in his mouth.


    "Can I pay in installments?" He shrugs as he pulls out a zippo from the inner pocket of his blazer.


    "Sure, I''m feeling..... lenient today." Lighting up the cig, Enzo greedily takes a hard drag.


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    ".....And the other thing? The favor?" He took his time puffing out smoke rings before answering me.


    "I haven''t decided yet. But don''t you worry, I''ll think of something eventually." I chew on the filter of cigarette and let out a dry laugh.


    That''s one hell of a reassurance.


    Taking another drag, I thought back to what happened last night. An urge to laugh came out of nowhere.


    What I did unavoidably complicates my connections with Little Italy, and it''s only a matter of time before Knox and his man found out I was lying. If Nicola is smart enough, he would''ve dealt with the O''deans as soon as possible and stopped showing up at this joint so often. If not, then O''deans might be a problem too.


    Pissing off a shit load of cutthroats and for what?


    I was right, it doesn''t make me feel better. Just made the taste of mint and spice in the bottom of my throat bitter.


    I take one last drag and flick the rest of the cig to the dark ally behind me.


    "Too late for that." Enzo takes another hard drag, turning half a cig to cinders. I unknowingly raise my brows out of habit before a sharp pain penetrates my head, the stitches across my brow twist as my skin craws together.


    Should''ve asked for more morphine.


    "Think of it as a....... lecture, lingua d''argento. To be a saint is to be torched alive for nonexistent peace of mind." The tall man in a different suit than yesterday dusts off the ashes with a flick of his thumb. "I don¡¯t care why you did what you did. But I can tell it didn''t pay off did it?¡­¡­ Lucky for you.¡±


    With the cig in his mouth, Enzo chokes the end of the brown filter with his thumb and middle finger and inhales deeply until the flicker climbs on the rest of the cigarette, the tip of his fingers are reddened by the heat but he keeps inhaling until the flicker touches the filter between his fingertips does he stop. And clenches the flame between his grasp, extinguishes it. Breathing out a chunk of smoke, he let the blackened end falls off his mouth, down on the ground.


    "This nuisance will be over soon. Never mind the O''deans and Knox." He raise his left elbow while upper arm hangs down in a lazy motion to check the time. "And don''t bother laying low either, if I were you I''ll start worrying about the 500k instead."


    Enzo turns around and strolls back inside Nicola''s place.


    "I''ll be seeing you, Lee." He sang as he pushes open the front door leaving me on the street. Without looking at me the entire time.


    ***


    He didn''t lie. I spent the next four days looking over my shoulders (more than usual) while walking down the street. Paid visits to a few well-connected fellas I know. Going through bars, clubs, whore houses, pawn shops to ask around if anyone has ''Any thing going on in little Italy?¡±


    But all I got was more questions from them about how I pulled off the stunt I did to Knox''s group. How I survive an encounter with a group of reapers? How I''m the ''silver-tongued devil'' now? And how does it feel to be some hot shit......


    I feel like getting punched in the ear every time I heard one of these bullshit. Thinking if a random pimp in Lesnaya knows about what happened that night then the cleaners certainly do too. Hell, even Ivan starts dropping by my apartment asking similar questions (at least he doesn''t beat around the bushes).


    Just when I''m drinking myself to sleep on the fifth night I saw the news report on a massive shootout that happened east of the train station in Little Italy.


    The next morning I took a cab to a joint run by one of the freelancers at the lanes. After a small talk with the cook while he¡¯s on a smoke break, my suspicion was confirmed, Knox''s group wiped off the O''deans for reasons unknown.


    Then the rumors escalated the fuck up. Word on the street the Knox''s slaughtered the gang because of what I said. It spread faster than flame on a sea of gasoline, Nicola even ''thanked'' me again for finishing the O''deans for him.


    The more my false reputation grows, the more anxious I am for late-night visits from the cleaners.


    But nothing happened after a week, then two, three until almost a month later. Knox''s group was caught in a small shootout at Disalos. They weren''t armed or on a contract as far as anyone can tell, according to the locals, it''s just ''Being in the right place, at the wrong time.'' which happens more regularly than the sun rising from the east at the south of lanes.


    There were 22 corpses at the scene, 4 la Vina, 5 Monteros, 2 policemen, and 11 bystanders. Later it is confirmed six of the bystanders are Knox''s group members but Knox himself wasn''t part of the casualties. He was nowhere to be found.


    There were more than one person claiming they witnessed a middle-aged man flee the scene wounded. The strangest thing about the man, according to eyewitnesses, isn''t that he''s running like a shot through the shoulder is nothing but he was wearing a dark green beanie at 36 degrees Celsius.


    The topic of Knox''s disappearance became the latest gossip on the street, everyone got their own bizarre theory about the whole incident. While I kept thinking about what Enzo told me a month ago.


    ***


    The thoughts about that night and what comes after clouded my mind for another week or so. But something else quickly occupies it, ever since the story of the ''silver-tongued devil'' was known. People start twisting it, exaggerating it, and adding details until it''s unrecognizable from the truth.


    At first, I would try to correct them, after a while, I just brush it off, in the end, I give whoever''s talking a knowing smile.


    Reputation is fundamental for a freelancer. Job opportunities keep on popping out all over the city, especially in Little Italy, and especially jobs that require me as a mediator even though I''ve only done it once, but I couldn''t admit that can I?


    So I learned as I go, what to say. How to say? In what manner? Aggressive, sarcastic or passive? Who to focus and who to ignore in a group of people.


    It took a shit load of practice but luckily, I have an equal amount of work on hand. After a while, I became used to it. Years later, I became good at it. At lying, acting, and convincing. Guiding others to see the side of things I want them to see, to focus on what¡¯s best for their interest. And most important of all, to tell if a job is toxic, what scenarios are setups.


    For a while I was the rising star in the market, I''m the problem solver, the guy you go to when in trouble, the Signor lingua d''argento. Folks are so eager to creat the next fairy tale, the next big name for after dinner gossips.


    Few drinks down and a ''Who the fuck is this guy?'' from your pal. Then the tales of my merits spread to another. This is how Euforia work, it need all those ludicrous and imaginative anecdotes to sustained the reality of waking up to the sound of hair trimmers in a dump with broken windows and empty beer cans at the corner while your mate is giving himself a haircut in the bathroom.


    They will continue because listening and spreading over the top events in others life is more beguiling than revealing yours. And because few people can distinguish the difference between silver and iron. In the end, no one will question where the nickname came from cause it''s an established fact, just like no one asked me where the nasty stitches on my brow came from, until it became a scar.


    ***


    At the same time, not long after the O''deans were gone. A relatively new family name Santoro took its place and grows in strength at an unnerving speed at the east. Which broke the former situation of Nicola being the most recognizable force in the district.

 Heard you got wacked

    About six to five years ago, after the Knox incident, before I met those two nut job sisters.


    Those days I took a noticeable amount of work from folks in little Italy, since I''m supposed to be the peace broker. I was able to remain on good terms with most gangs, and I got to know the district well enough that I could feel something was off when Santoro came out of absolutely nowhere.


    Even today, where the Santoro family came from is still a mystery. The most logical theory was they were the combination of several small crews located close to the O''deans and took control of their territory when Knox wiped off the gang. This explains why they''re quite open about the whole background, surname, bloodlines matter compared to others. (Though you still got to be Italian as fuck to break the glass ceiling.)


    Another reason I know something huge is about to happen was because of Enzo again.


    It took me almost 6 months to pay him back. On the day I ended the dues, he grabs my shoulder saying this deserves a celebration and lead me to a rundown pub with neon lights in the shape of Christmas trees even though it was way passed that season.


    By that time he had left Nicola''s circle to join a smaller crew at north, closer to Saint Alisha. The most notable aspect of this group is it spurns the growing Santoro family.


    From the way he talks and interacts with the other members, putting minimal effort into the conversations yet still hangs by the edge of it. A sense of deja vu hit me like a spear through my brain. I found an excuse to leave at midnight, but when I reach for my wallet he stopped me. Telling me it''s on him.


    Two days later the head of the gang along with his uncle and two cousins were pinned by the cops for attempting extortion of government agents.


    The loosed structured gang quickly dissolved the rest of the members scattered around Little Italy. It even made it to the third page of a broadsheets with a snobbish title: <em style="font-family: georgia, palatino">An anonymous tip-off toppled over a criminal organization.


    Enzo then joins his next crew, this one is located right next to Santoro.


    Jumping between gangs like it''s a fucking playground is something no one has ever done before in Little Italy. But Enzo did it more times than I can remember, every time there will be a perfectly good explanation for his ''inevitable'' departure. It''s either the gang was merged or purged by another that came knocking at the most unexpected timing.


    The similarity among these crews of the past is that every single one of them was either against or close to the Santoro family and what they stand for.


    Enzo''s past records aren''t pretty, some call him jinxed others think he''s a snake for switching sides on a daily basis. But he just so happens to be one capable and eloquent motherfucker that all the.... rumors about him, can be overseen.


    The next time I saw him was almost one year after the night at the rundown pub with Christmas neon lights. Once again, I was hired as a mediator by the rising Santoro family for a peace negotiation with the Sartori which is where Enzo currently resides.


    It was about some skirmishes on the border. By that time, much like Piao Jie down south the power struggle between factions was almost ending. All that is left are these two, the rest either picked a side or faded in history like Nicola after Enzo left.


    The guy who contacted me for the job promised me they''ve set their mind on ¡®ending this in a consonant fashion''.


    Truth be told, the Santoros are probably the only ones in the city that can say this unironically without making me laugh. These fellows are diplomats over violence most of the time. With that in mind and the handsome compensation promised, I took the job without much thought. Thinking this would be an easy score.


    A week later, standing in the middle of a deserted warehouse close to the ports and tenth street, I checked my watch and found them 12 minutes late. I''m not so sure anymore, especially because the constant shiver down my spine keeps warning me about something''s off.


    They arrived 20 minutes later with attitude. I still remember the second I saw Enzo sitting in the SUV''s driver seat with a grin, every single brain cell in my head was telling me to get the fuck out of there.


    And they were right. The satoris came with a very clear intention of starting a war, sending brats and idiots who didn''t know better to act like it was a dick measuring contest.


    Despite my best effort, there was no way it would end well. 6 minutes in, the Santoro at the far left who was sitting like the le Penseur without uttering a word this whole time flipped the table with one hand before he turned around and walks back to the car with the other two behind him. Though it would be a failed job, I didn''t try to hold or persuade them from leaving. Since I were at the brink of quitting this shit too.


    But then, one of the satori said. And I quote. "Shit. I would have brought some catnips if I knew I''m playing with a bunch of pussies today."


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    The youngest Santoro at the scene. Named Giovanni if I remember correctly, shoot the moron who said it in the gut. Needless to say what happened next.


    Two of the satori were killed, one heavily wounded, and the rest rush back to tell their boss who opened fire first.


    On Santoro''s side, Giovanni was shot four times and bled out on their way to the hospital. Amidst the chaos I got on their ride which took me along back to tell Don Angelo what happened with me being the eye witness. And I did, I told him word by word what everyone said during the meeting. (Ain¡¯t a long one anyway)


    He patted my shoulder, said I''ve done well in a shit show like this. And asked if I''ll be interested in some of the more ¡®hands on¡¯ types of work in the future, knowing what he was about to do I politely declined.


    "Shame. I could use a reasonable man right now." He said.


    The next day little Italy was at war. None gave any quarters, both sides knew whoever came out of this knife fight alive would be the one to finally gain full control of this meddlesome district.


    So they threw everything they got.


    Burning the future days to ensure the other will go down before they do.


    Little Italy was an immigrant neighborhood much like piao jie next to it. It''s a tight community, the families around town had known each other since they were kids.


    And because the Santoro family (more specifically, the Don) didn''t see any problems with letting former gangsters of other afflictions join them as long as they were capable and sworn to be only loyal to them afterward. Many Satori men switched sides in the middle of the war. Something that would forever be despised if it was any other gang in the city. But in the eyes of the Santoro family, it''s a logical policy. And it works all because of one man.


    Angelo Santoro is a financial genius and a born leader among many other things. But most importantly, he''s a charming guy who inspired actual loyalty from those that he helped or helped him.


    The situation was a deadlock initially like any war this city had ever experienced. They killed some scouts in the corner seat of a food joint, you ride by their shop on the back of a motorcycle with semi-automatics. Same thing different year.


    Until four months after the failed negotiation, on a windy night, Enzo ran into me in the city center.


    The tides of war changed, the situation became one sided for the Santoro family. As if they suddenly gain knowledge of who will be where at when. As the Santoro became favored in the fight, more Satori''s men switched.


    5 months later, the head of the Satori family was killed in a barbershop. His last words were.


    "Just a trim. I''ve got a plane to catch."


    What''s left of the organization were either killed, fled, or joined the Santoros. 10 months after the war started, for the first time in the history of Euforia, Little Italy is under the influence of a single family.


    As for Enzo, I''m not sure when exactly he switched sides again. But I know it was before the assassination. And he was quickly favored by the Don and rose in ranks, some say he was the first to be made with a past record of serving under other families.


    His reputation as a snake always overshadowed the fact that he''s capable and all around. But now with a stage to perform, he''s the rising star of the family, climbing up the ladder at an inconceivable speed. Within two years, he rose from a nobody, a jinxed to a Caporegime. Furthermore, because of the characteristics of the Santoro family, Enzo already knew half of its members from the past. He seized the position of influence with ease.


    Nowadays he''s one of the most well-known man in Little Italy and the most trusted underlines of the Don.


    ***


    On the porch of a tailor shop. A dark green three-piece checked suit hugs his waist to accentuate his rangy figure. With a shirt collar higher than average that covers most of his neck and shining black Oxford shoes without a hint of scuff mark.


    A good part of the skin at the back of his left hand is blackened possibly from an old wound. He''s got more rings on his fingers now but the mourning ring is still on the index. A hint of pain ignited the nerves around my scar ranging from the edge of my right brow close to my temple to forehead.


    His hair thinned, but almost unnoticeable for his dark brown hair color. Subtle lines of wrinkle that weren''t there before appear under his eyes. An abnormal angle forms on his nose bridge, courtesy of the fight.


    The pale blue eyes reflect a glint. Stoic, confident, self-proclaimed, amused, and the ever-lasting foundation of disdain shines in them. A man who found his position in the world and sees what he earned as what he deserves.


    He changed a lot since I last saw him. He wears sophistication, power, and title well. They delude the others. Yet in my eyes, only amplified who he is.


    ***


    "Enzo." I squeezed the words out of my mouth and give him a nod. My grip on the case tightened.


    "Lee," He tilts his face upwards towards my right rear as if checking the stains on the ceiling. Then he takes a step forward.


    "They said you uh..." his right thumb gently stroke through the rings on the index finger while gesturing a circle in the air a couple of times before he find the right word. "Got wacked ..... ditched in a dirty gutter. Food for the rats."


    "Yeah? Did you weep for me?" Enzo lets out a sickening laugh that sounds like there''s something blocking air from entering his lungs.


    "Rumors are good for a laugh, hard to take as anything else.....until they became the truth. You should know better than anyone." I take a deep breath to surpass the temptation of the sixth of the seven sins. Concentrate to build a barrier around his words.


    Maurizio read the room fast. He takes a quick glance back at me and filled the space between me and Enzo.


    "Apologies, Mr. Massino. My partner is on sick leave today, I''ll be with you after I sorted out Mr. Lee''s requisite." With the same approachable voice, it''s amazing how dragging the last syllabus of a word longer can make one sounded sincere.


    "Don''t worry about it." Enzo pick the seat next to the one I sat on, with his leather shoe resting on his right knee he answered. "I always got time for old friends." His blue eyes shifted from Maurizio to me when adding the last two words.


    "Well then. Mr. Lee?" Maurizio placed a firm grip on my shoulder with his left hand while the right gestured towards the back. The layer of pressure serves as both an invitation and warning.


    Was it that obvious? God, last three months made me lose touch.


    "Certainly." I put a smirk on my face and turn around towards the hallway. Although Maurizo seems unconvinced, the hand on my shoulder never let go as we walk through the hallway paved by brown carpets.


    Good call, for My grip on the violin case didn''t loosen either.

 Practical & Extravagant.

    My heart steadily pumps a fretting coldness into my veins as Maurizo leads me to one of the closed doors in the back.


    There are reasons why I play down my jobs in Little Italy. Unification did cut lots of opportunities but I guessed I made quite an impression to Angelo that the family still contacted me for some of the more sensitive work which I mostly declined.


    Taking jobs from different families is always the safer way of operating, that way you wouldn''t become an Aunt Sally or scorned a breaded bulldog of the gang. Especially now that the situations in most of the districts are stable, no more war among kins for now.


    So the factions start side-eyeing their neighbors, the japs and the Santoro always having overlapping territories, the ten years'' worth of blood debs between Russians and Tinos, and the latest arm business embroilments with the Qins that''s spiraling out of control.


    Picking a side is not a freelancer''s fashion. The folks of Lanes like to play all sides, achieving a dangerous but lasting balance. That is why, till today, my colleagues at the Stynx are still busting me about why I dropped while I had a good thing going at the east.


    The reason is but a talk on a windy night, with that man in a deep green three-piece suit, head resting on his palm. Humming a little tone.


    ***


    The room Maurizio led me in is quite organized compared to the rest of the place. Sets of lights inside are concentrated on the spot before the mirrors.


    Ebony cabinets of various sizes are filled with well-arranged clothing. The blazers under a couple of black mailer boxes are the first to catch anyone''s eye.


    They mainly consist of black, white, burgundy red, and grey. Suspend on the clothes rod, the coat hanger''s hooks are turned vertically so the suit''s fronts are facing the door. While the blazers overlap each other slightly like a parade, the clients and the tailor can find inspiration without nagging through the cabinets.


    Under countless little drawers beneath the blazers are a row of leather shoes, shining under the task lighting. On the far right are six independent cubicles for shirts that look identical in my eyes. Next to the cabinets, by the east wall is a wooden changing table. Under it, are three rows of trousers all solely in black but differing in patterns and stripes. On top of it, is a decanter bottle half full with liquor and three sniffer glasses.


    A mannequin with three different shirts hanging on its left shoulder and a red tie on his right. It stands silently in the corner while the trifold mirror across the room presents him from three different angles.


    A couple of black and white photos all taken place in front of the tailor shop hangs on the west wall of the room. One of them only consists of two people in it. One''s definitely a younger Maurizio since his facial structure and cheekbones are too recognizable. The other person in the frame is a slightly bigger man in grey stripes, head tilt up eyes gazing down the camera with a big grin that shows his teeth.


    "Your colleague?" I ask pointing my thumb at the photo on the wall. Maurizio, while hands on the drawer under of lower cabinets, turns around with his brows raised.


    "Yeah. And a cruel reminder from my past self." Now is my turn to raise my brows.


    "How so?" Maurizio carefully extracted a picture frame that seals a piece of cloth with rows of buttons sewn on it out of the drawer.


    "Well," He places the showpiece on the table next to the sniffers then turns around leaning back on the table, arms crossed, a smile on his face. "Every time I look at it. A cold wind brushes over my scalp."


    I take a look at the picture again before returning him a friendly chuckle. Though I really can''t tell if his hair was any thicker then.


    "Now, Mr. Lee." Maurizio sings as he unplugged the crystal bottle and filled both glasses to an amount way above courtesy demands. "Arts are but details so let''s start from there shall we?" Placing a glass at the edge of the table, the tailor makes a please gesture.


    I take it with glee and raise the sniffer to scent it. Savour of Toffee and oak slides down my throat without making a fuss. Maurizio brings out the notebook from his inner jacket and unfolds it next to the buttons. I took a single glance before giving up.


    I can read Italians, but not the Italians written by Italians.


    He drifts off for a second as his brows changes radian, eyes fixated on the note as if deciphering his own words. A quarter of a minute passed as he swirls his whiskey glass in his palm before settling up his mind for me.


    "The button choices might seem inconsequential but I can assure. You do not want them to bust your balls at the wrong time. And from the preferences you claimed earlier. I thought you would prefer a more¡­practical use?" I pause a second to make sure he sees my puzzled expression.


    "Practical choice, for buttons?" Tailor gives a not so polite smile and proceeds.


    "Of course! Nowadays people want their outfits to be as eye-catching as possible that they forget basics matter the most. The little things, you see. Can make all the differences." Maurizio reaches for a metallic one that hesitates between bronze green and copper brown, with the symbol of Ouroboros engraved on it.


    "The purpose is for a club no? In any club imaginable, a certain amount of...... pompous, have to be shown. Else you won''t be addressed by who you''re aiming." Maurizio takes a sip of his drink too before a hint of a smile returns on his face. "Besides, this one came with some extra functions I know you would appreciate." His left hand once again gestures towards the button that shines gently under the lack of lighting.


    I take a glance at the Italian who''s encouraging me to try a button and let out a silent sign before I reach to probe it. Cold metal with meticulous decoration all felt the same, rugged and slick. But as my pulp pushes the edge, the fabric under it upheaves two triangle shapes around it. What the...


    Another quick glance at the tailor before my curiosity got the better of me again. With my index and middle finger, I pull the button away from the display frame. The fabric around it uplifts close to the point of ripping before the resistance under the bronze button disappears with a clear clink.


    I turn it around, and found the horizontal bar of this sleeve button is much lengthier than normal and it curls inward into one very sharp silver blade with leaf shape tip.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "5.7 centimeters long. High carbon steel. Can easily tear through all kinds of resistances, including Kevlar. The edges were honed to perfection while it was made. I''m sure you can make good use of it. Those two razors can be separated manually back to normal. Very suitable for unexpected events in unexpected scenarios. But do be careful not to cut yourself."


    The image of Alonzo''s mortified face chewed a hole in my head before an inconspicuous hole opens up between his Glabella. And it expands, swallowing half of his face till the end of it opens. And a muzzle appears.


    "I''m sure I could," I answered while tapping my fingertips on the sniffer in hand. The tailor notices changes in my facial expressions again and added.


    "We have other variants if you would."


    That was the second time today. I close my eyes slightly longer than a blink before I let a smirk slips from the edge of my mouth.


    "No, it''s perfect. Just reminded me of a time some tart almost cut my face open with something like that." Maurizio tilts his head to the side and slightly raises his brows while smiling at my response.


    "That is very good to know, Mr.Lee. We generally sew four on each sleeve. Though we usually leaves the first unbuttoned. Would you wish for any changes to that?" Three on the wrist all the time so....


    "Could you make the space between wider, about two fingers'' width?" I ask while thinking about the length of my palm.


    "Certainly. Anything else?" Maurizio quickly added something to his note with a pen out of nowhere.


    "That''ll be all." I unclip the two blades returning it to a normal button again.


    "Wonderful. Next...." The tailor raises his drink and takes a longer sip while resuming focus on his scriptures. "I''m guessing you would prefer no associations with a tie so let''s skip that, yeah?" I let out a laugh and give him an apologetic smile. Too goddamn right.


    Not only because getting in a fight with a gallow rope around your neck is fucking idiotic. On top of that, I would look too much like the Qins.


    "Well, then let''s move on...." The Italian places his half-full glass on the table and returns to the cabinets. "Since we previously agreed on black in color." He pushes the ivory white one and navy blue stripes in display at the center aside to reveal an ordinary black suit.


    "As you can see, this is one of the most common models. A notch lapel with a three button suit which means the V shape is not as deep as the one in our blueprint." He tip toes to retrieve the suit from display cabinets and spread it on the changing table, on top of the buttons.


    "But besides that, I suppose the rest would be very similar. You could use it as a mirror to try out your favored types of lapel." Maurizio hurries back to the cabinet drawers to bring back hand full of separated ones from a lower cabinet.


    He carefully places them one by one, next to the blazer with the same enthusiasm as a kid dumping all his toys on the floor to show his friend. I take another sip to empty one-third of the glass while wondering if I''m not drunk enough to find it all fascinating or sophisticated.


    "Since the suit color absorbs most of the details. It all comes down to your personal choice, whether you want it to be sleek or old fashioned.... And without a tie means the attention will be transcended to the lapel."


    I take a moment to consider. Club 57 ain''t a place for me in any aspect, I couldn''t give a shit about the ''top one percent of the one percent'' as Dojo put it. Not to mention the japs are still on me. No need to cut myself in a shark tank.


    But a stubborn, almost childish voice in my head kept provoking me to not fall short among those fuckers in the future meeting. I take another sip and let toffee, oak, and smoke do the talking.


    "I would hope it to be convergent but assured. If that''s possible." Maurizio takes a long look at me and my shoulder with his brows knitted before he answers.


    "S¨ª.....I might have some ideas. In view of your narrow shoulder, slim frame on top of, pardon me, below average height." Before I could decide whether to view it as a statement or a critique. He''s already three steps back at opening cabinet drawers.


    "I would suggest you not to make yourself look bigger or taller, but focused on presenting yourself." After he gathered another batch of lapels, Maurizio returns and hangs them on the edge of the table by pushing the previous ones aside. Turing a page in his notebook, he starts sketching a blazer with all the important details.


    "Normally, I would always recommend a notch lapel to some of the more wavering customers. But with tie out of discussion and the..... nature of the affair your planning. A normal notch might seem lacking in characteristic." As his explanation comes to a stop, so did his pen. A suit with an extravagant design occupied half the page.


    "A common belief is that peak lapel only associates with formality. But in reality, with the right man and the right cloth, it could be anything you want." The tailor''s slim finger picked the second piece of fabric in a triangle shape with an inward notch creating two points on top. He then places it on top of the original notch lapel on the black suit.


    "A wide notch is to make others focused on your center chest which is where your tie resides. A peak lapel is, as the shape indicates, to focus on your face. But due to your build is noticeably... lean." With his teeth slightly gritting each other high lighting the jaw line under his ears, Maurizio says carefully.


    Funny that he tread more carefully discussing body types than heights. I shrug and finish the rest of the glass, a sickening sweet lingers by my teeth.


    "Hence the two-size bigger bomber jacket, mate." The tailor suddenly shoots me a confused look.


    "Two sizes?"


    "Aye?"


    "...... Sir could you take the jacket off?" As clueless as I am, I complied. Now with the weight on my shoulder lifted and the cold iron on my waist stashed in a violin case, I''d feel more comfortable being naked compared to now.


    ".......cazzo." Maurizio''s pupils expanded before their eyelids shut down as he starts massaging them. "Well, good news for you Mr. Lee. is that you have certainly grown into the jacket. Few people can make an outfit a part of the man. Bad news for me, is I supposed my initial plan wouldn''t work."


    He moves the fingers on his eyes up to his forehead before he reaches for his drink. Placing the empty sniffer next to the liquor but doesn''t refill it, he stands motionless with both palms on the table, eyes fixed on the black suit like a statue for the next half a minute before he suddenly snaps his finger and readjusts his shirt sleeves higher, revealing a potion of a tattoo on his left upper arm close to his wrist. A graphic image of a woman with her eyes closed and an enlightened satisfaction by her smirk, her head tilts upward towards something.


    Maurizio moves the peak lapel to the right by a couple of centimeters and folds the extra part into the lining, then irons the line repeatedly with his palm till he''s satisfied with the sample.


    "Mr. Lee, what you''re seeing here is close to blasphemy. Peak lapel can be pieced as normal or widened but never skinny, though considering all the factors and your structure. This just might suit you." The tailor fetches another one and folds the extra few centimeters to the lining as well before he opens one of the drawers under this table and pulls out a measuring tape amongst scissors, pins, seam ripper, and such. I watch silently as I put my jacket back on.


    "You see, it''s now close to 6.4 cm. Any peak lapel should be at least 7.6 cm in width. But your case needs some creativity. Of course, these are my personal opinions. Your preference matters the most." He refills his glass and turns around leaning against the table with the drink in hand as if taking a break. I nod silently and take a step closer.


    As un fucking educated as I am in this field. I can still get where his ideas are coming from. The piece of fabric seems to make the whole suit..... thinner, but also gives out a petty vibe. It feels like someone wearing it got one too many secrets on his back.... And by reasons forbidden by god, the image of Nan and his annoying grin crosses my mind, how he hides everything under it.....


    I draw my attention to the pile of lapels he brought earlier and start searching for the most exaggerated one.


    To hide something is to bluff it. And make it big, unmissable, luxuriance, increase its existence till everyone sees it as it is.


    "The size of it is alright. But I was thinking, what about......." I turn around and survey the room but my attention was drawn back to his tattoo again by its complicated images hugging each other. Then came another idea. "What about embroideries?" I ask with a smile by my lips.


    The Italian was frozen by my question for a second before he hesitantly asks with his head tilted forward like he was making sure he hears me right. "On the lapel?"


    "Yeah." He stops again, eyes looking a bit hollow as he stares at the wall in front of him before he closes them shut and starts massaging them again.


    "I could try, I think I have one or two models in here¡­Sir, how this suit will be presented in the end is for you to decide. But Mr. Lee, I have to warn you this might come out as outlandish, or self-contradicting."


    Who is it?" In the plainest tone possible. He asks. "The epitome of contradiction¡­..


    "Should be quite fitting for me than.¡± I let out a chuckle and take a sip of the whiskey.

 Final touches

    We spent the next 10 minutes or so discussing what kind of pattern wouldn''t look too ridiculous. In the end, Maurizio dug out one of the suits in the storage and made the leathery, heavy outlook of its lapel with the altered damask pattern the final decision. The whole thing was supposed to be full black, but after a bit of back and forth, we agreed on silting some grey. By the time it''s settled, our sniffers had been filled and emptied more than twice and the decanter is almost at the bottom.


    Maurizio runs his left hand through hair before gesturing towards the mess on the table. Dozens of lapels overlapped on each other, yellow measuring tape interspersed between fabrics like an alcoholic''s vein.


    "I''ll finalize the design as quickly as possible, and I would suggest the waistcoat to have the same patterns to complete the look." I wave my hand idly towards the same mess to agree with him.


    "Sounds good enough for me as long as it won''t make me look like some chick in a corset or a Japanese cab driver."


    ¡°Only a lacking tailor would make his customers look like confined in waistcoat. And only a man in doubt of himself would look like a moron in one. So far none criteria are met..... see, the trick is to relax your shoulders." The tailor said while placing his hands on his abdomen, leaning back on the table with his shoulders undulating subtly according to his breaths.


    "Let your chest fits the build naturally, don''t try to plump it or stick out, you''ll look like an asshole.¡±  Maurizio raises his chin slightly in a way greatly similar to his partner in business of the black-and-white picture but keeps his upper body still without a sense of rigidness.


    I take a moment to think about what he said and deem myself too tired to have an opinion, I simply raise the glass to clink his as approval and bravo before taking a swig of the remaining liquor in my glass.


    "So what''s next on the list, Collars? Pockets?" Maurizo refills my glass one last time as the decanter is officially emptied.


    "Yes, but pockets first. Usually, I would recommend jetted pockets to go with the lapel you choose." He lengthened the ''s¡¯ to make the sentence a question, I returned him with a very explicit look of ''I don''t know what¡¯s that.¡¯


    The tailor visibly swallowed his emotions and put on a feeble smile.


    "The kind without any exterior fabrics, or flaps, as we call it. Minimizing the attention, maximizing the overall look." I returned him with a broad one.


    "So be it then. But do people actually use them?" Maurizio shrugged and answered while cracking his neck.


    "Depends. I do. But I know some people see them as mere decorations. The size isn''t appealing for any use, but you can still throw your car keys or pocket knives in and expect them to stay there since the lining and the fabric will smother any objects......" Maurizio clamps the neck of his sniffer with a middle and nameless finger. He rhythmically swirls the glass, watching the small turbulence of amber liquor. "...But also accentuate whatever you put in there."


    He''s starting to remind me of Lev.....


    "Either way do as you wish," He raises the sniffer''s mouth close to his philtrum, almost covering his nose inside before slowly raising his palm till the glass''s bottom is facing the ceiling as he down the rest of booze.


    "Now," The tailor placed the glass back at the only corner of the table that''s not covered in cloth. "The shirt and collar!" He thumps the wooden table with his knuckles. Two steps back to the corner of this room and he gestures me to the separated cabinet at the far right.


    Six white dress shirts folded in a square like the national flag lies on each cabinet. Now paying an ounce more attention to them, I found they¡¯re not completely identical.


    The front placket and collars are folded in different shapes and degrees of triangle, or lying flat with a button at the edge.


    "Choosing the collar would be a much easier task than others. There''s only one criterion. Mr. Lee. Do you sweat much?"


    I cast away the unwelcome memories before they materialized and put a puzzled smile on my face while furrowing lightly toward him.


    "...Not really, why?" A flash of furtive excitement glints passed his pupils. Maurizio holds one of the shirts by the collar to brings it out of the cabinets. With a shake, the brilliant white shirt without a trace of wrinkle unrolled itself in the air, and the folding line on the abdomen area disappears without a trace.


    While I''m wondering why mine always look like they have been through a thrashing machine. A quick, no, a series of metallic objects colliding like quarter coins in the same pocket while walking rings almost silently. As he places it on the table the sound rises again like the nuisance of a great rain hitting the canopy, but muffled by a closed window.


    "This is a spread collar, suitable for almost any occasion and style. And since your outfit as a whole is already ..... at the limit, I suggest we take it down a notch in other aspects."


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    A hand hanging next to pocket, Maurizio raises a brow at me. I take a gander at the other options under the cabinet deck''s lights and find myself agreeing with him. The rest looks either hideously short or like a napkin in half.


    "I''m alright with this one, but what does it got to do with the question?" The tailor smiles without a word as his left-hand leaves his pocket with his fingers clutching in his palm, then comes a thrashing sound of springs and metal in contact I¡¯ve heard many times.


    Moving my right foot a step back as I change my position to face him sideways. Maurizio kept the smile as he flipped the collar leaf up, revealing a small gap between the fabrics, and slowly, with precession he inserted the tip of the switchblade in the seam, then deeper until half the blade was shelved. He now holds the knife with his thumb, index finger on top, and middle finger for support like a pencil.


    When the blade reached the inside of the collar point, he tilted his palm upward to 35 degrees, opening the seam without damaging the fabric. The tailor slowly dug his other index finger into the gaped seam while the knife swiped across the point. A quiet ''tink'' sounded before Maurizio dug out the fabric, dragging the fabric inside the collar leaf out until we could get a good view of what was between the sheets.


    A glaze of silver or steel shines gleamingly between the small diamond shape wound the tailor torn on it. I lowered my head, blocking the lights from above us to see it was made out of thousands of rings, each connecting the other.


    "Isn''t chainmail a bit out of fashion for the past 400 years or so?" I can''t help but grin at what I''m seeing.


    "Aye, and we''re bringing it back. Sewed and placed between fabrics, one of the best sellers I recall. The fabrics are made of carburized mild steel, it can stop cuts and slashes from most blade but stabs might be a bit more problematic."


    He tilts the angle of the blade slightly higher for better visibility. I do a mental math before my eyes go sideways, each ring is connected to at least four to five other, forming a tightly knit web, rings overlapping each other to the point I can''t see the cotton under it. I blow a whistle and take a step back to face Maurizio''s smirk.


    "Remarkable makeshift, but wouldn''t I feel like I''m locked in chastity wearing that?"


    "That, I can personally assure you, will not happen Mr. Lee. The components of the system, rings, are significantly smaller than the old ones. This means more are needed to finish a piece, but also the extensibility and mobility are as fine as any other clothes with an up side, you wouldn''t need to worry about ironing the wrinkles every time you pull it out the closet..... but don''t put it in a dryer though. As far, we haven''t got any complaints about it, but I still recommend not to." I throw him couple of nods at the end of the pitch.


    Mild steel isn''t something to rely on, but they are easy to shape and make. And with that kind of density, a simple slash or stab wouldn''t done it. I reached my right hand to feel the cotton of the shirt''s sleeve.


    It''s soft and flimsy, the extra part can only be felt when I rub the fabrics together, creating the quiet rasp.


    It sure as hell won''t stop lead. But it''s always good to have something else besides fabrics.


    "That settles it then. But can you make the collar a bit higher?" Maurizio retrieves the knife and throws me a slightly inquiring expression.


    "But of course... to what extent would you prefer?" He asks while sticking the tip of switchblade on the edge of table to fold it back.


    "Like the gent in green outside." The tailor lets out a bitter, almost sarcastic laugh while folding the shirt back to square.


    ¡°That can be done." Placing the shirt back in the cabinets, he turns around with hands rubbing each other. And for the first time, I catch a glimpse of weary in his eyes.


    "Ve bene, and for the last subject before the measuring." Maurizio''s eyes shifted temporarily to the empty glass on the table before he started rummaging through the drawers and cabinets around.


    "As you can see. There are... quite a lot of choices for fabric." He sings and drags the drawers under the jacket displays open. I take a step next to him to have a proper look. "Most commonly seen are cotton, silk, linen. We also got some of the more patrician material, though I would suggest a more low-key approach on this one, else the overall style will be at war with itself."


    Maurizio tilts a side of his brow, his hand gesturing at all sorts of black and blue cloth in squares. There''s one in Turkish yellow that is rough and thick as a blanket, navy blue with crinkle outlook but feels as light as a feather, and another in stripes that feels like it''s made for sweaters. Choices are indeed plenty, but all feel odd. Like putting them on would be trapping me instead of wearing them.


    Till the second row of the last cabinet, a piece in black with inconspicuous stripes caught my attention.


    It''s not the most monotonous one, neither has any groundbreaking show. But there''s something about its balmy glint under the light that distinct from piles of others.


    I picked up the showpiece and found it extremely light despite the weight of its color. The touch is, by far the best among the bunch too. Smooth, but not to the point like cotton or satin. It kept a bit of texture and tone to avoid the leathery look.


    Maurizio, seeing where my attention is drawn, quietly shifts to my left.


    "Good eyes. This is one of the best we have in stock. Worsted wool from Austria blended with pure silk, made in the old country. Top-notch resilience, good fire retardant, very durable even if it''s not 100 percent wool. The blending of silk makes the fabric lighter than other similar lines, and also much easier for the wearer to breathe in it. In any sense, it stands."


    "Ha, sounds like a dream. What''s the downside?" I place the piece back between the checked grey and dark green cloth and tilt my brows at the tailor.


    Maurizio places his hand behind his back and lean close with his mouth open but words come a bit late after.


    "Some might find the touch a bit itchy....." With the sentence clearly unfinished, I shoulder and raise my open palm at him. "....And more than one''s willing to spent." I cough out a dry laugh.


    A bit fucking late to consider that.


    "Anything else?"


    "Oh yeah, mind the laundry you choose. It¡¯s a fine choice if you can overlook those. And the self stripes work well with your design too." I take one last look over all the open drawers and tens of pieces on display before answering him with a smile.


    "Well, since I''m not too short on five and tens, this should do nicely." A placid smile blooms on Maurizio''s face as he gives me a nod.


    "Excellent!" He slaps his palm on the open drawers under the cabinets, closing them one by one while he strides back to the mannequin next to change table. He picks up the measuring tape hanging on its neck like a viper and opens the first drawer of the changing table which is full of steel rulers, protractors, and set squares.


    "And for the final, Mr.Lee. Please take off your coat again." The placid smile turned to an almost sorry one but the enthusiasm still lingers in his eyes.


    Either he''s keen on being done with or the fellow really loves his job.


    I exhale slowly and shed off my jacket leaving me with an unsettling inkling on my skin and throw it on top of the colorful mess next to me.

 Measurement

    Two steps forward, in front of the mirror, I almost got spooked by the reflection on the mirror thinking it was someone else.


    "Mr., Lee?" Blinking twice, I dragged my attention away from the mirror and back to the tailor with tape in hand. It reminds me an illustrations of medieval executioner.


    "Yes?"


    "Should we take a break or...?"


    "No no, just forgot it''s still afternoon, and the whiskey from earlier is wallowing in my head, nothing new." Cracking a crooked cleft on my face, I said. "Let''s get on with it eh?" Despite the edge of his brow being subtly curled, the tailor shrugs and starts the procedure.


    As the ruler and Maurizio''s palms pressed on my collarbone to measure my shoulder, the reflexes to blind him almost took over as my right hand curled two fingers inward.


    Goddamn nerves have been up to eleven since noon. I inhaled a deep breath while Maurizo moved away from my left shoulder and exhaled while he switched to the back of my neck.


    Calm the fuck down you bastard.


    I slowly unclench my hand and let my eyes wander off to use small details around for distraction and also to avoid making eye contact with the guy in the mirror. As Maurizio moves on to my right arm I noticed an ample part of his tattoo close to his left elbow seem to be glistening under lights indicating there''s scar tissue under it, the cut of rug under the trifold mirror is pilling more than the rest, one of the red ties hanging on a mannequin has an inconspicuous sign of a round darn, the size seem familiar.....


    "Sir, could you turn around? It''s easier this way." The Italians'' words pulled me out of the trance state I was heading, I massaged my eyes and obliged.


    "Certainly."


    "And uh, try to relax your arms. You don''t have to squeeze your elbow into the rib cage. Nobody''s gonna whack your head if you don''t." He said in a chatty tone while pressing the end of the tape close to where my upper arm and chest link. I take one second to consider before taking his bait.


    "You were a piel verde?" Tracing the tape down to my wrist twice to straighten the wrinkles,


    "Yes."


    "Back in home?"


    "Depends where home is, raise your arm flat please." Again, he measures the length from shoulder to wrist and from wrist to armpit.


    "Guess it would be where you were born."


    "Then yes."


    "They pay you?" His left cheek curls into a smirk.


    "Little but few did it for the money. Now, hinge your upper arm forward, like you''re resting on a couch please." Doing what he says, the tailor puts the tape end at my shoulder blade and traces the rope all the way to my elbow, then to my wrist again.


    "For the pride of the country then?"


    "Mainly for that uniform. Men from my hometown joined to hide from debt collectors and their wives." A short muffle came from my back, not sure if it''s his comment on the matter or he''s just remembering the number.


    "And you?"


    "I thought the uniform looked dashing... Grazie signore. Arms at ease now." I tilt my head back and see a pleased smile on his face as he bows his head and presses his thumbs on the measurement points on the tape. Nails cave in to mark them.


    "That excuse is a quarter century old mate, sure you weren''t dodging angry girlfriends with a belly?" Maurizio lets out a chuckle and hangs the tape around his neck like a scarf.


    "That''s something afterward." He strides back to the open drawer to retrieve a ..... something similar to a theme park''s wristband. "Palms up now please." Binding it around my wrist, Maurizio slowly tightens it to the brim without causing discomfort before marking the point with his thumb again.


    "After the army or after Faust." Releasing the wristband, Maurizio takes one last look at the marked number and sheds the tape measure of his neck. All while the glint in his eyes changes color simultaneously, deciding if this is stepping through the ''topics with customers''.


    Kneeling down next to me by the side, he aligned the tape from waist to heel with head low I can''t read his eyes. The silence continues for a little while till he''s done with the current measuring. Then with the same enthusiastic voice from earlier, he replies.


    "After the army, of course, believe it or not. Back in the days, the miss and misses still found that kind of thing amendable and, well, uniforms fit me will."


    "Simple days eh?"


    "Si, simple days." A mouth click later he moves behind me again. "Could you take a small step left..... there, perfect!" A shiver runs down the spine because of the unpleasant encounter with the twins earlier, and now Maurizio''s taking measurements of the inner thigh from crotch to heel.


    "Alright, that''s the trussers and blazer done..... I''ll use the same pattern for the matter and typically we''ll make them more fitting than the market trend, would you like to make any changes to that?" Staring up from the ground, Maurizio ironed out the ridge on his waistcoat with his palm.


    I take a moment to consider if my stuff around my ankle will be stuck and decide not to risk it.


    "I prefer it to be loose, at least to make sure it won''t affect my mobility." He fishes out the pen from his pocket and grab the notebook on the table before I finish my sentence and starts drafting.


    "Dearly noted. Anything else for the trouser?" He raised a side of his brow while still scripting at a bewildering speed.


    "Not that I can think of at the moment."


    "And...." He drags the pronounced for four seconds before he closes the notebook. "Splendid. Now Mr., Lee. Please take off your shoes." Picking up the tape again, the tailor made a please gesture.


    Good thing he remembered it. Wonder if I would look ridiculous or a part if I arrive in sneakers.


    "Let''s see, 25.5, 0.7, 26....." Crouching down in front of me, he starts another round of work. From the pinky toe to the joint, from the middle of arch to the side. The procedure is surprisingly fast considering the sets he took on both feet.


    "Good, standard 10 in every way. I''m happy to inform you we have sets in stock that fit you ideally." Maurizio sings cheerfully and hangs the measuring tape on the mannequin with a red tie. "Do you prefer Chelsea boots or Oxford shoes to pair with the outfit?"


    I shoot him a ''how the fuck should I know?'' look to which he responds like a tutor. "Oxford fits better but boots are more comfortable."


    "Boots then."


    "Got it, lastly for the waistcoat." He says, delighted, and picks up a new tape measure from that bottomless drawer. "Please raise both of your arms."


    As much as it feels like I''m being pinched on the street, I do as he says. Halfway done with my chest, bored out of my mind and the whiskey is finally doing its job. I pick up the conversation from earlier.


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    "If you don''t mind me asking, you didn''t start this business in Faust did you?" Stitching with blood since 1937.


    "No, of course not. It was way before I came here."


    I felt the tape on my chest loosen before it moved down a few inches to my waist, a hint of pain came from the side of the second rib on the left. Three months later, three bloody months later...... Ribcage bruises and fractures heal fast in comparison to other shit. But skin cuts close to it remain sensitive for a long time after its course of recovery.


    "Not contained with your part?"


    "Meh, I miss when I know every customer at my doorstep''s preference. Made my job much easier¡­..But yeah, no home''s big enough for a boy who thought he was a man." The pressure and the slow pain around my waist and lower rib are released as the tailor finishes the sentence.


    "But why Faust? I thought the best stage for your skills is in Europe?" A light chuckle rings behind me, but this time a sense of disappointment and sarcasm can be found in it.


    Without warning, a cold metallic object taps the back of my neck. My whole body tense up before I force it to calm down. Maurizio aligned the tape from the collar of my shirt to the coccyx. I inhale deeply and tell myself to relax.


    "It is, but my friend." With the touch of cold steel left, Maurizio gestures his left hand to guide my eyes back to the black and white photo. "Thought a new world in the making is more interesting...... and ripe for potential." A quick chuckle escaped his mouth, melancholy and nostalgic like rustling boats on shore.


    "So you drift off to another continent just like that.....Wouldn''t Milan or NW be better choices?" This time Maurizio lets out an earnest laughter.


    "Milano and the states aren''t better nor safer choices for me back then, Mr. Lee." Wearing the tape around his neck again. Maurizio starts adding more incomprehensible symbols to his notebook. "That was the basics done....."


    Sticking the end of pen hard at the corner, a black dot along with a curved dotted line filled the last blank of the page.


    "Now please gear up for the second measure sir." Turing a page, the tailor raises his head with the same witty smile and enthusiasm in his eyes to meet my addled ones.


    "Sorry, didn''t catch it. You said...?" With a smile unfazed, he gestures toward my violin case sitting in the corner.


    "The house takes our makings'' style and service values very seriously. What would a suit be good for if not to accompany you in scenarios?" Can''t argue with that logic.


    "Any tailor would have some preparation if a customer changes...... physiques. We just take such service further." I my hand in surrender with a bitter smile.


    "Right then. I¡¯m never the one to turn down another''s servitude." I pick up the case at the corner while Maurizio leans back on the display cabinet and brings up his pad to check the previous records while giving me a certain level of privacy.


    Unbuckling the straps and opening it reveal a pile of guns, blades, mags, and that bloody sheathed dagger. Feels kind of like robbing bank in broad daylight.


    I strap the 45 to my back waist, then the knives around my ankle, shoulder holster, the Pardini and its mags on them. The mass is going to need some use to compared to my busted 509. Especially without my bomber jacket it feels like I''m holding a brick of iron under my armpit. I take a look at rest of my shit in it and decided this is plenty enough for him to work with.


    ***


    Maurizio slid his notebook back into his pocket the same second I closed and locked the case.


    "That''s all?" He asks while taking the measuring tape off his neck again.


    "The rest needs a bomber jacket or a really big inner pocket in the linings."


    "I''ll make sure to add it to the list." With the same professional smile, it''s hard to tell if he''s serious. "Now let''s see. Relaxed your shoulders please."


    Then came the exact procedure with the measurements. That is, until a rhythm melody of two high notes slowly grows louder. From a nuisance three walls away till the meaning behind the noise was clear to everyone. Maurizio definitely heard it too since the tape had been stuck on my right shoulder for as long as the noise rings. Sirens.


    The two of us stood motionless for a few more seconds before it became distant.


    "There''s a small warehouse of part-timers a few blocks west of here. Been paddling the wrong stuff to the wrong people in past weeks." The tailor shrugs as he disregards the topic.


    Almost forgot this part is already Little Italy. Cops in this city got some nasty habit of targeting thugs and thieves without a name to shut when being pinch into a police car and avoid dealing with affiliated personnels.


    So it became a symbolic relationship between the cops and the gangs. Sacrificing the small, to feed the big. The kind of agreement no one spoke of but both understood. Few names and places per month, maybe some poor hustlers having a slow week and couldn''t pay the Russians, staring at someone from the Santoro who doesn''t appreciate being stared at while having a drink at the hotel.


    This way the cops get their fair share of ''work'' done to report to the higher-ups, so those fuckers in Congress have an answer for the press while the gangs prevent the heat at the corner or any potential rivalry in their district. The practice mostly happens in Noch and Little Italy..... and come to think of it.......


    "I''ve been somewhat distant from the community for the past months. No troubles over the neighborhood I hope?" Maurizio lets out a smirk and dismisses the question by shaking his head.


    "You''re giving me too much credit mister........ You should ask your friend outside." I cough out a hum.


    "Think I missed whoever that be. But I will say this, you got some fancy customer too."


    "Likewise. But as I said, I''m just a tailor. Nothing less...." With the same professional smile on his face, he shakes his head again before crouching down next to me for the second measurement on trousers. Upon the tape binding my ankle, Maurizio inability noticed the daggers, he lifted the cargo pants up slightly and redid the measurement around my ankle while mumbling something.


    "Good news." He gives the measuring tape around my ankle and dagger one last look before standing up next to me. "I think we don''t need to settle for a loss design. Many of my clients have the same requirements. So I always make the opening at the end of trousers wider."


    "Lovely." I shrug and rotate my foot clockwise, stretching the joints as the soreness slowly sinks in. "But I suppose the same can''t be said about the blazer?" I lift the leather straps on my shoulder with my thumb, the slide of the 9mm made a little ''click''.


    "Not really, so please. Hinge your arms forward again, sir." I let out a silent sign and complied as well. Maurizio bent down slightly and round the tape around my waist and the chunk of steel at my back.


    "29, 31, .3......0.4.... Splendid" He sings moving a step behind me and pressing the tape at my nape again. Though whether intentional or not, he''s using the other end.


    "Fan of the classics?" The thread stops on top of my coccyx and Colt pistol.


    "Of the reliable."


    "We got some similar but newer models here as well." The range of services might as well include PMC contracts......


    "Apprezzare, mate. But I ain''t looking for a new piece in the short term." I give a nod at the ''Glasgow'' on the case leaning on the table.


    Edge of my sight I see Maurizio raises both his hands, measuring tape between fingers sloped across the air.


    "A suggestion. That''s all." The line in the air rounds my chest up. As the tape tightens around the holster under my right armpit a voice keeps reminding how sensitive the trigger of Pardini was adjusted.


    I turn my head slightly again to check if it is held well in place, but at that exact moment what I see is Maurizio''s eyes.


    Confused and distant, almost like he¡¯s ogling before he seamlessly tightened the tape one more time, the edge of his mouth curls back into a smile.


    "There a problem?" I ask casually, drawing my eyes back in front,


    "None. Though the piece is a bit bulky, I might have to pad the part of the fabric." He said in a pleased tone, words one key faster than normal.


    "Save for that, everything''s good! Well, Mr.Lee, I''m happy to announce that concludes the process." Maurizio throws the tape back onto his neck like it''s a jumping rope and raises his head towards me. "Now, is there anything else to add, that I could be of service?" The smile on his face seems a bit..... broader than earlier.


    "Actually, there is." I take a step towards my bomber jacket which''s still lying on the table but the tailor beats me to it as he unfold it and help me put it on. A hint of cold brushes the back of my neck gently.


    "Since you mention it...." I exclaimed while putting on a thin smile. "The...... occasion in the plan for this suit is a bit sensitive on the matter of all this." I said, emphasizing ''all this'' at the case by the table. "I said you focus on the first set of measurements while working eh?"


    "Well, you''re full of fancy friends Mr.Lee." I let out a playful laugh and shook my head dismissively.


    "None of my friends are fancy, Maurizio. I know people, that''s all." Tilting his brows to a strange angle, the tailor stopped pursuing and brought up his notebook to add a few scratches.


    "Any other items?"


    ".....Oh yeah. Come to think of it. May I ask how long will it take to finish the work?" The tailor puts his hand under his chin for a moment.


    "How soon would you need it."


    "Before this Friday." Maurizio''s impeccable attitude shook just for a second.


    Reminds me of that receptionist at jiu lou......


    "I''m sure..... I''m positive that it can be done. Though I''ll have to suspend other works in such period which requires a rush fee. I''m afraid." My smile blooms bigger.


    "Sounds only reasonable to me."


    "Very well then. We''ll give you a call when it is ready, sir. And anything else?" He draws a few more scribbled lines on the book before raising his head to meet my eyes again.


    "That''s all. Thank you for everything, Maurizio."


    "Thank you. Mr. Lee. This experience has been nothing short of.... enlightening in ways." Before I could, the tailor beats me to it again as he extends his right hand enthusiastically.


    He¡¯s almost clutching my hand though at the moment I didn¡¯t felt a thing, I was thinking about the words engraved under the barrel.


    Casus belli.

 Prometheus

    The carpet silenced our footsteps but the man in green still turns around to greet us with white teeth.


    "Please, take a seat. I''ll let you know when all the details are sorted." Maurizio raises his arm to point all five fingers at the couches in front of fireplace. The tone and smile reminded me of when he spoke to Enzo.


    After receiving a nod from me he took a step left to his desk, sat down, and brought up his notebook from his pocket.


    I picked the spot in front of fireplace, vertical to both Italians. My left arm on the handrail, right arm stretched back behind the sofa, the side of my jacket was dragged to the right as well. Zipper close to my holster that it poses no obstacles if I''m to use it.


    I sat. Leather made a small squeak from materials kneading. A chill ran up my spine to the back of my brain and it made me put a smile on my face. A believable one, as little as it means to act.


    If that wop takes longer than five minutes I might start shooting.


    ***


    "It''s been what? 2 years?" Left leg crossed on another, Enzo asks.


    "Might be longer, might be shorter."


    "A long time either way. So, how''ve you been?" Taping a three-note play on his knee with the slim fingers of his left hand. "Up your head in the thick of it all as usual?"


    Two light, three rapid taps on the knee.


    "Ain''t got the slightest clue who you took me for." I grin a deprecating smile and wave my head in the smallest motion. "All I do is booze and some harmless favors lately, nothing major."


    Three heavy taps.


    "And did you drink yourself into a rehab for the past months?......" The edge of his eyes trails into two straws of crow''s feet that tilt in the opposite direction of the edge of his mouth.


    "Which part of me conveys the message of ''I want to get sober''? No, I was off town for some...... simpler pleasure." He mouths an O shape, with his brows tilted.


    Two rapid taps.


    "Which is?"


    "Vacation. Day off. Escape the concrete jungle. See the rest of the fucking world. That kind of thing." His blue eyes seem bleaker than normal, with a plain boredom and a bit of annoyance in them. They swirl inside of his eye sockets before he tilts his head and lets out a hum in response.


    One rapid, four heavy taps.


    "And did you take pleasure in that?" He asks in a voice like timber on sawmill. I shrug and lean back into my seat.


    "Sure did. A bit of relaxation never fails to lubricant the soul."


    "Than......." One heavy tap. "Why did you come back?"


    ***


    Her eyes filled with life and beaming a contagious brown like the shell is not enough to hold the weight of her soul. No matter how the world treated her, no matter how she treated herself. Their eyes never failed to convince me she resent no one and blames nothing.


    And now. Filled with fear and a certain level of confusion, I don''t see any of them.


    ***


    Did I let it slip? Or was it a lucky guess? Either way, the blue oceans in his eye socket now reflect glints of mild interest as he spotted the faintest sign of reaction from me.


    "Some old friend reach out, asking where the fuck I''ve been and if I''m interested in some honest work." I shrug and collect my composure. "Plus, whatever kind of......exotic scenery you fancy." Letting out a chuckle, I scratch the edge of my face with my right hand. "Sooner or later will get dull since there ain''t nothing you haven''t seen in Faust."


    Two light taps.


    "That so....... Well, I hope that was a good trip nonetheless?" The seam between his lips was vertical, his eyes remained half-heartedly interested and bored. I let out a mouth click and crack the knuckles of my left finger with my thumb but keeping it available for disposition.


    "It was. Good for body," Wounds. "Good for your soul.¡± Until it doesn¡¯t. ¡°You should try it." I said while letting out a mocking smile, with my brows slightly closing on each other.


    For the first time today, I see genuine amusement in his eyes while he laughs in the sound of a ball-gagged horse screeching. Clapping his hands hard and leans his head back for a second, and when he tilts it back the laugh and frown are all gone. But a hint of amusement still lingers in eyes.


    "Sto bene, Grazie." A loud crack, like plastics colliding rang from my left before it became a slow and steady machinery noise. Though I didn''t notice Maurizio leaving his seat, the coffee maker on the shelf had started working. I take two more glances at Maurizio and the oozing machine before turning back.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "Well, then. Enough about me, what about you? How are.......things going in the past months?" I ask while leaning my body forward, upper arms on my knees. "I heard the old man want you fellows to behave like disabled kids standing at the edge of the playground while the others are getting bruised up in sand plays." He smiles to himself upon my inquiry.


    "That''s a way to put it." Enzo tilt his brows in an exaggerated way and the muscle close to his left eye tensed for a moment. I let a slight smile drag my cheeks.


    "You got some to get off your chest?" I turn my head towards him like I''m waiting for gossip. His blue eyes were now laced with a sheet of caution, to covered what was underneath those emotions.


    What an exciting time to be alive.....


    "The old man gave the order. It¡¯s a smart one of course..... and since I ain¡¯t got much good things to say about the chinks. Or the mobs so it''s best this way. Besides, all this fuss..." He gestures towards the ceiling and front door. "Seem pretty goddamn personal to me. Like an old couple quarreling ." His mouth clicks before he leans forward like I do. "But a bit noisier than normal that''s true."


    "You don''t think it''s going to happen?" Enzo''s eyeballs roll towards me as their sapphire blue filled with callous disdain. Then, he speaks in a low but pithy tone.


    "You do?" His nostrils subtly widen as he exhales a long breath. "Haven''t you given a single notion of thoughts into why? This has been dragging on for five years hmph?" Brows raised, Enzo opens his mouth to continue but stops mid-sentence and curls up a smile while looking past me. Both of us are fixated on the topic that the static noise in the background had stopped seconds ago.


    "Sorry for the disturbance," Maurizio states in an apologetic tone though the fixed lines next to his eyes show contradicting demeanor.


    "Not at all."


    "None to be sorry for." Both me and Enzo replies at the same time. With the same professionalism on his face, Maurizio places two gold ceramic coffee cups on blue and gold bordure saucer on the table between us. The edge of black reflects a brown luster as small traces of steams flow upwards lazily.


    He then gave both of us a nod which we returned with a smile before he retreated back to his desk. I hold the delicate trinket by the edge and take a sip. While the sourness of passion fruit and raisin and the bitterness of burnt shit made me question if my taste buds are poisoned, Enzo gives it a side eye and leans back to the previous position. With a collected tone he says.


    "Let me tell you something. The prime criteria of a war, of any conflict. Is that someone has something to gain, or someone has the drive to hate, to march soldiers ff a cliff just to kill what''s under it..... That kind of hate is rare and usually not from a man of power...."


    I will slaughter every single one of them! The savages, the traitors, the dishonest! The maozi and hanjian! I''ll give no quarters, just as they did to me and my family....... The recording of that old fuck came to my mind as a gentle reminder not all follows common logic.


    "But reality seems very much like your unlikely scenario. Shit started from the arms business and reasons to hate had been stacking up for five years." I shrug and put the cup down. Enzo lets out a mocking smile that shows his teeth.


    "Precisely. Stars are aligned for five years. So ask yourself Lee...... why the fuck hasn''t it happened?" He opens his palms like a clergy giving blessings, eyes shining with malignant glint. "You have all the reasons and means to start a war, why don''t you? I couldn''t care less for them but even I can see the inkling."


    I study his eyes closely to see if I can find any signs of..... whatever the hell that he''s working here. But the sheet of caution from earlier is gone. He''s not hiding anything, the sea water seems as clear as a creek on high mountain, you can see the bottom of it is a sense of condescending towards the world, the truth of him.


    "What are you getting at?"


    "Only the most perceptive to what''s in front of you......" He lets out another long exhale to my question as he closes his lips momentarily. "...whichever side, got a group that has been keeping total confrontation at bay for as long as the dispute was there. And if they can keep it this way for five years...... that means they''re the real voice of this war."


    One can only fathom how the fuck did this asshole guessed it right. I take another sip of the coffee and start to understand why Enzo doesn''t even touch his.


    "Quite a theory you got." He let out a loud and hoarse laugh that echoed the silent tailor shop. Leaning back on the sofa with a leg over another, the ocean had closed. What''s underneath sinks back to the sea bed while he looks identical before the conversation.


    "I wouldn''t call that a theory. At best just¡­¡­ getting thoughts off my chest." He sings as his left-hand starts tapping the three-note melody again.


    Before I can think of something to brush it off, Maurizio silently returns with the same blue and gold bordure saucer and a small pyramid made of sugar cubes place on it.


    "Mr. Lee." He placed the saucer carefully right next to my coffee and gave me a very slow nod with the biggest smile today. "All details are confirmed, as...... challenging as it is, I''m sure I can manage. We''ll be contacting you when the suit is done. Again, thank you, for visiting the establishment." He extends his right hand to shake mine again before he turns to Enzo.


    "And Mr. Pisano. We can begin once you''re ready." To that Enzo smiles wordlessly.


    As Maurizio disappears to the back room again. Enzo finally picks up the coffee cup only to put it down after a whiff.


    Four light taps, he checks his watch in a lazy motion and stands up.


    "You had a payday?" He asks in a plain tone as he fixes the wrinkles on his blazer.


    What?


    "Why?"


    "Just a hunch." He shrugs and loosens the collar a little. "And wouldn''t want you sleeping on the street for an outfit." He tilts his head towards the saucer....... with seven sugar cubes.


    Shit.


    "......7 Large?" He laughs


    "Always nice catching up with you." He sings as he strides past the sofa towards the back, leather shoes making no sound on the dark color carpet. Leaving me alone with my thoughts.


    ***


    I combine the cash in last two envelopes and added 5 more from my wallet. Placing it under the coffee saucer than took one last look around the quiet front of tailor shop. I found myself wanting to get out more than ever.


    4:20 I pull the door open and let the half-setting sun land its final spite on me before the horizon of concrete and glass swallows it and the neon lights take its place.


    I put the shades back on and fish out my smoke in jacket pocket. The idea of smoking indoors crossed my mind a couple of times in the past hours but considering even Enzo kept his hands off it, the place probably got some serious prohibitions.


    Two tries, some sparks flicker my thumb red. I lean on the burnt umber color wood next to bay windows and inhale as deeply as possible. A breeze came from my left, along the street, and purposely made the end burn faster and brighter. When I breathe out a lung full of smoke, the taste of mint, nicotine, and an itching at the end of my throat urges me to cough my organs out. Half of the cigarette is now ashes hanging by the wrinkled warp paper.


    God I fucking needed that. Passerby slowly changes from students and young couples to nine to five dragging their feet. Two men in black and yellow lock their gaze on me as soon as they see me from the other end of the street, I hold the cig between my index and middle finger and salute them. Drawing a wisp of smoke between us.


    The guy closer to me lets out a hum, his eyes wander up and down on me while the other hangs both his hands on his vase.


    Is it month-end assessment or what? I thought to myself as I put the cig back into my mouth and brought up my wallet to confirm that I¡¯m strapped.


    The next two places are own by some folks I really don''t want to owe from even if I could. Information brokers can sometimes be the most morally bankrupt of our bunch. As the cig burns steadily brighter by the increasing west wind, I take two more puffs and flick it to the nearest corner.


    Get off the wall, stretch my legs, pick up the violin case and hit the road again. Two blocks and a very long fucking traffic light later, I walk down the subway entrance of dark green fences. Train to the lanes are four minutes late as usual.

 I will walk about in freedom, for I have sought out your precepts.

    Colorful and bountiful types of miserable souls hang their heads on necks, leaning on their arms, the doors, the handles, and colleagues'' shoulders while the subway roams towards each¡¯s destination.


    Couldn''t find a seat, and honestly, I don''t want to. When strangers on a train don''t bat an eye while another squeezes in next to you it feels like I''m picking a spot in a graveyard.


    So I lean my shoulder and violin case on the door. Drawn out the light of lamps on sides of the tunnel lined into rows of unstable neon tubes. They moved up and down, flickering but never overlapped each other. I turned my head and looked down, lifting my feet like I was checking if there was something under my shoes, while I peeked at the end of this carriage.


    Someone with their hoods up has been pressing his head in my direction for some time now. He''s leaning on a bunch of posters stapled on the junction between carriages. The pure gray hoodie is baggy, not the stylish type more like bought the wrong size at a discount.


    I can''t see his eyes from the position, the man¡¯s leaning on the right side of the train like me, head turned 45 degrees, half of his face is behind hoodie the other half in shades.


    Didn''t pay much attention to him when I got on, though I''m positive he was there before me since I didn''t notice anyone else on the platform and this is an express, straight from Via Martinase to the lanes designed for the half deads in loose ties around me.


    I scratch the end of my sneaker for the act while checking if the knife a few inches above it is strapped tight enough.


    The fellow turned his face to the left in very slow motion, if weren''t paying attention one would thought he''s always like this. A light chill runs towards my nape. His hands are in kangaroo pockets.


    What was it called? Liu Jiu?


    The display screen with a couple of penis sketches at its corner shows the stop after St. Christofer is the grand plaza. None of the folks on this track look ''Disalos'' enough to have business at that shit hole, most likely lots of them will be off by the end of this minute.


    I turned my head back at those racing strings of light in the tunnel. Arms hugging myself.


    As the sound of screeching stops and a sense of reaction force violently interrupted the passenger''s transit and exhausted state, some started gathering around me or more specifically, the door behind me.


    A middle-aged man in a waterproof coat squeezed through between a woman in casual wear with a cheap leather purse in hand and a man in polo shirt. The fucker blocks out my vision of the hoodie fellow.


    The invisible force that''s dragging me back slowly fades as the incandescent tubes of the station shots through the greasy windows behind me.


    "We are reaching St Christopher church. The next stop is, Plaza Linares. Transfer to..."


    As the announcement states the stop in the plainest joyful tone anything could utter, almost everyone in the carriage stood up. Cracking their joints, yawning, eyes half shut, arms stuck on sides of body.


    It took a bit of effort to check my watch in the middle of all the passengers slowly pushing me towards the door but I managed.


    4:54, almost rush hour..... 40 seconds tops.


    I push the guy in coat to the side and squeeze past another man with a hideous mustache beside me to sit at the just-empty seats and place my violin case on the ground. The mustache guy stares at me like I''m a madman, before the edge of his lip twitches and he turns back towards the door while muttering something.


    Two seconds after the train stops, the door opens with a squeak. I start counting.


    7, 8, 9......


    Folks that gathered around it swarm out like moths to a blaze, the back pushing the front while the front tries to walk in bigger steps.


    14, 15, 16......


    The gaps between the passengers widened, I leaned forward, arms resting on my lap while I tried to see the guy.


    23, 24, 25.....


    Two man in clerk uniforms took their damn time to discuss exhaust pipes, till most were off the train do they strolled off my line of sight towards the exit. Then I saw him.


    31, 32, 33.....


    The person in hoodie is now leaning on the other side of the train, head is still low but I can now be sure he''s looking at me........ or the plastic bag someone left on the ground next to me. Another shiver runs down my spine, encouraging me to take action.


    35, 36....


    Qins or not, hell. Intentional or not. I really fucking hate people spying on me.


    37, 38.....


    I crack my shoulders and lean back on the seat while my left-hand hangs lazily off, close to the handle of the case on the ground


    39


    Left hand clutching the case right, I grab the pole next to the door with my right and joint off the seat, letting the force drag and spin my body. The irritating beeping sound of closing doors brushed over my ear as the metal double door closed behind me, almost snapping my left pinkie.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    40


    Through the yellowish, dirty windows on sides of train. I see the hoodie figure get off the wall, in a very obvious motion of trying to get through the door but failed as he stand inches from the hatch with his left palm on the window.


    I stride a couple steps to the end of that carriage, staring at him across the window on platform. Making it clear to him that he¡¯s terrible at his job. The beeping kept going on for two more seconds before the train was to leave for Disalos.


    The fellow steps backward, facing me directly but keeping his head low so I can''t make out much of his face, but I could see the outline of his chin. The fellow''s a man for sure.


    And before he stuck his hands back in his hoodie pocket I noticed his left ring finger''s nail got a funny color.


    A dry...no. Flourishing red. The guy lost his fingernail.


    The express steadily increase its speed till the steel frames and blue lines on the exterior becomes a blur, and so do the figure inside.


    I turn around and realize I''m the only one on the platform the next train on both sides are ten minutes away. Clutching the violin case handle in my left hand. I skip steps to the staircase while the cold cloud at my nape dissolves.


    ***


    Three sets of stairs up, while I''m in the line to take the escalator I intentionally take my sweet time while the line passes the corner so I can take a good look at the station.


    The St. Christofer stop connects to the subway, national railway, and airport express so the man flow is always overwhelming with folks from all over the country, even the world.


    The structure is completely underground, with four floor of four different tracks connected by glass escalators in a hollowed lobby with some really bad lighting which makes the whole place convey a grayish glint instead of the open and clear vision whoever built it was aiming.


    But it does give folks on the top floor''s escalator a good view.


    I stroll in wide steps, slow movements. As the line passes the glass balcony next to the escalator which leads to the surface. My eyes jump from the coffee shop at B4 to the ticket machines at 2 to the group of teenagers in ink printing shirts and sports bras that followed the flock of office joes from a distance. But nothing seems off, and no one''s paying attention to anyone.


    Who the fuck was that?


    By the time blood red setting sun carved its last resentment on my skin like a venomous old man in his last hour with no one by his side. I have asked myself this question more than ten times. And came up with loads of possibilities, but the Qins searching for their missing scouts or investigating that sociopath who was lurking around the Jiu lou last night is most positive.


    Stepping on the street of lanes, I decided to cast those thoughts aside and focus on finding Javier''s.


    ***


    Mean or beaten, those are the faces of lanes. Where the luxurious valley of Monclea separates itself from the blood-soaked soil and rusty canopy of Disalos, where the pigs in high towers at downtown can fill their balcony''s view with pleasant things while ignoring the desolate and stanched lanes at the edge of their sight as long as they''re facing northeast.


    The place used to..... well, it still is La Vina territory, but as the things between ruskies calm down a considerable amount of paid guns lost their job. Those were loosely connected to their gangs, half affiliated, with only a sate for cash. They got a taste of how war and conflicts can make them rich faster than pushing half-baked shit to scrawny teenagers or beating prostitutes (or customers).


    Therefore not long after the war ended, many fled their gangs, of course the 10 years of hell is a huge factor, but they are opportunists at heart, they did it for personal gains and the freedom of doing it. In a sense, despite having numerous employers, we are our own man..... most of the time.


    Ten years ago things were a lot less diplomatic than now. Constant war ended abruptly like opponents of a race both hit a steel wall in the finish line. Peace was good, but the odor of violence was deep-rooted and scared any who survived.


    Not all left their original flock on good terms, some were deemed rats but that didn''t stop a very considerable amount of senior from leaving, they were done taking orders.


    As grandeur as those actions were, they still need to relocate and sticking in the same neighborhood with your ex-wife is a pretty awful idea. That was when some of them started meeting each other around St Christofer church.


    It wasn¡¯t a big deal at the start, just some old pals shooting the shit, talking about job opportunities at where by who. But then more freelancers realize that this district is the only part of Euforia that isn''t ruled by cops or gangs.


    So it grows, the district itself and the folks here. More than chatting about businesses, some start to outsource or join forces for the juicier works.


    They started occupying pubs, clubs, dark alleys, fucking laundries. Sitting on benches or stools with hands on the counter and an ugly grin hanging, asking what kind of stuff his mates got for him this time. The other guy would do the same, scratching the callus close to his thumb, throwing his head back and forth with an equally big grin before leaning close to spill a certain someone was complaining about a certain something last Sunday morning after masses.


    Two days later, the certain someone would see a guy strolling towards him with an ugly grin and providing him his utmost loyal services in duration of the certain problem he had.


    The work wasn''t for the faint of heart, as the group in such a profession multiplied, the other small-timers started eyeing the cash flow of these opportunists. They start replacing their pipe dreams according to the newest trend. The most vexing part is that the occupation of ''freelancer'' is self-appointed. Fuck me, buying a can of coke for your friend and you qualify as one too as long as you got paid.


    But the newcomers overlooked two things.


    First, those old timers who ditched the rules and got the whole system work up had all experienced hell, and are well connected enough to play all sides as if waltzing on a tightrope.


    Second, the sense of freedom we enjoy are just another set of rules we have to follow.


    It doesn''t mean you could do whatever the fuck you want. It means to tread as carefully as you can while interacting with your employers, your colleagues, and the goddamn uniforms. Cause there isn''t a crutches to lean on for us.


    I picked them up a long time ago, even before I became a freelancer. But for some reason, there''s always a bunch of ruffians strutting into this pot like a big shot and got a 12 gauge slug of common sense to the brain in the first weeks.


    But they kept coming, the illusions and the blinding legends of those old mercs made St Christofer the most mixed up place in Euforia with characters of different values for themself.


    But one is almost consistent of us all, we''re greedy assholes who put ourselves first.


    And that is where the name ''Lanes'' came from. It wasn''t a nickname for the district, it was one for folks like me, but we like it so much that we rename the district after it. Not sure who started it, probably some gangs down south.


    Can''t blame them for the idea, cause that''s what we are, what this place is. A sewer of all types of scoundrels, the dirty lanes of Faust.


    ***


    Three unenthusiastic badges stand under the shade of a five-story parking, a pair of blood-soaked white sheets by their feet covering the victim''s torso, not the blacked and blued limbs. Judging from their arms not sticking out of the sheets and the dented top of the lamp pole a few meters away, they were thrown off.


    The movements of the crowd form a temporary stopping point at the blockade. Some jump their gazes past it, most skim through, none cares.


    I bypassed a guy with a beer belly and sports shades who''s been blocking the already cramped pavement for fuck knows why. Taking a right to the alley next to yellow police line with its end sticking on the corner brick, one of the cops took a step left as I turned to the alley.


    The sunlight cuts through a row of short apartment buildings at the end of the empty alleyway and blinds my left eye through the gap of my shades but I can swear, at that one-tenth of a second, the cop is staring straight at me with narrowed eyes while his left-hand reaches for radio.


    I stick both hands in my jacket pockets and quicken my steps, facing the last of twilight.

 Extra chapter: The afternoon of fauns

    "Hey..... you alright?" Half dizzy, very drunk, she asks.


    "......No. You?"


    "Imagine what you''re going through and times 100."


    "Very........glad to... Oh, fuck it. What''s the meaning of it anyway?"


    "Meaning of what?"


    "Of pretending, Viv." Upon my words she turned around..... a bit too fast, her head had to recalibrate where my face was.


    "Pretending?" Eyes as big as a goldfish, she asks.


    "Yes. Pretending! As if I like living in this dump, like I''m nothing without it! Burn in fucking hell, as if I like those bastards!" Long silence, long enough for my alcohol-poisoned Brian to register.


    "You were acting?" I laugh a loud hic-up.


    "Define ''were''" She turned around, like a spider upside down. She pressed her palms on my arms, riding me without the intention to do so.


    "When you met me, you fucking asshole." Her eyes as pure as it gets, as anyone in the city gets.


    "Acting eh? Were I acting when I first met you?" Eyes wondering, like I''m considering the question in my brain. And of course, I wasn''t. As fucked up I was, like my brain was dragging me downwards and my body with it. I''m a fool. A goddamn fool.


    "I guess I was."


    ¡±Piece of shit........"


    "Yeah..... something like that." She slaps my face. But I don''t feel a thing. God. This shit is strong.


    "Are you pretending now?" Excuses came like a leaking volt, those that work in a group.


    "Yes. It''s a hobby, a nasty one." She kisses me, deep, hard, like a train on break.


    "You felt that?" Pure brown, staring down.


    "I felt the lips on mine. I felt you, what you meant........but nothing else....... Sorry, Viv."


    "Fuck you." I laughed, and she turned back to her side of bad. She falls down on the mattress so hard that she bounces up again.


    "....Had a bad day."


    "That your fucking excuse?"


    "That''s my condition."


    "Why do I put up with you?" I take a puff of the cigarette end on night stand, pondering if I should say what I''m thinking.


    "I thought you were enjoying this. Cause if not, I could go any....... any time 20 to 40 minutes later." A short silence, then a sneeze.


    "No. You stay."


    "......Alright then." I shake my head to the left but it rings like a bell until it hits the limit of my neck and swing back till I see her face on pillows again. "Thanks." She turned around, the back of her head facing me, shoulder-length hair slapped on my nose.


    "Night mate."


    "Sweet dreams."


    I didn''t dream that night. But I saw yellow and brown with traces of red swimming.


    The next morning I did get a load kicked out of my brain and organs. Hangovers from labelless liquor are always the worst. Feeling like my windpipe and digesting system are turning inside out before jumping out making me look like I spawn a tail from my mouth. I throw my head back on the mattress and block my mouth to fight the nausea.


    "Viv....... I''m dying."


    "Dude...... shut the fuck up. Your voice is like thunderstorms in my brain....... The kind with rocks in them."


    "Fuck." Can''t get up, so the remaining doses of alcohol In my system decided to offer me one last great idea. Roll. So I did and hit the floor nose first.


    Funny, thought it would be more painful... Oh never mind, needs a moment to register. It hurts.


    "Leeee... please shut up....., seriously it''s royally killing me..... wait, where the hell are you?"


    I try to think about if it''s a good idea to roll again to answer her. And my body only got half of the thought processed so I spin myself around once more, facing the ceiling. A fan in blurry vision looks like a helicopter and is hypnotic as shit.


    A trickle of blood rolls down my nostril as the invisible palm presses down on my face.


    "....Down here...By the bed." A head poked out the edge of my sight, she''s blocking the fan, what a shame.


    "God damn. You look like a fucking target practice- shit! Oh for the..... my head is splitting." Way through a laughter, half of her face twirl up. Like a drying painting getting thrown out the window.


    ".....Hey I got an idea...... I''ll go make the coffee....... you raid Vera''s med cabin for painkillers... We''re still at her apartment right?"


    "I think?" Turing my head is one hell of a weird experience in this state, the ground feels so......real.


    But as I flapped my cheek on the floor, my eyes adjusted to the blanket by the window side.


    "Yeah! we''re still at the apartment."


    "...Ok..... Can you stand up?" As much as I want to deny it right away. I still gave a valid effort first...and the nuisance and headache sent me straight back.


    "Nope, not without puking."


    "....... Fine. I''ll get the meds. You make the coffee..... try to at least."


    "Yeah. Sounds...... I''m not going to say reasonable but yeah. Alright." With that, I roll till my nose is press on the floor again. Behind me, I hear a thump then squeaky sounds of sweaty palms running the floor.


    "Uh, Viv?" While shouting at the wooden floor, I push myself up to a kneeling position. The world spins around me, forcing me to follow its guidelines.


    "I''m fine.......... My feet aren''t. But I''m fine."


    "Right." I shut towards the other side of the bed while pressing my palms on the ground and only when it stops moving do I apply pressure. Slowly, I stood up, a goddamn milestone of self inflicting pain.


    The room didn''t stop moving but my vision was returning from distorted disarray to confusingly sharp. And by the wall, a woman in her underwear and a white open shirt with brown leftover stain of....... I don''t want to know the end of that thought, is crawling on the wall.


    I squeeze my eyes shut and force them open before the blood rushes back, now with a newfound pain in my bloodshot eyes I can see the woman wasn''t crawling on the wall, she''s leaning and clinging on it.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Viviane..... why don''t you go and make the coffee? I think I''m in better shape than you." Viv slumps down the floor immediately with her hands still scarping the wall making a high-pitched squeak.


    "Ain''t going to argue.......my legs beaten my self esteem." Right, now. Where the fuck''s the bathroom again.


    Left leg a step forward, the cold marble floor sends a chill down my chill. Right and left and right and left.


    I tried to keep a straight line which resulted in wide steps like a duck and my head bobbing around, good thing the headache hadn''t settled in.


    Before I realized, I''m in the hallway. A sense of Deja vu came for no particular reason and was gone the next second.


    The sofa''s on the right, bathroom''s left. Reminding myself, I walk passed a giant oil painting leaning by the wall, a man in a fedora hat and deep blue suit is staring at me on a stool by the counter. I flip him and laugh to myself, the laughter rings in my skull and bounces back.


    Second to last door in the hallway. The door wasn''t locked, didn''t remember I was here last night.


    Pushing the half-shut door open, I found the light switch in the dark on first try. And another mess greeted me.


    My jacket and Viv''s leather skirt are on the ground, half soaked, and a black tie hangs on the shower head which drips an irregular rhythm down on the tub.


    Curiosity got me, I stuck my head in the drape to check if there''s... yep. My stuff''s scattered in the bathtub. Knuckle brass and dagger, keys and watches, a pack of opens gum, empty bottles.......Shit. Where''s the rest?


    A loud noise like a driller on metal pipes tear through the half-shut door behind me, viv''s got to the coffee maker. Well done Viv.


    I shed off the uncanny feeling of not having an extra weight on my waist and focus on finding the pills.


    The mirror cabin at Vera''s was custom-made. It''s deeper than the normal kind since they carved a hole in the brick wall behind it. Through four rows and no luck, I had to put the ones on the ground back where I remembered they should be. Till the deaf muffled sound from the hallway was gone and a little bit longer, I found the blue and white box by the left corner of the highest shelf.


    Almost out but should be enough for two.


    As I pull the door open, rapid bumps of naked feet on sleek marble risen in volume. I stick my head out and see the image of Viviane covering her mouth approaches me in miles per minute. I duck inside and press against the wall to get out of her way as much as possible.


    She practically slides in as her knees are on the floor already and her hands grab the toilet by the tub to stop her from hitting the thing. Then came a whimpering that I''ve grown accustomed to.


    "There, there. It''s alright. Always was, always will be."


    With a trail of saliva sticking on her hair, she turns her head while her cheeks on the toilet seat.


    "How about now? Am I alright ''now''?" Her eyes bulge and tilts her head back down.


    "I''ve never mentioned now did I?" She flips me a middle finger while puking her guts out. Put it in someone else''s perspective, it might be hypocritical.


    I move next to her with soft steps as if she might crumble if I''m not. I brush her raven short hair by ear, the freshly healed wound under pulses close to her hinted artery. I found a remotely clean towel on the ground, switch the faucet on and dip it.


    I kneel down next to her, a hand by her left cheek and slowly raise it, guiding her face up shakily.


    Doing all I can to make her look human, cleaning the stains on her nose bridge and by her mouth, untangling her hair with the leftovers on her face. Her eyes remained half shut for the procedure till I got nowhere else to work with, but an impulse in my head kept my hand by the side of her jaw and cheekbone....


    Until she raises her hand to rest on mine and push it aside.


    "I''m good. Go take care of yourself and the coffee would you?......Still need a moment here."


    "Sure...." I give her limping figure one last look to make sure she''s actually fine before turning the faucet back on to rub off the newly added smears and cleanse my face.


    Cold water resonated some senses back into my mind and took away a large portion of my pain threshold. Now that I''m half awake, the bruises on my knees, knuckles, temples, throat, loin, and right pinky toe are rushing back asking dues alongside interests owed from last night.


    But the worst is undoubtedly the headache, I don''t have a single clue why, is it possible for me to do what I did while knowing what''s in store for me.


    As my mind is mostly functioning I can''t help but notice there''s a loop here. Headaches came from low blood pressure and vasodilation, to cure one of them is to eat, but the dizziness and temporary gastritis from booze makes you throw up, losing appetite, prolonging the headache and your desire to eat, which prolongs the pain as well.


    In conclusion, I need something stronger than aspirin.


    Putting the blue box back I dug deeper. Pushing rows of white bottles aside, I found a bag of naproxen sodium in a fish market plastic bag. Not much left in this one either but the 550 on blue capsules look reassuring.


    The buzzing waves of pain in my skull won''t shut up. But viv seemed better now, at least she can get her head out of the lid. As I walked out and passed the oil painting to the kitchen, headache drums every time my heel land the floor.


    ***


    "So....." With her head buried in arms on the kitchen counter. The voice sounded muffled and dried.


    "Viviane. Don''t talk before you finish that glass of water." I saw red in the toilet.


    She raised her head up, resting her chin on the counter, the stool under her moved an inch to the right. And she maintained that position with her back arched for a minute before I push the glass to her face.


    Rolling up her eyes while chugging it she almost choked halfway done but kept going until only a quarter left, then she spilled out a portion of it back into the glass. She covered her mouth and her face turned red in an instant. With extreme discipline, she swallowed the rest in her mouth before coughing with her body retracting onto the stool.


    It goes on for another half a minute before she stops. And by the time she raised her head again. I had borrowed another bottle from Vera''s cabin and empty the glass with a ghost of blood sinking towards the bottom.


    "Take this first and wait for half an hour." I put the pure white tablet on the table along with the refilled glass.


    "Promethazine?"


    "Yep."


    "I think I''m developing resilience to the stuff." With a meek smile on her face, Viviane took it dried before three seconds of doubt made her take a sip of water again. I rolled a naproxen and pressed it at the rim of my coffee cup to swallow it while she and I both took a sip.


    "And what was that you just took?"


    "You noticed?"


    "Lee. This is kind of my job you know." With a faint smug on her face, Viv tilt her head back to resting in her arms.


    "Painkiller."


    "Care to share?"


    "Sure. 30 minutes later, least." She twitches her lips to the left and buried her face in long sleeves.


    ".....Says the charlatan."


    "To the leper."


    "Screw you." She let out a light chuckle before taking a swig of water.


    I return her a smile and turned around on the stool to rest my legs on the sink on the other side and lean my back on the counter.


    It goes on for a while. She''s still too tired and disoriented to go on the usual bicker, and I''m still waiting for the pills to take its course. Save the sound of my vain and weary heartbeats, it''s complete silence. I''m used to it, just not while being with her. Come to think of it, it''s never been so quiet between me and her before, every time we meet up it''s either job or booze along everything afterwards. We''re either tensed or high to a fault.


    Most days by the time I wake up she''s already gone, might left a short note on my forehead. Some days we wake up in a closed bar with automatic locks, the back street of desalos or some place even more bizarre. But almost never like this. We don''t stay for the aftermaths, never was there to witness it.


    "Hey....."


    Bell of 3 o''clock in the afternoon swung and swung, blocking the rest of her words. I pull my legs off the counter to turn around without stretching my still aching neck.


    "Didn''t catch that, what was it?"


    She jump her line of sight to the other side of the table, mouth slightly open, her jaw moved to say something but changed its course to a smirk by the left edge of her lips. Close to the stitches removed three weeks ago, now it looks like a long and slim birthmark, a snake of burgundy red and purple stripes, a rut.


    Her hair''s more organized now, falling by her ears, grazing the wound that climbs a trail up from the edge of her jaw. No one would''ve thought she nearly died in a run-down motel close to the border not long ago. Last night''s black eyeliners that bleed around her eyes were washed along with the rest. Now her face is paler in comparison.


    "Nothing."


    Her eyes shine impulsively as always but the glint seems colorless, like looking through lenses.


    ***


    20 minutes later. By the porch, I wave her goodbye, she leans on the wall lazily with coffee in right hand while the left''s index and middle fingers tapped her forehead and lowered to her lips before extending her arm to the air, palm arched, tip toes, and body follows to turn around like a ballet dancer or a stripper. Her left palms waves me back while she walks back inside, sipping coffee.


    ***


    Maybe it was the way she said it, lack of quality sleep for the past week, or perhaps it''s the painkillers taking affect, most possible explanation is that I just overlooked the six japs walking down the corner.... No, five. Though the big guy can be counted as two


    The next three months I think about it times when I''m alone, the shape of her lips when she said it, thinking I should''ve asked her what was on her mind. Or maybe it really was nothing.

 Back on the promised land

    Following the cracked concrete plated walkway and storm drain in sun-burned color along the front door thresholds of barbershops, grocery stores, and semi-basement apartments with spike fences mingle with broken glasses stick on duck tapes on the top, set at the entrance of open stairs. Above those are the brick apartments with iron cages by the dusky windows, three floors high graffitis around the bulky air conditioners that are louder than the shuts of market stalls on the small plaza across the street.


    Not too far off from Stynx, about 2 miles west of it, close to the blurry line between Disalos and the Lanes.


    A group of inbreed looking on cobblestone stairs to the doorstep of a public housing looked me up and down while I walk past. A skinny brown skin on the fourth stair whistles a high note at me, his eyes set on the violin case I''m carrying in my left hand.


    "Ey chino! Conseguiste ese abrigo en el dep¨®sito de chatarra?" He shouts, they laughed, as unoriginal as it was.


    "Ay, justo al lado de donde tu padre te dej¨® cuando eras ni?o!" Two steps away from them, I bawl and lengthen the sentence, by the time it''s finished, I caught the eyes of two passersby and an old man on wooden stool by his fruit stall.


    Thought the attention would make them behave but a chill down my spine signaled I''m wrong, those four are really fucking keen on sleeping on ICU beds. A series of rapid footsteps of leather and plastics on concrete approach me followed by low mumbles of swears.


    For the love of fucking hell.....


    I drop the violin case on the ground and put my right hand in jacket pocket, fingers twirling the cold steel while counting the steps behind me.


    The guys'' hand gripped my left shoulder the same moment I got the brass knuckle on.


    "The fuck did you said?" I intentionally stood still and tense up my back and shoulder as if I''m unease by it.


    The guy''s arm hangs by the third stair while he''s sitting on the fourth, safe to say he''s got a longer reach. Keeping it in mind I let him drag me around while moving my right foot forward bringing both to our arm''s reach.


    The guy''s a notch taller than me. Wearing a black tank top. Butch cut, narrow jaw, cheap chains, cheaper watch. A pair of eyes got a sick thrill hidden behind anger like I''m what he''s been waiting for the whole day, under those is a big nose, ugly and wide. It''s almost like an invitation to sunk it but today ain¡¯t his day, I''m in a bad mood.


    I grip the cold steel in my palm, dart my eyes to his open throat for a single second and to his three lankies behind, then back to him.


    He probably has a piece too, but that outfit ain''t suitable for concealed carry, if he has one it''s got to be strapped on his belt, close to the hip.


    Breath in, breath out.


    I put on a big smile and pick a joyfully tone.


    "I said, would you like to take a moment to praise your lord and savior? Or maybe donate something to the kids in Africa?" The guy''s eyelids twitched as confusion came into his eyes. One of his boys turned and look at his friend who shrugs in response.


    "De que hablas pendejo?" His left hand came at my shirt and I let the soon-to-be PVS grip it and drag me closer to his face.


    "Oh.....Pens¨¦ que ser¨ªa bueno para ti pronto..." I drag the last syllabus on to make it a question, the confusion in his eyes is now palpable.


    Three things happen at the next second. First, the moron said something but I wasn''t paying attention because. Second, behind him and his pals, down the staircases they were sitting on. Came a familiar figure in red and black. Third, I put my right fist with the brass knuckles on back in pocket.


    "Ey puta!" A deep roar came behind them which confirms my suspicion. Not sure if I''m glad seeing him....


    A man of ...... statue, came barraging through the thugs like an adult through ball pit. Standing at least 2 meters tall, the man in black and red blocks out the sun and casts his shadow on both me and the tank top fellow.


    The giant places a hand on the man''s shoulder to turn him around much like how he did me seconds ago. The tank top guy was going to say something but chokes it when he notices his mates aren''t backing him up anymore and there are traces of wiped blood around the knuckles of the hand on his shoulder. And because the size of it too.


    "Take a walk."


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Man of few words as always, but with the statue that''s all it takes as the guy couldn''t even bring himself to give me a warning glare. He lets go of my shirt and fucks off with the rest of his little group.


    I fix my shirt up, pick up the case, raise my head at the warden''s face and all of a sudden I''m not sure of what to do.


    "I had it." Really not the best way to say thank you, but that''s what came out of my mouth.


    "They had y''all too." Hazel color eyes narrowed either by his eyelids or simply the angle, he darts them at me then at the distant. Took seconds to find what he was referring to.


    About eight or ten parking spaces away, at the corner of an ally, the reinforced bump of a black and yellow patrol car.


    A cold sweat rolls down my back as I think about how much hassle I''ll go through if they pinch me. I turn my head back and signs internally.


    "Thanks ...... You doing sides now?" Nodding at his blood-stent hand, I ask. The big guy wrinkled up his face in a strange way that it took a second for me to understand he''s frowning.


    "Sorting nuisances." Rubbing the still red stain on his knuckles he lets out a hum.


    He walked out of the building entrance those fuckers were occupying while I caught everybody on the streets attention.......


    Love thy fucking neighbors.


    "Made your day easier huh?" A smirk crawled on my face. Another hum, but this time it sounds like a dry laugh.


    "You going to Stynx ?"


    "Nah. Not now at least. Got to pay uncle a visit first."


    "The old man?"


    "Yeah."


    "Shop''s closed since noon." I let out a laugh.


    Of course it was.


    "Figure I''d still drop by."


    Another hum from the giant and, at that one milli seconds, his gaze jumps back to me from the street, I caught him sizing me up and down like a butcher would at a chuck of fat between muscles of a beef side.


    "Take it easy kid." With that and a nod, the big guy walks off toward the setting sun, dragging his shadow behind him.


    I crack my left shoulder joints as the weight of the violin case is making my arm sore and my hands sweaty. Sliding the brass knuckle off, I pulled my right hand and found a purple line across four fingers and stiffness around the knuckles preventing me from closing my fist.


    I shake the uneasy feeling that''s been piling up today. Javier''s place is a couple of turns away. I told myself as I hit the road again, the last of setting sun casts a mutilated shadow in front of me before the neon lights of sex shops and Halloween costume stores overpower it, and stretch one into five equally uncanny shades of me. I take off the shades, don''t need it now.


    ***


    Night falls, it gently announces the hiding is over, do what you want, the world is yours.


    Unlike the carnival of Lesnaya or Glen Avenue, the changes in the night of lanes are more subtle. More natural, as if this is what she looks like and the dark simply shed off its clothes, leaving her naked....not that she was wearing much in the first place.


    The quiet jazz pubs, smoke enlace dark alleys full of junkies at the height of their life, booths behind booths behind the bar counters and club upstairs, the little something under the dated newspapers of kiosks, the outdoor steak joints with men and women in poker faces gauging down food like it''s their last before walking off leaving precisely 88 cent tip on the table.


    The nine-to-fives who still had some juice left would rip off the tie, change their blazer, and call those who do too. Heading for one of the host clubs downtown or try to pick up some platinum hair chick at Noch. Those that are beat would walk a few more block to supermarket for cans of tuna on sale, go back, lock the doors. The neighbors know damn well at night, the streets of Faust are all sorts of trouble.


    As for folks like me, this is when we get to work, slip-outs here and there, a couple of drinks and new friends at Stynx, or a confession at the church before strapping their piece close to belts, praying for none but an easy night and to steal some sleep before dawn.


    The details are where it stood out from all the other fuck up places in this city. The conflicting and contradicting stories this place told, one of bustling resigned, of a yearning to scream. Look closely, it''s in the dropped smiles between mates, on the faces behind the neons, the shape of sparks on blue plastic lighters, all of their eyes.


    Just past six, I walk down the steadily more crowded pavement for a few more blocks, trying to remember where the fuck''s pawn shop since it has been a while. The unreliable memories led me to a crossroad by a mechanic shop.


    Ann spots me from across the traffic lights so do I. She cocks her head at an extremely long alleyway that will eventually lead to the church but take 11 minutes minimum.


    I give her a sorry smile and point my right index finger at watch on wrist and metaphorically slit my throat with it. She smirks with teeth out, lips apart and closed.


    Lights turned green with the image of a gentleman with cane and top head shines, crowds from both sides move towards each other. Walking by each other, Ann taps her forehead with her index and middle finger together while her thumb pressing ring finger. And salutes them towards me with a smile. I grin and return the same blessing.


    ***


    Took a few wrong turns and cutting through the closing Saint Michael market multiple times. But I found it.


    Vieja T¨®rtola.


    Between two bored-looking whores in the longest skirts I''ve seen today with iron rings on their pinkies. And a couple of fellows sitting on monoblocs, laughing under the pulsing red neon of a pig strolling with a smile on its face and the lower half of it as skeleton.


    The sign is so damn eye-catching and ludicrous that most would overlook the petty little shop with iron cages on its bay window and a solitary door as its front.


    Take a peek and you''ll find anything you can think of through the windows and bars, gold watches, electronic guitars, jewelry, DVD player, martini glasses, Barbie dolls without clothes, a painting of Bodhisattva hanging next to a fucking bust statue of Abraham Lincoln (that one''s not for sale). It''s like looking through a kaleidoscope while on skag.


    Above that, and the steel door with a sliding peephole. Is a massive sign in italics spelling the name of pawnshop. With descriptions in hard font like Buy, sale, pawn gold, diamonds, automobiles, antiques and more...... squeezed in the space left on the tarnished yellow billboard.


    The place became part of the background naturally with its brick structure, adorned with rebar and red neon sign of ''closed'' behind the window which enhances its brightness.


    The limbos and rows of taxis rush by, the whores on the sidewalk, the happy red pig next to it, the muscles in front of butcher shop checking every punk who gave more than a glance at the rings and trinkets on the pawn shops'' display, and everything on the bustling street of lanes are encouraging you to overlook that cramped little shop by the side.

 Saint Xavier

    The ladies of night took a glimpse to see I''m not buying today. See-through raincoats, feathers around the waist and neck, sharp-color heels with a band-aid on the bottom. Red, pink, and purple steps aside as I walk by. One of them pursed her lips at the sky and lit up a cig, the other extended her right arm with the back of her palm upwards. One ring...... christ, the market demand knows no limit.


    I ignore the hand and the seller altogether, the latter throws her right arm back as if littering and crouches down next to her competitor.


    Five to six steps away from the hideously grayish steel door of uncle''s, a bald guy in his early 30s sitting closest to the pawn shop notices me walking straight towards it.


    "Hey. Hey! Place''s closed. Nothing to see there." Waving his bottle in hand like a traffic warden, the bald guy shouts with a slight hint of urgency in his voice as I skip two steps to the solitary door then proceeds to bang it as hard as I can with my right fist.


    The streets close to the market ain''t the safest at this hour and the residents around St Christofer know it well. As the sound of loose screws and chunks of stainless steel tattling door hinges, creating a continuous screeching thunk echoing the mostly empty street of west lanes, five maybe four passers across the street gave a quick glance before clearing out of sight for this foretold trouble for either the man knocking or whoever''s inside.


    Come on... open the fucking door..


    A numbness sores the bones of hand, both mine and the security''s passion wears thin but the bald man snapped first.


    "You deaf or what, boy?" The other three in front of butcher shop stop the conversation all together and tilt their head towards me.


    The man was ready to stand up as he press his palms on the handle, possibly moving his ass for the first time in hours. But the motion stops before he can get off the chair, for the dark, almost bronze-skinned man on a stool (a monobloc might decompose under him) facing the desolate movie theater across the street beat him to it.


    "Calm the fuck down, that ain''t some riffraff."


    Between burly and fat, the big fellow soothes his man while striding towards me in quick steps, arms wide open, sleeves of his oversized leather jacket flopping like a boneless pigeon trying to fly.


    The last time I saw him was a while back, could only remember the coat was much more fitting back than.


    "Good ol Cal, got promoted from the doorman to the head of security?" Grinning by the side of his mouth, the big man lifts the sides of his jacket with his thumbs hooking the collar as accepting the assumption.


    "Yeah, yeah. Fuck you and your sense of humor. Why¡¯d you shows up after months later without giving a call first?" Cal leans on the steel door''s handle, positioning himself perfectly between me and the other three still sitting in front of the butcher shop.


    "As if the old man would roll up the red carpet and gives me a big hug at the doorstep." I lean the violin case on the iron bars by the door and stand with my arms crossed.


    "Unlikely. But at least he won''t be closed for the day when you''re here....... probably." Cal shrugs and tilts his head back to check his fellows, though the guy''s way too much of a roadblock I can''t see what''s up.


    "Closed for the day?" I let out a smirk and inquired further. Cal raises half of his face along the brow before giving me an answer.


    "Yeah. Day off, you know how spontaneous T¨ªo Javier is." How fucking lazy you mean.


    "Ain''t that hard to argue... but uh....."


    I scratched the back of my head like I was in a dilemma. "I ran into an acquaintance of mine couple minutes ago, and he told me the place was open this morning till noon...." Cal rolled his eyes and readjusts his position on the door to make himself more comfortable.


    "Alright, he was open for the morning. But by noon he decided to take a lunch break...... till now."


    "So he''s still in there?"


    "Or upstairs." He shrugs again and checks the post-modern clock on the wall of the movie theater across the street.


    While his sight is off me, I sneak my right index to dig the metal blotch on the slide of peephole, dragging the slide open before he turns back.


    The lights are still on but fail to escape through the gap for they pale in comparison to the neons outside, and through all matter and sorts of eccentric bullshit lying around the place, behind the counter and bead drape, I see the contour of half a man curls up in bed with his left arm hanging by the edge


    "Pretty sure he didn''t make it that far." Cal turns around and takes a peak at Javier through the hole too before closing his eyes momentarily.


    "Look." His lip drops but words stuck as he furrows before raising his brows. "My shift''s about to end, old man definitely ain''t opening today. So how about you come back tomorrow morning hmph? So we can take the night off?" His eyes unperturbed while speaking, though he knew damn well I won''t walk away.


    "Wish I could man. But I''ve got something delicate and need it off my hands quick, least get a note of where to get it off. Or, at the very least, getting a notion of it."


    Of all the folks in the lanes, cal would probably be the safest to share any hint related to last night''s job, not entirely because he''s solid but also for his lack of imagination.


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    I flattened my brows and dragged the edge of my mouth vertically to a bitter smile before I ram my left fist onto the steel door hard and yell through the small gap.


    "Oye viejo! Despierta, boludo!" The figure behind the bead drape twitched before it retracts the arm hanging out and turns around to face the wall and now his toes are sticking out.


    "See?" Cal squeezes his fat face to the gap inches away from me, I can see the sweat on his cheeks. "Told you he ain''t opening today." I purposely tilt my head back a little before shutting again.


    "It''s lee!....." God damnit. "Es callejero! Come on, got something for you, open up!" The vague line of the figure behind curtains stiffens, the rise and fall of steady breathing stops for a second before he pulls his leg back on the bed too.


    And now he had it coming.


    Cal pressed his thumb on his left ear for the near-deaf experience I gave him with less resentment in his eyes than I anticipates but still, it burnt his last patience for me. As he extends his right hand to grab my shoulder I shut one last time with my face practically on the door.


    "Oi t¨ªo! Tu sobrino est¨¢ aqu¨ª para verte!" Cal was going to do...... something to me but all actions stopped with the noises of violent rumblings, clinking, slurs bellowing, more rumbles, a loud thump, and a short wail that came from the pawn shop. A second later the door opens inward with the screaming of rusty metals.


    ***


    Sun-carved skin draped on a hanger, saggy, hairless. Bloated arteries and skinny bones writhe under the back of his palms. Age spots and the dismal tattoos that were once black and red and full, now gray and a sickening dark green like the outside of decaying meat. That flimsy, dotted polo shirt he''s too lazy to replace ain''t doing much of a job covering them either.


    Black pants got way too many sewing threads over and across the ankles and thighs making it a pass to cargo pants or borderline stylish though he''s just way too much of an Ebenezer fucking Scrooge to buy a new one.


    The most noticeable thing about the bastard is the silver amulet of a weeping Santa mar¨ªa on one side and Santa Muerte on the other dangling in front of his chest, As far as I know, it''s straight blasphemous to put them together but I guess the guy being a catholic is a bigger one.


    The old man''s old, but not as old as most think, he''s about the same age as Luthier, 61 or so. But years of drinking (even I couldn''t top him), living by nicotine and the poker table till a few years back had made him look like a 70ish with arthritis.


    The spaces between his noticeable eye bags and the short hard beard around his chipped lips are filled with scar-like deep wrinkles, as if his skin is being sucked into them.


    But behind the rotting shell that''s standing half bent to catch his breath, vine-like hands on the steel door frame, mouth slightly open unconsciously with drips of sweat on the edge of his beard. Rests a spirit that stands unfazed and defiant towards the flame engulfing this world.


    No matter how much of a bum he looks. T¨ªo Javier''s eyes burn the brightest among most I''ve seen. A spite towards what most think is right and a pity for the opposite, greed that swims like all the vendors and business owners in the lanes and occasionally, suck as now, a rare shade will surface making them seem almost transparent, open, full.


    In those rare instances, with keen eyes you''ll know, he cares.


    They''re of slate gray mixed with blue traces by the pupil and the white, the color of heavy rain washing down the sewer before surging back into the ocean from pipes. The first things I witnessed in Euforia.


    Now a glint of fear, expectance, and an unsure longing runs in them......


    ***


    Before it disappears into disappointment when he sees me greeting him. With my arms wide open and a giant grin on my face that drags the edge of my eye I bent my knees slightly to be horizontally aligned with him. I probably look like a moron but the look on his face makes it worth it.


    "Uncle! How the hell have you been? Fuck me, did someone throw you in a dehydrator? You look like the carcass of a bull. The kind in the middle of a dessert." Javier''s right eyelid twitched frantically as the left side of his face sags downward. The moment froze for the length of five blinks before he slowly closes his open mouth and turns to Cal next to me.


    "What did I pay you for?" His accent is as thick over the years, especially on the pronunciation of each ''t''.


    Cal in response, shifts his sight to me and back to him before letting words slip down from his mouth in a conciliatory tone. "He said he got some......"


    Before the gibberish can form a statement, Uncle cuts him


    "No. No. I pay you, and those cojonazos of yours to keep dogs, troubles, and pendejos off my shop and in extension, the front of my shop..." The big man''s shoulder slightly up and was about to say something but Javier raised his voice and continues.


    "Perro, disturbio y pendejos Cal! .....And what am I looking at right now? The holy fucking trinity of the three!" Uncle throws his right hand back in my direction like flipping a table. I can''t help but let out laugh.


    Old man, never change.


    Never change, old man.


    "D¨¦jate llevar por el diablo...And what are you laughing at?" He turns his head to my face out of the blue and snorts. I shrug at his question and put on a smile.


    "Just got a revelation. If the Sun won''t set, grass don''t grow, birds fall from the sky, you can bet Javier will still be chewing someone out. Quite amusing don''t you think?"


    "Clever little shit." Uncle scoffed those words out of his mouth. Staring at me with annoyance as he tabs the steel door frame with his right hand repeatedly before he signs deeply and a quick cough follows at the end of it.


    "..... And? You came all the way up north just to wake me up and grin at my face?"


    In a matter of speaking.....


    "Come on..." With my hands on hip and the smile unchanged, I sing with an ardent tone. "Can''t yours truly be paying you a visit for.... I don''t know, reminiscences?" The old man roars a cough out of his throat before spitting a load of sputum on the sidewalk.


    "Try doing it in front of my gravestone. Then, I might be glad to see you or believe you. So be real this time, what did you interrupt my siesta for?" Seeing T¨ªo''s actually not in the mood for bullshit, I toned the smile down to a smirk and gave my violin case by the door a nod wordlessly.


    Uncle followed my gaze and tilted his head right to the thing leaning inches from his hand on the door frame. He squints his eyes while cutting the lines on his face deeper, looking years older just by the simple fact.


    It''s really been a while huh?


    I thought to myself as he looked closer at the ''Glasgow'' sign on the exterior.


    "You got something for me?"


    "Aye." Javier exhales a long breath through the nose. He moves his jaw left to right, chewing on the fact and if it''s worth it.


    "Hot?"


    "Could be. Need a¡­¡­ A connoisseur. An expert." Uncle snorts again.


    "Expert my fucking ass.........ahh Puta madre. Get in!" Hard to notice but a small trace of curiosity stays in his pupils after the quick estimation he made in his mind. Taking a step back, the bleak glower inside peeks out, right in the middle of purple and red, toning down and blurring the boundary.


    "Gracias." I grab the case, skip two steps up the drain, and walk passes him with a hand on my left chest which t¨ªo rolls his eyes in response.


    When he was about to turn back in too he finally noticed Cal by the side had been opening and closing his mouth like a koi fish.


    "And what are you twitching for?"


    "Javier, it''s... kind of past my clock now. Is it alright if me and the boys....."


    "You lazy bastards been jerking each other off for weeks. Now''s the chance to earn your pay, and do your fucking job. Make sure no one comes in before callejero comes out..... or I do."


    With that Uncle slam the steel door. But I didn''t hear most of that except the door slam, my mind''s always elsewhere when I''m in vieja t¨®rtola.

 Food for late night thoughts

    Most times, my works are compensated with hard cash or wired. But ever so often some genius would try to pay me with his watch, his wife''s jewelry, or throw in some ''bonus'' that are too hot for them to handle. In another type of instance, sometimes things just happen to..... fall in my hand during a job, intentionally or unintentionally.


    Vera calls them possessions obtained by unorthodox means, or stolen for short. I prefer collaterals.


    Half the times when I ought to find Javier he''s either taking the longest nap in history or about to close. Knowing the old bastard he''s probably doing that on purpose.


    Despite so, he''s the first to come to mind when I need collaterals off my hands quick. Second used guns the luthier would spit on, antiques without a proper testimonial, even cars with leftover skags in every seam and corner. As long as you can prove its value, Javier''s got a way to close a deal and profit out of it.


    Four maybe five months since the last visit, I''d guess the business is pretty fucking good lately. Judging from the place''s even denser than before. The old man got a habit of throwing the most valuable stuff around his shop, to the point no one''s certain what they would found in this place except him.


    Viaja T¨®rtola is a hallway pathed by exotic, occult, and eccentric items. At first glance it looks like a cave, you can hardly spot the counter by the east wall, two meters vertical to the front door. Two rows of iron railings above the counter with jars of untraceable coins and a small statue of the three magi pointing at the red neon flex web on the railing, which spells


    ''Equal value. Quid pro quo.''


    Behind the counter hang a set of 5 single-edged, curved Bolos from Philippines that''s been hanging there for as long as I can remember. Ask me, I''d say even Javier himself forgot those are for sale.


    Across the counter are locked wooden cabinets by the wall, inside sit alligator leather strap watches, plain-looking stainless steel models that stop production since decades ago...and baseball cards, lots of them.


    Victorian nightstands of all heights lined up together to a long table in the middle with sapphires the size of sand by the lamps and gold twined bracelets or chokers hanging by the handles or draping down the edge onto another platform.


    Here, items glint a dullness in the poor lighting and worse surroundings. Most of the things here ain''t much different from the ones in gold trim window shops of v¨ªa Martinase, except a much lower market price and a richer, more twisted history behind it.


    Sure, you can find hexagon watches and blood diamonds shroud in fine twine in bulletproof glass boxes closer to the counter.


    But the real stuff are at the back, where the hallway narrows and the poor lights are incapable of fully illuminating by design. Old lamps from customers that failed to come back in 30 days lit a dotted trail across the dark, like late night highway. Pay close enough tension, you''ll find a hint of red dot at the end of the hallway. That would be the fourth camera.


    Dusty vinyl in cardboard boxes, 2 decades old yellow pulp readings in open drawers, and a strap on that were found in the Palace of Versailles during the pillaging of the French Revolution according to his words.


    Of which I remain skeptical and uninterested in finding the truth.


    The further you dig in viaja t¨®rtola, the more it reshapes itself into an antique. Less lighting, fewer security measures and far less predictable.


    I once questioned the lack of locks and cases at the back. To it, he responded with a hum and bantered.


    "If someone could sorts out what''s what back there, he can have it."


    ***


    "So." Javier squeeze through a suspended swinging door between glass display counters and a speaker at the height of his waist. "What you got for me kid?" A leak of interest and a chunk of resignation coated his tone as he walked right through the bead curtain under the collection of knives.


    I take a gander at the thousand-pound steel gate behind me and shut the sliding. Walking up to the counter, I set the violin case on the counter with caution not to knock the ashtray with tens of short bamboo color filters sticking on top of each other like a freshly dug mass grave.


    "Overdue heart attack." I jokingly raise my voice towards the back. Uncle throws a baseball bat across the room behind curtain, and a rummage of metallic objects explodes on the left.


    "No me hagas ilusiones." He mutters before a high note squeak-like ballon being hugged tight rings in the back as the contour of him crouches down and pulls an object under the folding bed out. "Anything else?" Javier sneers as he walks through the bead drape with a hand in pocket and the other holding a blue barbecue lighter.


    Might as well.


    "There''s also a dagger..."


    "Uh-huh." Uncle drag a crushed paper pack with the label of a pair of praying hands holding red and gold medals between their fingers on its packaging. Brown teethes biting down on the last unbent bidi in that wrap of shattered tobaccos and leafs. Pulling it, few scraps fell down the floor.


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    "Made of quartz." Javier tilted his brow bring the igniter up and purse his lips, extending the unfiltered roll of nicotine to catch the shaky blue flame.


    "A sketchy-looking guy sold me earlier today, made all kinds of big talk about it." Opening the case, I carefully extract the Victorian wooden box secured where the center bout should be. "Said it was from some historical assassin in Tudor...."


    "It''s fake."


    Puffing, no. Blowing an unbearable amount of undiluted nicotine with the stench of Liquorice. A burning rainforest probably smells something like this.


    I''m not going to lie about me being a self discipline individual with a healthy lifestyle and no affliction with substances. But, the shit he had been smoking throws me back twelve years ago, when I first puffed a half burnt cig by the dumpster, dropped by some suit and was yet to extinguish.


    "Don''t be so sure mate...." I suffocate the urge to cough and wave off the gray smoke clinging to my jacket. "You haven''t seen it yet." Placing the box next to the case, between me and Javier.


    He takes a glance at the carved wooden box and leans the smoke on the rim of the ashtray. Dragging the revolving stool by the swinging door that was used as a doorstop over with his left leg, and sat right on top of the cracked leather. He thumps the box with his knuckle a couple of times before pressing the right palm against its side, fingertips slowly traces through the vine patterns.


    T¨ªo proceeds to prob the eight corners of the wooden box with extreme caution and sharpness and tranquility that disagrees with him entirely.


    For a spell, the old man is at peace with the world and himself, the slatted grey of his eyes resembles the clouds in a faraway sky.


    "599." He plainly states as he place the box where it was. "Best deal you can get without a certificate."


    "You think it''s a dupe?"


    "No. No one would give the time of day to dupe this. The bend corners and hideous rose patterns are real, hijo de puta who sold you waxed it. Now the woods are damaged and since it''s carved, no one can run any carbonate tests to prove how old it really is. And without a prove no experts would vouch for its Authenticity."


    Uncle pick up the smoke and brings it back between his teeth. Leaning back he applauds sarcastically upon my dull expression. "So congratulations! You bought a pretty little box, that can''t even hold four packs of smoke."


    I lean upon the counter, ignoring the disgusting smell from cigarette smokes in his mouth and the impulse to ask for the luthier''s number from Ivan. As usual, I put on a smile without a care for a damn what others say.


    "Ain''t that tragic, but I''m more interested in your opinion on what''s inside." I inferred and unbuckle the box, pushing it back to the edge of the table in front of Uncle Javier, who rolled his eyes as he chew on the cig making it shake off the ashes at the tip.


    "Quartz, you said?" I shrug.


    "Said what was told." Two more seconds went by as Uncle sat unmoved before he shake his head, kick the wall, and let the momentum push the stool back to the counter.


    He pulled what looks like five of those hotel magnifying mirrors stacked together with a pole connected to hinges under the counter. Javier adjusted a scroll by its side locking it in place on top of the box, facing the transparent blade.


    Pulling a switch by the mirror, a faint yellow light ignites after few glimpses. Javier rotates the round frame of the magnifying mirror for half a turn, and the light steadily becomes lucent till the yellow turns to white, shedding a spotlight on the dagger in the dimly lit pawn shop. A ceremonial sense surrounds us.


    He frowns at the black cloth I wrap around the handle and with a hand at its tip, another by the end of the handle.


    He hold the piece like it''s a lost artifact, finger traces along the sharp tip, the old man squeezes the edge with his index and thumb before positioning the flat of blade at my face. The face of him distorted through the view.


    "Not bad......not too bad..."


    He murmurs as he graze by the carvings of roses that spread like a needle penetrated the piece leaving it shattered. The things is already extremely thin but until now, under the position lights, I realize how deep the carvings are despite the fact.


    Uncle goes through the hilt, the spine and the seam where the hilt should be. And finally, about five maybe seven minutes later. He put the dagger back in the box and turned the frame of the light to dampen the brightness back to warm yellow.


    "It''s a beauty, and it''s quartz alright. The temperature and the touch confirms it. Carvings were done back a very long while ago, look here." He points at the tip of the blade, where a thin line of vine pattern extends till. "The pattern used to be like a blood groove to balance the bulky end."


    "As for if it''s something from England hundreds of years ago.... possibly. But it''s also possible it was customized by experienced smiths for some rich cult leader to sacrifice virgins. Heard there was a group close to the West Indies bout a century ago, the priests among those locos carry Cristal daggers for show." Shutting the box and buttoning the lock, Uncle slides it back to me.


    "Ain''t all sunshine but that''s good enough for me, thanks."


    "So you''re not trying to sell it?"


    "Not in the short term." Tabbing the wooden box on the counter, I dart my eyes at Uncle who''s got an arm pressing on the counter while the other reaches for his almost out bidis. A hint of his brow raised before he turned his sight to the smoke in hand.


    "Took a liking?" I teased but uncle gave nothing but a thoughtful hum back. "......Or you got something else to add?"


    The color of dirtied egg white swirls into a darker color as his muscles by the edge of his left cheek twitched, dragging the wrinkles on his face to a stopping point. Noticing my change of tone and expression, he waves it off and shakes his head.


    "Nothing it''s....... this and that said and through, you just pile them on top of that ''unanswered questions'' as midnight food for thought, right?" Kicking the chair back, stool''s wheels made a squeaky complain and reluctantly take uncle to the ashtray by the edge of counter.


    A dampness forms in the air, adding weight to the environment. I lock the wooden box back where the center bout bridge should be and strap the belts back on. With my hands on the floral pattern drumming a broken rhythm on it.


    Oh, what the hell.


    "..... Right, what is it? You ain''t the one to talk like a shitty poem." I take two steps left and lean on the counter with uncle on the other side finishing what''s left of his smoke.


    "Just an itch under the cojones ." Turning his head languidly, he blow off the last breath of that unbearable cigarette.


    That famous death sentence again.


    He uses that cojones line no less than the times he promises to quit gambling. The difference being the latter is the equivalent of saying I pay taxes on time, while the first got some fuck up cosmic power behind that whenever he utters it, the matter in discussion turns to deep shit.


    "Is it something you can point your fingers at or you''re being a prophet now?" Uncle pulls out the wrinkle pack of smoke wrapped in hemp rope before he realizes the rest are spilled.


    "Just feel like I''ve seen it before. The knife." He exhales a long breath and throw the pack by the ashtray, scraps of stiff tobacco scattered a small circle by the rim of it.

 Unmarked

    "Well, there''s something else I''d need you to take a look." Javier aimlessly waves his hand in the air as in ''Yeah, why the hell not''.


    "Hurry up then, I want to get some more sleep before eating."


    "Cigs ain''t enough?" Uncle''s eyes survey the counter and the ashtray closely before he tilts his head under the counter.


    "You can smoke through breakfast, lunch, fellatio but never dinner." I let out a snort as I pull Qin''s dagger out from the slug for fiddlestick while Uncle''s going through the drawers.


    "Your secret for longevity?" A single, dry laughter echos the empty pawn shop.


    "Acojonante, callejero.....aconjonate. " A hand reached from under the counter and slams a new pack of bidi on it. Loosen the hemp rope, unpack, bite one down, lit it. All done in three seconds.


    "So......" Hands-on the counter, body leaning forward. "What else can I do for you?" Parting his chipped lips, a chunk of smoke escaped between his teeth.


    Thoughts ran through my mind as I grip the ebony color handle. I don''t care much about the Qins, but not to the point that I would waltz in the hotel and have them put it on auction, the best bet still is for Uncle to see if he can find a potential buyer who knows discretion or better yet, buy it himself.


    My eyes peek at the closed solitary door and the curtains covering the bay windows unconsciously as I put the sheathed blade on the counter and lean forward as well.


    ***


    "Are you changing lanes? Wanna be a nighthawk? Hm, Forget about it. The field''s oversaturated with scums worse than you and me." Words leaked out of his mouth continuously and slowly like an old man taking a piss as he pulls the DIY spotlight up to position it on the sheath.


    I shrug and watch him get to work. "Perhaps." Been stumbling upon shit from a museum exhibits anyway.


    "Maldito chiflado. Didn''t I teach you not to turn dead man''s bones long fucking time ago?" The mumbling carries on as he adjusts the switch two turns to shed a somber white light on it, the gold-plated lock and pommel glint quietly.


    "You did. Though I thought you were just trying to snatch the dead chick''s high heels yourself." Javier stopped what he was doing completely and abruptly,


    He takes the smoke out of his mouth and raises his face at the ceiling, sound of a generator breaking down came out of his throat before spitting a fat brown sputum at the ashtray, knocking out two cig ends and flooding the rest.


    "Let''s get this straight, Callejero. I''ve never, robbed from the dead before. It is the most degenerate, accursed way to make a living, hijo de puta are worse than grubs. A maggot, a fucking worm eat carcasses to live, while a bone turner snatch them of the last they have to make a penny..." With a slow, articulated tone he vomits those words along the stink of his smoke at my face. "They see the deceased as an object..... De puta madre! Well, I fucking don''t, and the doers ought to rot in the lowest of hell."


    A spite towards what most think is right and a pity for the opposite...


    "Noted and repentant." I lower my head into a nod. "I didn''t know you were so insistent on them. Sorry." A very small ripple of shame waves somewhere in my chest and I ain''t going to act like a son of a bitch when in the wrong.


    Uncle look at me closely, with those plated grey rolling inside his eye sockets, like a lottery machine.


    Breathes between us lengthen, till two more seconds later he''s content with whatever traces of remorse in my eyes or nothing at all. Drawing a curved line in the air repeatedly with his half-burnt Indian cig, telling both of us to forget about it.


    Funny, after all those years. These exchanges are the few things unchanged.


    Javier sits back down on the stool, a hand adjusting the light while the other sends the smoke back into his mouth, inhales, and puffs out the last breath of tobacco.


    Wordlessly, he smears the cig butt on that yellow spit and drags the light closer to the grip of the blade, the decorated gold locket with a tiger and a Kirin roaring towards the other, than the reinforced end pommel.


    His eyebrows furrowed closer as he inspects the little details on the antiques in front of him. His fingertips brush the texture of the wooden sheath and the second gold ring between the chape and the grip, the black and grey of his brows are almost intertwined. The dirt grey eyes swirl with doubt and excitement.


    It took him ten minutes of probing and examining before he finally sits back and wipes off a small dripple of sweat on his temple. For a moment he sits still with lips subtly apart. His hands snake into his pocket for another smoke unconsciously. I watch silently by the other side of the counter, the pulsing emotions in his eyes are palatable that he hasn''t been this interested in something for a long while.


    Until old man Javier had chewed down another cig did he escape the trance. Blinking twice, he put the cig down and concludes whatever he was thinking so hard.


    "You mind if I...?" He point his index finger at the locket idly like one of those fake, black-and-white documentaries with farmers pointing at ufo behind the clouds.


    I shrug with a smirk to hide the fact I''m a bit affected by his change of demeanor too.


    He ducks under the counter again, this time came out with a magnifying monocle. He clutches the piece between his nose bridge and left eye socket. Unsheathed the collateral with heed.


    ***


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    Glints of shaded hue on the spine of the dagger deliberately change color by the edge and tanto tip into a silvery white or faint indigo. It''s almost unrecognizable if not under the concentrated light.


    Javier placed the sheath next to it and started another round of examination as he adjusts the monocle while the other shifts the light by a few degrees.


    "Qu¨¦ mierda..." Uncle whispers to himself and takes off the magnifier, he spent a moment to rub his left eyelids. Before returning his focus to me. Still frowning hard the wrinkles on his forehead change their routes.


    "Ever heard of Damascus steel?" With a sarcastically cheery voice he asks, though none of his facial expressions backs it up.


    "Save TV commercials for kitchen knives?" Javier shrugs in defeat at my answer.


    "Yeah. That too. But it''s more than a 19,99 on the tally. Good quality Damascus steel can make it worth your while." Uncle reaches for that cig he pull out earlier to puff a smoke at the bead drape behind.


    "Recently I got a small collection from a frog. El pendejo wanted half a grand for the bucket of trash he gathered, I was going to throw him out. But then...." Uncle put the back in his mouth and take deliberately slow smoke like a goddamn storyteller at Central Park.


    "I saw this fine ottoman paper knife with an ivory grip so fucking fake that the toy cars from fast food joints had been given more effort in the making. In spite it, the blade itself is genuine patterned welded. The mosaic ripples on that beauty don''t lie. So I took his offer and threw him 5 notes..." Another puff, while the smoke leaks between his teeth, he curls his tongue on them dry lips.


    "Two days later I put a new grip on the piece and placed it right there." Uncle nods his cigarette at the closed drapes behind bay windows. "Weeks later, I sold it for double the price to a skinny fella who called himself a collector." Scratching his chin, he laughs to himself. "Ha! Bet it was the first and last time he''ll walk in a place like this."


    "So..... is the point of the story being this dagger is also made of Damascus steel or do you just want to brag about your entrepreneurial lanes?" Uncle signs out another breath of smoke and knits the dying cig between his index and thumb. It was quick but I caught a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes before he flick the end to the ashtray.


    "The point is to let half of that brain of yours comprehend what you''re looking at...... but no, this isn''t Damascus steel. Not entirely." A slight smile slips at the edge of mouth.


    "Cause there are no patterns on it?" To that, he grins.


    "Take a closer look." Raising a side of my brow, I take a closer look at the piece lying under the spotlight. The cold glints trace a white line along the edge, to the tip. But at the halfway point there''s a fault, a tiny slip of inconsistency, where the white became gray.


    Defected?


    "Hey Javier! There''s a...." I turn my sight back to no one behind the counter. The fuck is......


    "A chip on the edge?" Before I could finish the thought, a derisive voice passed through the bead curtain.


    "Yeah! What is that?" I shout towards the back but this time what came out is the sound of lids and trash cans being thrown to the ground, then the noise of empty milk jars in a bike basket.


    A minute or so passed but the noise kept appearing through the back room behind the drapes as if a long and distant static.


    I tried to find another similar flaw but to no end. That small corner on the edge where the pale hard steel turned grey, almost like the color of minerals is the only imperfection on the stunning piece.


    Tabbing a two-note tone on the counter next to the grip of knife got boring pretty easily and the smell of bidi sunk my appetite for cigs for the duration while I''m inside. Another half a minute passed before I''ve concluded he''s going to take a while.


    My attention unavoidably got drawn to the back of the store, where bulletproof glass cabinets press on the cumbersome wooden desks with bronze locks and bicycle locks.


    I take another peek at the bead drape to confirm he ain''t coming back any time soon before stepping into the unknown.


    ***


    The lamps guided me deeper and deeper where the LED lights can only stretch so far before fading into the dark with occasional glistening from the reflections of gold and waxed wood.


    I walk past a table of sphinx paperweights on top of business cards from Glen Avenue and necklaces with beads and silver pieces strung together, hanging on its neck.


    Browsing through these things slowly gives you a realization. It''s hard to describe, like something close to sonder. The word applies to when you realize folks next to you have their own stories as well, their own world, and in their eyes, you''re the insignificant one. I guess that''s the closest I felt while walking through the hallway, where everything by your arm''s reach has more dusted history than you.


    Second used cig case with marks of a scratched autograph, an empty but fine decorated gold frame with mistletoe engraved sitting right next to a curved pocket knife with words ''He started it!'' on the grip. By the edge of the half closed drawer lies a small bracelet, strung by hemp rope with three small chips of silver......


    I pick up the fragile piece caustically, the rope looks chipped and thinned. Any doubt in my mind vanished as soon as I saw the Roman numbers on it. XVII, XII, VIIII. Thieving, associating with peddling business, and a love for whores.


    A tenth street living like a real Lesnaya fuckboy huh?


    I smiled to myself and put the bracelet back where it was, by doing so, my focus got drawn to the drawer.


    Strange, they''re usually locked or completely opened in display. While this one looks like Uncle forgot its existence.


    With a slight glaze of interest but mostly still out of boredom, I pull the drawer open. What came in sight is a box full of rings.


    Fake ruby frat pinkies, swirling jade that ends with a pearl on top, a plain (boring as hell) diamond engagement ring, golden thumb ring which looks like it was ripped off a knuckle duster.....


    Types, colors, shapes, meanings of all contrasts pile on top of each other in the small gift box. I grab a handful and let them slip through my finger tips. The brimming sound of them colliding rises like a drop of rain on a sump.


    A bronze one knocked off the pyramid in the center of the box, demolished the slope and turned an exceedingly weird-looking one up to the top.


    It has the outlook of a cylinder that can only hold one round, with ''.357 cal'' engraved on its side complete with the grooves. Shining a metal glint quietly amidst sands of others.


    A twitch of mouth turned to a smirk as a particular someone''s face immediately came to mind.


    Guessed a souvenir''s due....... fingers crossed she will get over 20-ish missed calls quicker.


    I rolled it between my fingers and found no sharp edge or rough notches. Satisfied with the found, I shut the drawer and stroll back to the land of tangibles....


    ***


    Just in time. When I lean back on the counter like I never left with a bored expression and heavy eyelids uncle walks from the back.


    Strings of deep blue beads clinging to his shoulder before letting go and swinging back to the opposite side. He''s holding a white plastic container with chemical bottles, some copper wheels, a box of wet wipes, and a bottle of vinegar dangling in it.


    "Now hand it over." He asked in a plain tone and smash the basket of chemicals on the counter in an unnecessary motion to hide his shaking arms.


    "It?"


    "The scrap of iron in your pocket." With the same plain tone, he said and extends his callous plagued palm.


    Worth a shot.


    I sign a long breath and wiggle it out of my left sleeve between wrist watch and jacket cuff.


    Uncle snatches it in an instant. To hold it in front of his eyes and under the LED light for inspection. He rubs it against his shirt a few times possibly making it dirtier, put it under the light again before flinging it back to me with his thumb and index finger like he''s loitering a used napkin.


    "9,99" I put it in my left jacket pocket and pull out my wallet. All the coins I''ve left just to barely cover it.


    Javier took his time counting rows and rows of cents before picking up a small board box by his feet and swipes the bountiful down the counter, into the box. The only change that occurred on his face was an unnoticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth.

 Chokehold collateral

    "You see that crack on the edge right?" Javier grabs the tools, bottles, and a wrinkled ledger out from the plastic box as he asks in an informative tone.


    "I was about to ask if that''s some kind of defection before you piss off without a whiff." He places them on the counter while letting out a snort.


    "Depends on how you look at it." Stretching his bony arms with fingers locked together. And the joints pop like firecrackers simultaneously. The saggy skin hangs under his elbow making the already protruding ulna bones more outlandish. "I was about to call it a really, really solid dupe....." Uncle narrowed his arms and extended further to the limit before letting go of his locked fingers, his hands lump down.


    "A dupe of what?" There was a visible pause before he slid the ledger across the counter.


    "Item 155. Take a load yourself." Curiosity piqued, and I turned open the plain brown cover that''s as fragile as if all the wrinkles on it threatens to shred. The first page is a short manifesto declaring all the following information is reserved for the Leonidas enterprise.....


    This isn¡¯t a ledger.


    I skipped a handful of pages and a short description of an oil painting caught my eye. A picture of a woman in a blue gown turning her head with a string of mistletoe hanging down along her brown hair.


    ''Item 107: ''Reservoir woman''


    Author: Unknown


    Reserved price: 10,000-15,500 EUR


    Category: Art


    Description: Size 4 Oil painting from the late 1930s. Released from a private collection. By the will of the former owner, the person''s name will remain disclosed.''


    I whistle two high notes as I turn a couple more pages. Uncle, on the other hand, had been giving more than a few glances at the dagger as he rested his chin on palm.


    ''Item 133: A set of polish steel gauntlet. Late 15th century.


    Reserved price: 250,000-700,000 EUR


    Category: Antique.


    Description: Piece of a full armor, worn by Stephan B¨¢thory, the famous Polish monarch from the late 15th century. The former owner and whereabouts shall remain disclosed due to company policy.''


    Next to the description is a picture of a gold-trimmed set of fine craftsmanship. Restored and shining under the concentrated light.


    "Did those hyenas in tuxedo send you this?" I ask while tabbing the catalog of the biggest under-the-table auction house on this side of the hemisphere. To it, Javier curls back the palm holding his cheek, and shrugs.


    "You do know I''ve been in this business before you were born right?" I throw my right hand back past my ear.


    "Congrats, you earned yourself a head-start at the lung cancer marathon along with the most unconvincing explanation." Javier flips his slim and unattended middle finger upright like a rusty nail.


    "....An acquaintance got lucky and scored a fat bag while making some friends with those hyenas you talked about. It got him invited but the pendejo knew shit about the items on the auction, so he came to me asking this and that for two hours. In the end, he got so frustrated at the ''reserved price'' concept and fuck off without the catalog." I count to ten mentally as I stare at him.


    "So you kept it."


    "What gave you the idea?"


    "What about the..¡±


    "He vanished, never seen in Faust again."


    That''s uncanny as ever. I let out a sign unconsciously and skip 7 pages to where item 155 at.


    ''Item 155: A short blade of Tang dynasty. Possibly 7th century.


    Reserved price:


    2,800,000-5,000,000 EUR


    Category: Antique.


    Full size: 55cm. Blade(40 cm). Grip(15cm)


    Width: 3 cm


    Thickness: 75 mm


    Notes: Straight blade. Golden locket on the sheath and the handle for decorative purposes. Mahogany wooden grip, sheath. Jade pendant attachment to the grip.


    Description: The only Tang zhang dao known in the present day, this exquisite item has over hundred-years of history. Certified by the experts of Leonidas enterprise, the blade is a hybrid of ancient Wootz steel from south India and top-notch Damascus steel. The forging method and materials are both long lost in history and irreducible, all the more adds value to the item. The former owner shall remain anonymous due to the person''s wish.''


    Next to the long panel is an image of the said item which brings a surreal creep up my spine. It''s almost identical to the one in my arm''s reach. Except for a couple of small specks here and there as I press my palm on the edge of the crumbled page, flattening the wrinkle.


    The most noticeable difference is also the most objective, the one on the catalog seems longer.


    Then, its blade had the same pure white edge on one side, but as it calves tin to the spine. It turned gray, thousands of disorganized banding patterns on its surface. They swirl and ripple as if indolent-moving lava. The black of patterns, the white of its gaps between, and the dark metal color of itself conveyed an entrancing hue. Like silver without sun to reflect its glint.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The color of the grip was also much lighter than the ebony one of Qin Yan''s, this one got a layer on top of the brown mahogany wood almost like a peeling red paint giving it a distinctive antique feel.


    Lastly is the appendant, honestly if it weren''t for the description I would''ve overlooked it for how insignificant it looks in the image. At the end of the grip ties a short red string, which leads to a small round, round piece of jade with short scribble carved on it.


    Looking somewhat familiar.......


    I tilt the book upside down to see it properly and as the lines start to make sense I knew why it looks familiar. I just saw it last night on a kraft envelope, the Chinese word everyone in the city recognized.


    Jesus fucking Christ...


    I close the book and push it back to uncle.


    I turn my gaze on the blade again, the idea that I''ve been running around with 3 million dollars in my pocket first sets in and to say I''m caught off guard is an understatement.


    <em style="font-family: georgia, palatino"> As moronic as it is, I''ve never thought too much about these kinda things though in an occupation that worships profit.


    I can feed myself, got a roof over my head most of the time. I can go on my day without the fear of an empty wallet (except today). Bills for the booze and inhaler have been stacking up but not to a concerning level.......


    It''s like one of those fucking wet dreams when I''m sleeping in the central library finally came true but I don''t know what to make of it.


    What did old hitch say again?


    ''Money can buy you all the unimportant things in the world.'' Whatever the hell it was supposed to mean is starting to make sense........


    "Kid." Javier snapped his fingers inches away from my nose, and with a pair of plastic gloves on, it sounded more like a crack. "Whatever''s inside is jumping to conclusions again." I blinked twice, shook the thoughts off my head, and lean back on the counter.


    "Right...And all those chemicals are to test if it''s legit?" I tilt my head at the row of bottles by the basket. Uncle pulls the plastic gloves tight and hums in response.


    "The one on the it has a text book example rippling patterns from true Damascus steel, or some called it ancient wootz." He explaines, while tabbing the catalog with his middle finger. "While this one over here...." He curls back the middle finger and shoots his index finger at the one next to us.


    "Doesn''t." Uncle lets out a hoarse laugh and scratches his cheek and the side of his neck harshly.


    "It does, callejero. See that chip?"


    He extended both of his arms across the counter and held the unsheathed dagger with heed, a hand on the pommel, the other close to the triangular tip. He places it inside the basket, letting the wooden grip lean on the side and the tip on the bottom making the blade itself slanted towards the light above me. The pure, dazzling white glares loudly under with a tiny gray dot by the edge.


    "Don''t know where you got it from. Don''t want to either. But the former owner put a lot of effort into it. The color and texture of coating are honest to the lord of old testament, impeccable."Javier''s mouth clicks as half of his face nestles together, I instantly move out of the trajectory of his spit before he does.


    "Perfect, if it weren''t for the slip anyone would think it''s high carbon or some kind of pure steel." With his thumb clutching the palm of his hand he said, eyelids narrowed but eyes glints with excitement. "But that defected part. It showed the exact same look like the one on catalog. Layer after layer, stacked together..." I think I just saw Javier smirk at something else than others suffering or a politician getting convicted if I¡¯m not delusional.


    "You''re awfully cheerful today." Javier shrugs as he drags a side of his crow''s feet along his lips.


    "Must''ve been the weather."


    As if you''ve stepped out of the shop today.


    "So you think there''s some cover-up done? Coating like uh...black oxide?" As I lean back close on the basket Uncle grabs one of the unlabeled white bottles and twists the lid open.


    "Hmph, to get through channels unnoticed." He meticulously scoops a dropper out of the bottle without touching the wall. The transparent liquid with a yellow hue ripples at the bottom. With the dropper held vertically, he dashes it by the edge of the bottle, before bringing it to the other bottle. This one''s unlabeled as well but the sealed blue plastic mouth and brown bottle gave it an ominous vibe. Just before he sticks the dropper into the retractable seam on the lid, he tilt his head up at me.


    "For the record. This could rust the piece, create toxic fumes, and kill us both immediately, or slow and painfully. So hold your breaths and take a step back. Vale? Vale."


    "Wait. Hold on....." Before I could finish the sentence, the dropper had sucked up drops of the transparent liquid. Tilting its tip at the ceiling, his underhand circled back at his neck with his bony arm pressing hard on his mouth and nostril. And he raised his brow while gazing me.


    How the hell did he live till the age of having grandchildren?


    I swear in my head while mimicking his action. The rough fabric of my jacket sleeve smelled of gun powder, a rotten sour, and that god-awful stench of bidis, brewing all of them up, clinging on the cloth, and now making me eyebrows furrow.


    Uncle''s hands are surprisingly precise throughout all these years. Meticulously moving the dropper across the table to couple of centimeters above the blade in plastic box. I press my left hand on the counter and lean on to see he''s aiming at the spine of the ''dao''.


    With his body tilting forward and head slightly bent down, he squeezes the bulb rubber between his thumb and index finger. And a quiet glisten, four consistent ripples fall on the knife''s thickest part close to the grip and the brass collar.


    Two things happened simultaneously at that moment.


    First, the drops of liquid make no sound while in contact with the metal, but whiff of smoke erupts and my heart skipped a beat.


    Second, Javier brought the dropper back inside the first bottle before whiff of smoke materialized. His left hand violently clutches the handle of the box on the other side and drags it towards him. Layers of see-through plastic sheets connected to the handle were pulled out from the interlayer of the wall, they slide by the groove on the edge before the sheets fully unfolded.


    With a clock, the handles locked together forming a closed cabin. Uncle pulls the handles one more time to make sure it''s sealed before letting go. Gasping puffs and blows, he waves his hand above the full basket.


    I count another five seconds before doing the same. Of all the demises I can think of, ''death by chemical accident'' is sitting close to the bottom.


    "Could you give the heads up, a little earlier than when the rebars are falling down on top of my head!" Controlling my anger and putting up a smile at this scenario made my voice crack but he got the message. And to the message, he responded in another goddamn shrug.


    "Relaxed, callejero. If I''m committing suicide I would do it alone with whiskey. The smoke you saw was a natural reaction." His nose twitched and grey eyes wandered for a second before continuing.


    "And there''s no smell of pig shit¡­. Eh, we''re good." I almost choke on he''s demeanor as he brings the loose pack of bidis back as fluently as ever, lighting it up and purposely puffing a chunk at the closed plastic box. A nasty color between grey and white pours itself on the surface and lingers around the see-through layers but not a trace of it slips in. Javier smiles triumphantly and takes another drag.


    I''ve known him for almost a decade by now, and if it weren''t for that I would''ve taken a swing at his bloated nose. But despite looking like a downtrodden old geezer, if uncle''s alright with something, then there''s nothing to worry about.


    I wait till the smoke clears out and lean back on the counter, tilting forward to see the results.


    It still shines stunningly under the light as always with a cold glint running by the edge. The chemical liquid slides down its shelf from the spine to the tip, and small whisks of smoke occasionally materialize and disappear. But the metal itself remains unaffected.


    "Was that supposed to peel off the coating you mentioned?" I asked while observing closely at the metal closely, but so far no changes occurred.


    "It''s supposed to tell me what kind of coating it is." I raised my head to give him a look. I know none in this field but the idea sounded science fiction-like.


    "So what now?"


    "Now, we wait...." He muttered, sitting right back down on the stool with cigarette in mouth. Eyes narrowing till it''s about to shut. And just before he did, a series of tedium bell tolling from a case clock at the back of the store brought him right back up. It rang seven times.


    "On a second thought, you can fuck off now. I''m going to close early today, come back tomorrow and it should be done. Me muero de hambre......"

 Weary road, curious dogs

    I take one last gander at the million-dollar artifact in plastic box, thinking the obvious. Of all the scoundrels I know, not a single one of them I can completely trust with it, but I''d say Javier''s the closet. Not for his integrity though.


    "Oi. Uncle! You won''t swap it overnight would you?" The Old man puffs a chunk of writhing smoke towards the ceiling.


    "Oh I will if I don''t see a stupendously large sum of commission!" With cigarette smoke lingering between his teeth, he shuts back.


    Now he''s solid. Besides, he probably figured out if ought to sell it, the best middleman in town that I know is still him. Why fuck me over now when he could do it twice later?


    7:06 With a hand on the bolt lock of the solidarity door and another holding the violin case, a rugged and somewhat unassuming voice rang behind me.


    "Ey, callejero!" I turned around to see him sitting reverse on the stool, leaning his back on the counter and his feet kicked up on the speaker by the swinging door. "Tell those lazy fucks outside they can jerk each other off somewhere else....." Plated gray in his eyes shook a little before the words left his mouth. "And you take it easy out there."


    Old man, never change.


    Never change. Old man


    "You too."


    ***


    For a brief moment, the air outside tastes almost sweet compared to whatever chemical hazard is going on behind the closed door. I take a deep breath, interrupted by a small short circuit on my left from the walking pig neon sign, its left toe is now missing. Tiny sparks were thrown off the board and fell meticulously to the concrete pavement, in front of the group of underpaid security.


    Cal remains entirely motionless though one of the sparks fell right on his shoulder before rolling off the jacket. He''s looking at the post-modern clock on the theater across the street idly while holding a paper plate of half-done beef jerky and freshly sliced pink pork. The other three are smoking on the stools with equally idle expressions.


    But as I closed the heavy door shut behind with a loud and dull clunk, all eyes moved in unity. And Cal is the first one to utter with broad clear anger behind his voice.


    "About time, for fuck''s sake." He pushes the plate to the guy beside him, forcing him to hold it. Striding towards me with open arms and extensive annoyance in his eyes and on his face. "Cammey''s supposed to show up an hour ago, don''t know where she is, don''t care no more. I''m not doing extra hours without extras. Ain''t...."


    "Well, lucky you. He''s closing early today. You guys are relieved from duty." I broke off his complain before it drags on for the rest of the night. Cal exhaled a long breath with his brows raised before turning around to his man with open arms.


    "Alright, y''all heard it. Clear the fuck off, Thanksgiving Turkey is out of patience anyway." He wave his open arms like a traffic warden and tilts his head at the butcher shop.


    A shit load of muttering later, the rest of the crew cleared out the front of butcher''s shop leaving plastic plates and paper wraps on the folding chair. One of them wave the owner behind closed door goodbye sarcastically, and the reddish-brown skin butcher with an apron and full mustache waved back at them, though horizontally.


    As for cal, he takes another gander at the clock across the street before sticking his hands in pocket and trudges past me with clear nuisance in his eyes.


    "Next time you call first." Eight paces away, he added. "And keep yer head low, a pig in 520 patrol¡¯s looking for someone. Drove by four times while you''re inside!" With that chip off his shoulder, Cal''s steps quicken and buoyant.


    A southern wind bellowed through the alley next to me with the scent of factory wastes and burned diesel from the ports, sweeping away the illusion of breathable air, or what was never there.


    I light a cig to loosen up the tension and as the note of acrid drilled down my windpipe, the lamps of the bay window shut silently behind me. On the quieter street of lanes, it''s just me and the neon lights. Not even a tart in sight.


    A sudden rush of misgiving came over, making the idea of being here unbearable. I thought about going to the market a couple of streets away to stretch the night longer. Maybe at Mickey''s apartment, some game''s surly on in a Tuesday night or see if Ann''s still loitering around Saint Miguel.


    But looking back now, the day''s been long enough. And the uniforms are onto me for whatever the hell I did.


    7:07 I spit the smoke out and head down south.


    ***


    I take the previous path through the alley across the street. The whores cleared out. Good, don''t know what they were expecting around the loan shark neighborhood.


    Skipping through the alleyway and left the cig end there, turned left back to the crime scene under the parking lot tower. The cops are gone as well, and so are the bodies, leaving large chunks of dried blood on the cordoned pavement and a pair of plastered images that look like two withering, upside-down trees with thin branches sticking out at their ends.


    They were thrown off the building, hit the lamp pole before falling on the pavement, and before all that, arms severed.


    Loan shark''s M.O. Though off a building was a bit more creative and I can tell the lone field agent in a wrinkled suit and loose tie, leaning under the flickering light of the dented lamp pole would agree.


    The man got a tie clip on his welt and a pen hanging on his trouser pocket. Messed up hair combed over the back of head, scribbled beard that hangs shakily between mature and slothful, complete with fragile blue eyes.


    As I exit the alleyway the pig''s eyes roll deliberately towards me, it sways up and down as if I''m supposed to be here for him. I put the cigarette back into my mouth and hang my right hand by my back pocket.


    I didn''t even make it to the crossing before he squats down the blockade and jog in front of me. That motherfuck.....


    "National police, a word sir." Can''t decide which part of the sentence I hate the most.


    I put on the ''model citizen'' face. With my brows subtly raised and a preserved smirk hanging by my lips while I tone down the negative thoughts in my head.


    "Good evening to you too. Officer."


    "Evening. I''m Detective Arlo," The cop flips open his badge and ID at me. I take an excessive stare and couldn''t find anything wrong with it, except the precinct is a few miles too far from here. "I would like to ask you some questions if that''s alright....."


    I broaden my smile while my eyes turn to the guy on a bicycle across the street, the cook arguing with a receptionist by a mailbox, the brunette in fur hat and short skirt who clacks on top of the asphalt road to avoid getting into our three meters radius.


    The hell you picked me for?


    "And I would like it to be firstly known by you, sir. It has been a long day and I got to ride the tube through half the city back to Piao Jie." I curl my smile into an apologetic one and open my palms while my right foot takes a step on the driveway. "If you''ll Forgive my impatience. I really don¡¯t¡­¡±


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    But the cop raised his left arm and takes a step forward blocking my way further.


    "It''ll be quick." He promised as his left arm and gloved hand slowly lowered back into his pocket while nothing changed on his face.


    I drag my smile downward into a horizontal seam and exhale slowly as I start taking him seriously.


    Arlo falls somewhere between a war veteran and a journalist, with overly conservative and irritating motions bearing a hint of brute force, especially those sleep deprived eyes. But the outline of his cheek was clearly roughened up by experiences of stressful environment despite he doesn''t seem older than 33. The guy''s a lost cost of his own life. And that''s why I straighten up my posture and nod at his request.


    "Well, officer?" Folks like him belong in the lanes alright, but not with a badge in his pocket.


    Arlo brought up a fountain pen from his left pocket and a pad in his jacket''s inner layer. His left thumb pushes the cap back into pocket.


    "Do you live nearby?"


    "No." He opens the PNB but doesn''t write anything at my answer.


    "Have you seen or heard anything strange earlier today, about 4:15 in the afternoon, around the block?" No, I was getting my feet measured.


    "None. I was at home by then, got a call from my boss to help out before closing." His left hand hovers over notebook and remains there after my answer.


    "Is this your first time passing by the scene?" Arlo raises his brittlest of blue as he shoot the odd question.


    "Passed by an hour ago earlier too. When you fellas are still swarming the place."


    "Could you describe the scene?" He asks, a glimpse of interest flashes across his pupils while I''m left pondering.


    "The scene, an hour ago?"


    "Yes. As detailed as possible." He swiftly draws a couple of lines in his notebook.


    "Well. There were........three, maybe four of you fellas next to two corpses covered by white cloth. Right over there." I point towards the stain of dried blood on the pavement.


    "There was also a couple of concentrated lights around the perimeter...... and that''s about it. Counted in some curious passersby." The cop deliberately nods while adding a few scribbles on the page.


    "Do you remember any of those officers faces? Any traits or strange actions... anything you could recall?" He asks while inspecting what he wrote down with the muscles by his nose and eye bags subtly closing in on each other.


    "I was in a hurry so not really.......Officer, I think you''ll have better chances if you take these questions to the stores across the street. The front desks must have seen something.¡± Arlo mumbled an exhalation and a curse. Then exhaled a long breath before massaging his eyes with his index and thumb.


    Of course, he already tried the establishments across the street. And without a whiff of doubt, none would even talk to him.


    People from lanes can be whatever the hell you could imagine. Of races, religions, afflictions, non afflicted, brown, black, yellow, white all abandoned by the system. They will never cooperate, matters not if they saw anything. Especially if what''s in question are clearly gang-related fairs


    "And forgive my bluntness, but are these questions consequential to what happened here this afternoon?"


    Arlo closes his notebook in a snap and stuffs it inside his left trouser pocket. The edge of his mouth twitched with a hint of disdain and nuisance in his expression. He pulls the sides of his brown suit back and slides his thumb into his pocket. His head was low for a count to two in my mind before he spoke in a platonic tone.


    "It is consequential to my job, and I can have you arrested and searched right now for suspicious activity and possible possession of illegal substances if you keep this up." He darts his eye at the violin case in my hand. A laughter at the bottom of my throat threatens to give away while I kept eye contact with him.


    Scratched that.


    He''s as new here as a north valley¡¯s finest.


    Just while I''m about to tell him to piss off in the politest way possible. A hunch in the back of my head threw me an unlikely possibility.


    The drained posture, hint of violence, working at other''s jurisdictions and questioning witnesses alone.


    "Alright, alright! Calm down chief, I''m clean as virgin marry, I swear." I take a step back and pads both sides of my jacket pocket with a knuckle brass and drug inhaler before raising my hands by my ear as a pledge of innocence.


    Arlo stares me down, not entirely sold on my bullshit. At least he ain''t entirely brainless like the rest of the pigs.


    The cop''s brow closed slightly on each other as he took a step back, lips apart with another question clearly in mind. And I dial up the act by stepping back and raising my palms in the air towards him like a dog trainer with my eyes widened and torso subtly bent.


    "Wait wait! Hold on, there was something else! You were... you want to know who those cops at the scenes are right?..... I uh.... Don''t remember their faces, I swear on my 18 generations of ancestors I don''t. But, there was a patrol car by the road and if I remember correctly... the serial number on the door was uh... 520? Yes, 520! I''m certain of it sir."


    A flash of hungry glint ran through his fragile blue eyes like a gauze stretched to its limit. Arlo drags his left foot back a step by his right and brings the PNB back out of his pocket.


    "520. Are you sure?" I grin my teeth out and flip my palm back up at the sky. If he''s paying a slit more attention he would''ve noticed the callous on them weren''t from physical labor and my left sleeve''s stuck at where it is no matter how I stretch my arms.


    "Officer I''ve never lied to nobody in my life... though sometimes it takes extra effort to remember certain things." I pile up a smile on my face and shrug. Arlo stare at me for a second too long I''m starting to think I might have to run for it again.


    But in the end, all he did was nod and turn a new page in his notebook.


    "I''m going to put it as an official record, may I have your ID sir." I cough out a laughter and lengthen my smile a bit downward.


    "Certainly officer." I pull my wallet out of my back pocket, right pinkie graze by the pistol grip. "Here." I nib the oldest card of the bunch in my wallet while making sure he can''t see the rest from this angle.


    "Chang... Mr. Chang?"


    "Chang Xiaowu, officer." Arlo switches his gaze back and forth between the 2 by 2 photo of me in the back of a hardware store. The owner sucks at photography but he''s got a natural talent at lighting the photo so bright it looks like one of those taken in a government agency.


    "Thank you, sir....." He returned me the ID card along with a business card from his suit pocket. "And if you remember something else, please give me a call, it''ll be most appreciated."


    With one last gander at the dried blood on pavement, Arlo strides away from the scene with sturdy steps.


    I watch him disappear into the crowd before lowering my gaze on the card.


    Faust Police Department


    Detective Joaquin E. Arlo


    Didn''t expect him to be a detective, but from what I heard everyone in the anti corruption unit starts out as one.


    A shiver ran down my spine as I raise my head to inspect the street, took me five seconds to spot Ginger leaning by the ally across the street with a sly smile. One of the regulars at Stynx, my colleague.


    He sucks his lips in and curls his mouth into an ''O'' shape like a wrinkled anus while tilting his head upwards. Ring and middle finger pulling his nose upwards too, like a pig.


    You cocksucking cunt......


    I hand the card at him across the street like an invitation, his mouth closed and opened and closed like a pig oinking, laughing.


    I force a grin on myself and cup the business card in my right palm and make a quick jerking motion on my crunch while kneading the card into rubbish before throwing it at the drains by the edge of the pavement.


    Ginger''s content with my demonstration and laugh for real this time with his narrow lips back to normal before walking off into the dark.


    I can feel a good some of the people on the corners of the street grinning as well. Dollar store¡¯s owner behind the counter with his head stick out, homeless man without a leg sitting by the ally ginger walks in, an old whore, a middle age man in hoodie handling a hot dog stand.


    The lanes sure as hell is a tight community. I laugh to myself as I decent along the street and held the first cab I see. Enough walking among the living today.


    ***


    Green of plug smoke shop''s neon crushed into two blinking red lights on the police car speeding in the opposite direction with the sirens on, looking like an euphoric hell. A man with the spiral of his fist covering his mouth slouches past the tobacco place, pale face embracing the green onto his waxy face.


    The driver stomp on the break on the last second at a yellow light after accelerating like he''s got a suicide note in the glove box. I lay back on the stink of overage, raw leather seat, about as comfortable as imagined.


    The siren from earlier is disappearing of my hearing range while I lost in thought of the cop earlier.


    The man either got everything he wished for or pissed off the wrong party to get sent off on this, his ID says he''s of precinct 37 which is by the line of western embassies close to Monclea. Like I said, a touch out of his field down in the lanes.


    The bullshit questions he asked are out of a manual, save for the last two. Those two made me believe he might be a part of the anti corruption unit. And as much of a joke as the branch is, the bear minimum of the unit, if I remember correctly was quite high and Arlo looked apart.


    For reasons beyond me he might be interested in those badges from the crime scene, it''s good to have someone keeping them busy. Ain''t no telling it, but what cal said earlier plus the patrol car at the corner when I was about to put the tank top man in life support. It''s either that the cops do have some bone to pick with me, or the chinks figured me out, and the Liu Jie is really as far stretched as her majesty down south put it.....


    I dial the number on the business card to my contact list. Took me a second longer to remember his name, but I did.


    I put my hands behind my head to unwind a bit while the cabbie floor it on green light the violin case almost fell off the other seat.

 Loop

    I fell asleep. Or I dozed off for hell knows how long before the lack of shock absorber of the taxi pulled me back to reality along with a sudden stop in front of the Central Park entrance.


    "23 and a quarter." The cabbie hissed through the plastic board with modified corners between us. I check my belongings one more time and if the violin case was moved before throwing the last of my change through the gap below.


    It took me till I got off, slammed the door and the driver already gone with the southern wind, tires protesting against break to realize he had dropped me off a block away from Kirov St.


    The street of upper Noch is as discomfit as ever, straying from the sinister and glamorous fiesta of Lesnaya and the sense of class and proper city design with building layout of downtown. This place feels like a hibernating resentment, a thin wall between your mind and the noise of another world. You can hear and see the trails of noch here as well, just not as blunt as the rest.


    A couple of yards by the tiled path of Central Park, a bench under a lamp pole is the only noise louder than the distant sound of bike exhaust pipe roaring in the radius. A small group is shooting the shit under the lamp light, with their feet on the bench handle or with their back on the rear.


    I stepped on the sidewalk and was about to cut through the park but one of them, the one lying on the bench with a jacket over his face and torso stopped me. The deep blue and dark green militaristic shoreline jacket looked damn familiar. I didn''t see any silver bracelets but still, I turn right and walk along the park.


    No need to test neither of our temper.


    Walking under the night and a half asleep neighborhood sure as hell gives you time to focus what to do with yourself, more precisely, what to do with dinner. Just as the idea connected to my empty stomach, I see a couple of trailers by the old entrance to the marketplace on that small plaza on pavement that leads to a dead end. Surprised they hadn''t been clamped by the uniforms in the past months.


    ***


    7:40 I bump my front door open, the damn thing was bind in place as tight as a priest''s mouth during confession before immediately threatening to tear as it swung wobbly like cardboard.


    Sense of enervation hits when I shut the door behind me. The compressed wooden floor creaks with jaded and distorted screams as the sensor lights up every ring of the spiral stairs.


    With each floor up I can feel my muscles unbinding my bones, easing up the tension that''s been piling up all day long while my right arm, shoulder, and thighs ache.


    The violin case is half empty but feels heavier than ever as the stairs squeal and crepitate through hollow space.


    3000k lamp lights above every doorbell in the building illuminates warm yellow lights at the top of each round, encouraging me to go just a little further or have someone build an elevator at the well.


    A black panel door with bronze knocker is the most common feature of any apartment in euforia but the sight of your own doorstep always hits you with intuition. Like seeing a friend that never ages.


    I twist the knob and push open the door with fortified layers in between. Pitch black and the steady beeping came as soon as I step in, leaning the violin case by the closet and go as usual.


    Typing in the code illuminated every corner of the open space with white lights from the modern chandelier in the air, aluminum twigs sticking out at 90 degrees with incandescent bulbs at the end.


    The place is as much a mess as I left it at noon. I locked the door and picked up the case. Kicking my shoes off on the porch, I put the case by my TV and made my way upstairs.


    Throwing all my things on the table is really becoming a problem, I thought to myself while shoving my knuckle brass, daggers on my arm and my ankle, the 357 rings from uncle, Maurizio''s card, empty wallet, mags, watch and pack of cig on the window side table.


    Putting the shades back in, clearing all my pockets before I hung the heavy bomber jacket on the coat racket. By accident, I found a spot under the armpit that had been worn from black to white just like all the other lines by its sleeves. Some might even think it was a design choice. I feel a twitch by my lips as I think about how it used to look like.


    The shoulder holster to the closet, colt rests by the nightstand as always. I bent down to pull the box of 45 out the corner of closet to top off that one bullet spent in little kabukicho and pulls out the Pardini swinging on the holster.


    I thought back on the earlier experience at Glasgow this morning to deem the new piece lacks adjustments above any of its traits. I place it by the violin case before turning left to the bathroom.


    ***


    I strip the dirty laundry into a basket and turn on the shower. Steam flew up and spread across the ceiling till my vision turned to a blur, hot water drips down the glass door and onto the tiles before I stepped into the space.


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    Hot water padded over the misfits I''ve done to my body years back, after the red turned black then green. Dribbles rolled down my abdomen where the slash wound on my rib had healed up nicely in the past weeks but in contact with splashes still stings an indescribable feeling, like a needle grazing your subconscious.


    This is the first time I could cleanse myself after returning to Faust, and as the water runs down my skin, with ink or without, proving they''re no different, it soothes my rugged mind for the first time too, and not by assisting substances.


    It feels like letting go. Burning a yarn ball, cutting off a knot on a dogwood tree. It''s not easy, not as it used to be. Sometimes I went to sleep and woke up with half of my body aching and curled in a confined pose, other times I couldn''t even remember closing my eyes.


    Sweat, vapor, dry leftover scent of cigarettes hits my nostrils before running down the drain. The old scars twining on my back itch as if from flaking skin with the actual pain on my left thigh and rib. Like I said, cuts always heels faster than the pain.


    I close my eyes, thinking about the events happened since last night before shedding them off like wiping off the grease and stain. Feeling only the water against my cheeks, the splashes that bounce off my shoulder. And for a duration of thought, I was at peace. Not even registering the hot water climbing down my torso and my wet hair.


    Opening my eyes, I turn off the shower head and step out of the cubicle. Drying myself up in front of the mirror, I open the faucet and cup the cold water to sink my face in till I can feel resistance when rubbing my cheeks.


    I wipe off the condensate steam on the mirror and bring my line of sight upwards.


    The front of me is a twisted mess, covered by scars and ruined ink. A loose picture of a card game with features added over time for my unreasonable expectations and a false sense of understanding. Markings of what I have committed to.


    A skull with a blank of ribbon twirling through the eye sockets while its jaw hinges in an abnormal laughter. The italic words on it grow into a grayish and non-continuous mix.


    Carpe Noctum.


    Funny how the first is always the most longevity. But it doesn''t matter if you did it because of circumstances, after careful consideration or by impulses, even by pressure and force, there''s no such thing as ''only doing one''.


    The skull stretches down into a full skeleton with a blooming rose and a spider resting upon it while wire-like thorns spread across the ribcage, clinging to it. A folded card between each slim bone of the hand with a beetle of long legs on its carpal bones.


    Against the skeleton, on the other side is the devil, its head on my right shoulder savagely grinning with its sharp fangs. Except for the terrifying outlook, its posture completely mimicking the skeleton facing. With an elbow on the table and a stack of cards in the other hand, holding them downwards.


    On the round card table just above my bellybutton, lie three cards of the two-headed king in frivolous armor, each hand sticking a sword through each head. At the far end of the card table where the dealer should be, close to the chest notch is a scale with a feather on the devil''s side, and a bullet at the skeleton''s.


    The image starts at my shoulder where their hollering heads are, to a few centimeters below my nipples where they hold cards, till slightly above my belly where the open cards are.


    At least it was.


    Now it''s an incomprehensible mess. A thin wall infested with skin-color worms and centipedes, a poster which got scribbled by kids with crayons. Unrecognizable of what it was.


    A slash from the side of my rib to below my right chest had severed the images under the devil''s skull on the right. Stitches from surgery operated at the back of a taxi station to remove a shrapnel left a horizontal scar under my chest that covered the third K on the table, a patch of my skin close to the collarbone, and millimeters away from the skeleton''s skull......


    Machete, daggers, and lead. Slashes, cuts, shots, whipped, battered, and some motherfucker wearing cleat.


    The most anyone could make out was the skull of the skeleton on my left chest, the devil''s hooves, and the scale at the center. The rest is just small lines and blocks of grayish ink between smooth, newborn skin. A traumatizing portrait, from afar it''ll look like I got buckshot at close range and the wounds got dragged across my torso over the inks are dried, black blood.


    Good, save me the trouble of removing. Ain''t nothing to begin with, only what I was caught up with and one too many convictions.


    Over the years or within 20 minutes, they stacked on me weightlessly. If my memories fail, they''ll take the role to remind me everything and just how stupid I was.


    Pick what makes you sleep at night and wake up in the morning. When it fails, pick a new one and don''t look back.


    Some ask me why don''t I get it redone, others are curious if I ever spook a pussy off my bed. The former I shrug off telling them tattoos on old wounds might lead to infection, the second is a no so far.


    ***


    I dry off the remaining drizzle on my leg and hang the towel flat on the hanger before opening the door and kicking the laundry basket into the hallway. The steam came floating out of the bathroom, concealing the slits of seam of the white wall on top of the door frame as I walk out.


    A smirk curled up my lips while I think back on the time Viviane jokingly said I could fake any background I want into this mess which sent the conversation spiraling into an argument about a post-Soviet political prisoner or Alexander of Macedon is more believable..... which reminds me.


    I put on a loose white shirt, drawstring trouser and picked up the flip phone on the table, strap the .45 back on my waist before heading out with the full basket of laundry.


    ***


    Just past 8. The street''s as quiet as it gets at this hour. When the ones inside stay inside, and the others won''t be back till sunrise.


    My leg hooks the gate behind me close. A steady breeze coming from the west pushes me towards the east.


    The square tile-plated white floor reacted to my steps with applause amped by a 20-square-meter space. The laundromat next door is of your standard image, open storefront, ferns dappling on rows of washing machines by the wall, stainless steel with the door half shut and some still has vapors on the frame. Not to mention the indispensable feature of bright as-shit LED light. Seriously, I bet it ate most of the electric bill.


    Three wooden benches that look suspiciously alike with public property lined together and separated the cramped space which is empty by the moment.


    I crank open the fifth washer on the left with an ''out of order'' sticker on the lid, dump the day''s worth of clothes in with detergent and spin the wheel to ''wash+dry''.


    A small bang happens like a plastic bag filled with air got popped, before a frightening screeching noise starts appearing. This went on for about half a minute before the water started visibility pouring in as normal.


    The machine was busted a long fucking time ago, the coin slot is always blocked, and the water detector inside is cracked so the door requires some extra effort to open at the first time. But besides those, it''s perfectly functional and free of charge.


    As the sound of wet shirts and trousers falling over and over in the drum became a rhythmical wave of ocean on shore, I flipped open my phone and fast dialed Viviane¡¯s number.

 Corresponding conclusions

    The rotating barrel synchronized with the ringtone from the other side of the line.


    A beep, a turn, and another beep.


    "........."


    A group of bikers drove by the far side of the street with their deafening engines roaring like it was the election year. The whirling drum stuck at the end of every turn, while the ringtone goes off between that period, two beeps a turn. The timer by the function wheel of the washer shines


    four eight repeatedly as if a bomb''s fuse was too rusted to do its job.


    ".........."


    The noise of the exhaust pipes lowering Kirov''s housing price fades slowly into the back of my head and integrates with faint TV statics from the grocery store on across the front of my apartment.


    "............"


    My left thumb pressed itself against temple.


    Little past 8.......


    Just when I''m about to give up and settle for the speculations that she''s drunk, at work, dropped her phone in the tub again, at the bathroom somewhere with someone.


    The sound of a peddle into the creak came, she then picked up.


    "....Hey....I''ll give you a minute to kick the shit out of me on the line for ghosting everyone in the past three months. Alright?"


    Silence.


    Then came a strange racket of.... the best description I can muster is an eight ball falling into a pool of sand..... and drums?


    "Fly me to the moon......" I sighed deeply and it turned into laughter halfway.


    "Frank Sinatra at 8. Really Vera?" Barefoot on the wooden floor, and the sound of jazz drums were drawn distant.


    "Really. And how come I don''t have the chance to kick you?" Window screen and door hinges, ''Fly me to the moon'' became the background music with all the little noises around her.


    "You''d do it already if you wanted to." Her cackle was toned with an ambiguous agenda by the phone line. Or maybe it''s just Vera.


    "It''s the thought that counts." The smell of detergent is escaping the washer, I moved a couple of inches away to avoid the whiff of chemically integrated potpourri.


    "You just wanted to be the first to hear me apologize eh?" A click came through the line, then a longer one and a hiss.


    "No. Apologies don''t work well with you. Besides...." I can almost see her face adorned by inexorable smoke as she puffs out, the pure white, king-size menthol between her fingertips burns while holding Viv''s phone. "Viviane''s enough for you to worry about." She purrs coyly.


    Surely she can see me rolling my eyes as well.


    "Speaking of which, is she nearby?"


    "Out for the night actually."


    "And you don''t know where the hell is she either eh?" A stuffed exhale from her end.


    "You know how it is. Though, I''m sure she''ll find you herself. I told her you were back last night, her reactions were......drastic." I let out a dry laugh which may sounds like a cough on the other side.


    "I''ll be sure to remember that."


    Again, I had it coming.


    The sound of the city under the balcony of her apartment and the water splashes on my end seemed quieter as both of us stopped for a second.


    "And how was....." Her tone carried a certain amount of uncertainty before it stopped.


    I laughter rings in my head, the second time she''s out of words in two days. The stars are aligned, aren''t they?


    Silence again, I hear someone''s horning under her place or by Central Park. Not sure. But I can tell the jazz drums in the back are replaced by drawn-out choirs.


    "No use leading with our chains...."


    The old bastard in the back wastes no time and gets on the beat accompanied by the statics of the city from both ends. It kept on for a little, and it was the calmest I''ve ever been for a long while.


    Ain''t it the most beautiful thing in the world? To forever an inch before the finished line, never knowing what''s in the box, always a minute before the alarm goes off. Psychological and mental slothfulness.


    "I wish you bluebirds, in the spring...."


    The sequence of the record quickens as the voice starts dragging on the words every time the saxophone appears. Done the intro, I shot down the mirror first.


    "Ask."


    "....How''d it gone?" She asks, her tone sounding familiar. I laugh out this time, not sure if it''s to ease the tension or if I just feel like it.


    "It''s done, dragged on a trail of trouble and future regrets. But it''s done."


    A light hum with a hard drag making the burning of cigarette perceptible came through the line. Frank Sinatra kept on dancing by the tail of his song as I was starting to regret not bringing my pack.


    "Any problems on the way? From the Qins or the Slavics?" Her voice sounded a touch delirious, like just waking up from a slumber. Curling the words at a broken tube.


    "They are manageable."


    "......Hey. I did tell you I''ll owe you for this. And I don''t like being in debt to someone....."


    "You still don''t owe me a damn thing."


    It came out too instinctive, almost crudely but I wasn''t paying attention. I was staring at the black and white inside the washer. Closing my eyes for a minute I pressed my left index and thumb hard on the lids till a bubbling gold and purple replaced the shade of opal from LED lights piercing through.


    Today is a strange day.


    "Five years ago we did the right thing. And we both knew what that meant. Whatever comes after will be my problems, it already was the moment I left Stynx last night."


    Again, the rumble of washer and plastic boards bending retakes the silence. Even the record in the back seemed quieter, and I couldn''t tell if it was still playing or if there was something else going on.


    Would you look at that, three in a row.


    Should hit the tracks on the way back. The flash of thought stepped on my toes and the unbearable tranquility went on for an unknown amount of time until a simple response rang through the line.


    "Best of luck then." As light as feathers.


    Too short, for this long we waited it should''ve been more deliberate. But at the moment it felt ample, so I drove a laughter out of my pipe and scoffed.


    "As if anything else would do." A buzz in the back of my head and there''s an absence of my heartbeat. "When this shit''s over you''ll be the first to know, and I''ll trade blessings now for aged taquilla by then."


    I hung up in fear of anything else happening and buried my eyes in palm for a second. Swallowing the urge to scream, I steadied the shit in my chest and on my shoulders, materialized them in my head, and swipe them under the rug before fast-dialing Ivan. Bastard''s probably still at the icebreaker.


    ***


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    The ringtone switches before the second beep stops. A barrage of shouting, glasses colliding, incoherent words, and blaring EDM toned till you couldn''t tell the difference between lyrics and beats


    A muffled low groan came through which sounds a bit more focused than the other composition in the background. The sharp sound of an opposed pitch as if a fruit can full of nickels in the air, presumably from a thrown and shattered glass. Another groan, this time less truculent, I could make out it was Ivan shouting Boris''s name.


    Then all the sources got swiped away to a single dot at the back of your head before the dot got blocked by a sound-proofed leather door.


    "Would you be interested in constructing a glass dome over the second floor? Fucking hell, I would fund it if you do." Heavy steps on the carpet made silent impacts echoed through his office and through the phone line.


    "Glass reflects the light," The creak of leather and the squeak of metal cylinder. "And let me tell you, ever since I started running this place you''re the only one having a fucking opinion on the overall. And you''d never pay for entry fee or the drinks." Ivan snorts with his usual demeanor.


    "I tipped Yulia every time I was there." A hollow laughter rings through.


    "Ha! That''s because she''d have your balls if you don''t....... Oh yeah, and how''re they?" I stopped the grin on my face for a second and recalled hard what he was referring to.


    "How''re they?"


    "The twins came by earlier and shared some interesting revelations."


    Fucking psychopaths.


    "Just fine and functional. Thanks for asking." A leak materialized at the dot covered by the leather door, and the rumpus outside found its way back. A very quick exchange in Russian happened, I can only tell the last word was ''§ã§ï§â''.


    "§¬§Ñ§Ü §Ó§ã§Ö§Ô§Õ§Ñ, §Õ§Ö§Ý§Ñ§Û§ä§Ö §ï§ä§à §ß§Ñ §å§Ý§Ú§è§Ö §ä§Ú§ç§à." Another quick response came from the source of the noise, "I don''t care if it''s Saint Peter himself, no one gets in for the next ten minutes!" The tail of his hollering got locked back in the confined room, the leak was closed again.


    "Problems?"


    "Not mine, not yet. So spill it quick. What happened later last night?" The man is many things, but one of Ivan''s best feats is that he understands the solemnity of things when he senses it as he changes the tone into a less outrageous one, could almost say it''s collected.


    "As expected, as planned."


    "No incidents?"


    Took an oath, had a drink, almost OD.


    "Nothing concerning." A burly hum, but he stays silent on the topic.


    "And the plus two?"


    "One''s the headstrong motherfucker we talked about. The other...might be an actual problem." The distinctive chip from the rim of the whiskey glass bumping on a slender neck bottle came through.


    "More than the host of honor?" Ivan blurts jokingly along the din of stainless nails sliding down factory lines, or it could just be he''s throwing rocks into the glass.


    "Not really, that one''s still the prime source of my insomnia." I stop for a second and think back on what I''ve gathered from last night, and find nothing. She''s the blank sheet in an encrypted file.


    "But I''ve never heard of anything about the other one." The other side of the line kept silent for a moment before Ivan stapled the conclusion on the wall.


    "You want me to ask around?"


    "I''m about to. But you know how my sources are sometimes limited, and you fellas might have much more, considering the circumstances."


    "So you''re hoping I''ll ask around?"


    "Blessed be the diligent, for it is a man''s most precious possession." A hum hissed at my ear before it turned into a plain but subdued demand.


    "Give me something to work with."


    "People called her Xiao. Might be under thirty or slightly above, respected personnel judging from other employees'' behavior. Switched from HR to under our host''s fold in recent months, presumably in very close relationships as well." Ivan stayed silent till I started reminiscing if I left anything besides she tried to kill me, though that seemed inconsequential.


    "Anything else?" Ivan finally asks after the washer drum rolls for the 100th time.


    "Well. The tailor you suggested cost about a secondhand Harley Davidson." I thought back on those sugar cubes on a platter. It


    "Hmph, I was expecting more honestly. Making you look decent sounds expensive enough." He said, in a dead serious tone.


    "Fuck you too." A series of disturbing short mock was cut off by a garbage truck passing by the neighborhood and the front of the laundromat bringing along a sickening sweet. When it passed, the laughter was replaced by a rapid thumping from a muffled cause. A second of silence went by, as we both realized what it meant if Boris was disregarding what was told.


    "§µ§Ó§Ú§Õ§Ú§Þ§ã§ñ §Ó §à§Ò§Ö§ë§Ñ§ß§ß§í§Û §Õ§Ö§ß§î §Ò§â§Ñ§ä....." So I incite first as another series of thumps reproduce louder.


    "§Õ§Ö§â§Ø§Ú§ã§î §á§à§Õ§Ñ§Ý§î§ê§Ö §à§ä §ß§Ö§á§â§Ú§ñ§ä§ß§à§ã§ä§Ö§Û §Ò§â§Ñ§ä." Ivan responds solemnly with a lick of haste in it before the dull disconnected tone draws a straight and bleak line.


    ***


    The pouring in the washer had stopped minutes ago, now the drum flips the wet mess inside around and around. Each time the noise of impact weakens as the dribbles on the fabrics are ditched and vaporized.


    Guessing it''s about done, though it''s hard to tell with the still evasive timer of four eights. I stare at the spiral idly for a second before I realize I''m doing so and flip the phone back on.


    Going through the missed calls is a drag, especially when I can''t recall who''s behind half the numbers. But there''s one that caught my eyes in the other half, excluding the usuals


    Pompei''s number. Several weeks ago.


    The accountant doesn''t usually call. That sleazy bastard prepped all the evidence at place leaving records for any kind with even the thinnest trace is not his style, especially after he slipped last time and got the hounds at state and the lanes a taste of blood. Not to mention, he''s got more than me as a client, and the rest would not want to be traced back if shit hits the fan on his end neither, vis versa. It


    The golden rule of the game on his ground is to keep things clean and far away.


    I pressed my thumb upon the throbbing vein behind my ears, took a deep breath, and cracked a grin on my face before dialing the number.


    A person''s voice can intel more than most think. ''Convincing yourself as the character, and the audience will be convinced''. For instance, talking with an actual happy expression on your face makes your tone expand horizontally, small differences but unmistakable.


    If the figure doesn''t emphasize his role, it would turn out sarcastic in nature, disproving, with hostility behind it, the tone of your voice will be a straightforward arrow or fall flat. And talking to this son of an African hooker and Yankee father without being there personally takes an extra mile.


    The curse and blessing of a greedy coward which is the dominant species of this city, is illusion of grandeur and always looking for an angle to poke.


    Not saying it''s wrong but if you want to be an opportunist, don''t be surprised when me or folks worse than me show up at your doorstep and please don''t wet yourself when you''re on both knees, staring down a muzzle. The stench lingered in my nostrils for an entire day.


    ***


    "Hello! Chief, been a while since I heard from you haven''t I? All good?" He picked up before the first ringtone stops. A cheerful, almost greasy tone carried by a nasal voice blurts through the line.


    "Ain''t it true. Got some personal affairs taking longer than expected...... but I hope everything is in order?" Replied with the same volume but a flatter tone, I pronounce every word like the last of a sentence.


    "What gave you the idea it ain''t boss?" I let out a laugh, probably the realist one today.


    "You called me 20 days ago. Three in the afternoon right?" I toned down my voice a notch. A short silence and a short growl that he somehow put in cadence.


    "Oh, don''t fret about it. I was just wondering if you''re interested in a small proposition....." He carries on in the same manner before I cut him short.


    "From who?"


    "Ahh, forget about it. Really, it was an incomplete idea anyway." I can almost picture the cocksucker with his headset on, shrugging it off with a curl of craw''s feet as he pictures a very different path where this conversation is going.


    "On your words, I suppose it wasn''t you who came up with an incomplete business proposition for me. And it wasn''t your fault, that you called me on my personal number, for a fuck knows what. Presuming I would be giving a shit?" I kept the smile on my face while dropping my voice until it became husky in the end. Like someone''s laughing out of breath.


    "Of course not! Boss." Son of a whore was on cue, took the stairs I built for him down like it was always where he was going.


    "A former associates were drinking and talking about needing a freelancer with a wide range of services. Well, it kind of spiraled down the deep end after a few joy rides, I must have miscalled you then....." I lost the plot halfway through as I drifted off thinking how long is it going to take for the drying process to complete.


    "Good to hear some senses pal. And I hoped it wouldn''t happen again. Won''t call me out of the blue unless I call first?" As soon as I utter the last word, the accountant continues like we''re playing Solitaire.


    "Absolutely!"


    "That is immensely unwinding to hear Mr. Accountant." Just when I was about to end this comedy, a flash of thought came through my mind as I thought of another matter which, unfortunately, needed him to take care of.


    "Oh right, before it slipped my mind. You saw those two transfers to my account yesterday right?" I stand up from the chair, step my feet on the bench, and lean forward to stretch my joints.


    Even in quality, the wooden bench is identical to the public ones.


    "Sure did, boss. Your account was gathering dust for the past hundred days and all of a sudden two fat paychecks came in. Gave me a real headache last night but I got it sorted out, ain''t no way the hounding dogs gonna get a sniff of bullshit. " That settles the first problem.


    "Could you take a look at the giving end of that wire?" For the first time, the other side of the phone line was quiet. After a short pause, he returned with the same energetic tone but spaces between words lengthened.


    ".....It jumped three different jurisdictions and changed currencies twice, the SWIFT code is basically a used condom at this point..... I''m sorry chief, I can''t give you an answer right now. But I''d put my chip on Malta." A screech of wheels turning followed through the line at the end.


    Fun fact about Pompei: He''s the biggest bluffer I''ve ever known, the lies that drip down his hole are even more outrageous than mine. And if even he is being reserved of a task. Then consider it impossible.


    "Very well. Scratch it, completely." A short nasal laughter came through before he swallowed it back. I let my tone gradually return to normal.


    "Lee, I''m not the bank. I can''t just....."


    "I ain''t talking about the bank, I''m talking about the records you kept. I know you have an entire archive, in papers, online, in envelopes, in your brain. And you''re going to scratch those two transfers completely. Furthermore, if you see any future transfers from the same end, scratch that as well. Do you understand?" He choked on the words and only pronounced a stutter.


    "....Yeah. But it''s not going to be......" About three seconds later the accountant gave the shortest answer he had ever given.


    "Now, let''s presume you did. And in the near or maybe distant future if I ever found out, that someone else knew of those money. Well,


    it sure as hell won''t be on me, so......" I stop completely for a while and let him paint an imagination of the unspoken part.


    "I will ask again. Do you understand?" I lay the last three words down like dropping a counterweight into a bottomless well.


    "For Christ''s sake. Yes!"


    It''s an old tactic of changing the mood and tension of the conversation deliberately, even the uniforms use it too. For negotiation and complying with an asset.


    "I hope as well." With that, I end the call.


    Not sure if it''s the bright LED light above or something about the way those brats looked at me while passing by with their hands in big-ass pockets, or maybe I''m just tired. The tension crawls its way up as I shut my eyes close, squinting them. Suffocating my agitated mind.


    Euforia has its tendencies. If you''re having a bad day then consider it a bad week. If you''re taking more risks than usual, people will notice before you do. And if it wants to fuck you royally, the foreplay''s going to be all tender and loving with a hint of brute force behind the touch.


    The last time I felt the ground tipping towards the sky before everything turned upside down was five years back. When the Santoro came out of thin air.

 Extra chapter: Snatch

    I duck right into the plated hallway, half a second before too late as the base of a vase explodes next to me. Before the neck fell to the ground, the 5.56 green tip had ripped through the falling tiles and thin concrete wall of the desolated hallway, and landed somewhere in the loiters.


    My breaths on skates, and my eyes are adapting to the dark so slow that I''m dodging the lines in the dark. Adrenaline makes them look reddish and purple.


    A round bounce on the exposed rebar of the concrete ruin as a small spark jumps off. Then another shreds through what I assume was the light ball as meek sound of shattered glasses falling amidst my thumping heartbeats, wind by my ear, shuttings behind me, and the rifle muzzle. Not too sure though.


    The fellows in the back are reacting accordingly now. Guess they finally figured blasting through the dark is meaningless, as the shots are becoming more and more well-positioned to avoid hitting the rubbles and old furnitures in the hallway.


    The noise of three maybe four poorly made zastava m85 firing in a closed hallway is deafening. I just hope it''s doing more damage to their ears than mine.


    How the fuck are those pieces of scrap functional?


    A bullet flies by the left side of my waist, an inch closer it would have shatter half of my organs. I bent down while my right-hand reaches for the torn light switch that is now a groove. Fingers dug in it and let the momentum drag me inside the room...


    As the gunfire rained outside, I made the mistake of trying to close the door. Took me five seconds in the dark probing and poking like a moron before I realized the room doesn''t have one.


    Pytor, god willing he better double the pay.


    As the fellows realize I''m not in the hallway anymore. A couple of short exchanges later they stopped firing along with all the noises, except the hot bullet cases rolling on the ground.


    Then came a shutting in Bulgarian dialect that sounded like a French chain smoker clearing his throat. Two seconds later they shut again, adding a word or two.


    I couldn''t understand even if I wanted to. Let alone the fact that I''m busy looking for the stashed.


    I put my palm on the east wall by the blocked window and feel along it. The shutting stopped too, couldn''t hear them over my beating heart but I know they''re searching door by door now. Any sound louder than footsteps will draw them here.


    My hands are getting sweaty as I tighten my grip on the leather handle of attach case full of Swiss bearer bonds. A loud crack of metal hinges ripped off the wall followed by the thin wooden door falling on the ground came through the entrance.


    The ruckus of earlier without a doubt alarmed everyone in the building. I''m on the fourth floor. Those fuckers could come upstairs any second, while the gunners are pressing in on me. Pinning me in the middle.


    I lean close and knuckle the concrete east wall every step I took towards the cabinets at the corner..... but all I got was dull feedback and scratches of peeling white paint on the back of my palm.


    The noise of another door kicked down came, this time closer. The Bulgarians shut something again, and laugh to themselves. A taste of metal at the end of my tongue surges. I lick my lips and quicken the process.


    Como on, come on!


    A single sentence was roared through the corridor. A moment later the gunshots rang again, recking the tinnitus back. For what reasons I couldn''t tell.


    Inches away from the cabinet in the dark, I found it. A peculiar hollow sound echoes against my knuckles.


    I take a look at the entrance, and just as I did another gunshot tears through the silence. They''re shooting at something in the dark, and whatever is keeping them busy. But judging by the volume and the crinkling nose from turned rubbles on the ground they''re only few meters away.


    I knock my knuckle on the position again, two steps away from the corner of the room and 5 steps away from the blocked window, slightly below my line of sight-is a piece of glued, damp wood.


    I close my eyes and listen. The steps are getting closer, they have stopped shooting. A stomp on the broken glass sounded extra clear in the silence where you can''t see anything.


    Fuck it.


    Leaning my elbow on the hollowed spot, where concrete was replaced with wood days ago by Vera. Take a deep breath. And slam it down in three continuous strike.


    The damp wood had cracked up a slit on the wall, I clutch my right sleeve like a glove and punch through the wall. A sharp pain inserted itself on my ring fingertip, then to my brain making me want to scratch an invincible itch in my head. It can have its due later, the footsteps are becoming clearer, louder and louder, closer and closer...


    Inside the space between walls is a climbing rope attached to a carabiner. I pull the metal piece out, circle the rope around my neck, and stick my hand deeper inside.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Dusted concrete, wooden shrapnels, cockroach eggs..... and a slick iron piece. As if muscle memory kicked in, my index finger found the trigger, my palm on grip and pulled it out the wall. Rack it.


    My eyes had gotten used to the dark as I could tell the obscure contour of the old furniture in the desolate room, and at the doorstep, without a doubt is the barrel of that hideous m85.


    Time slow down as I raise my piece to aim at the shape of doorframe with one hand.


    Cold sweats on my back, squinting my sore eyes, holding my breath, a burning sensation rose on my left palm as I clutched the attache case as hard as I could.


    The barrel of the rifle look shorter than half a second ago as it turned. The muzzle is now pointing at the interior, a figure of half a man sticks out the doorframe.


    Without a second thought, I pull the trigger.


    Hammer sends the firing pin toward the primer. The gas and explosion from gunpowder ignited my sight for an instant. He was the short burly man with a beard, and his eyes were as wide as if they were about to fall off.


    The instant passed. The shadow collapsed towards the other side of the doorframe as his trigger hand lowered, while his left hand obtusely reached to the notch above the bulletproof vase below his chin. The sound of a pig snorting leaks out of his torn vocal cord as he raised the rifle with one hand aimed aimlessly at the room.


    I put another round through the silhouette of a man before he pulled the trigger. The figure lumps down.


    "§±§Ú§ê§Ú §Ü§å§â §Ú §Ò§Ö§Ô§Ñ§Û!" Well, I know this one.


    No cover in the room would be of any use so I drop down on the floor with my cheek and stomach against the grotesque rotting carpet as they threw everything they got from the hallway through the wall. Green tip metal bullets penetrated the crumbling concrete wall like nails through paper. I lost my hearing almost immediately, all I heard are muffled drums. Like someone''s banging a hammer on a train track.


    As constant flashes of light from the muzzle lit up the countless bullet holes and cracks on it like a light show.


    The cabinet by my feet gets shredded as well as everything else left around me. I keep my body flat on the rug, counting my own rushing heartbeats. Seconds turned to minutes in my head, the present stretch into the next breath. A piece of rubble that had peeled off from the wall fell on my back and nape.


    Then came silence. The longest four seconds I had experienced were over.


    I felt like rows of plastic wraps stuffed in my ears, everything sounded distant and disturbed and so did my brain.


    I raised my head and the moon casts rays of slanted lights through the holes in the wood-blocked window. Half the room turned from pitched black to dimly lit. And I just lost my only cover.


    A couple of foreign swears barely registered by me rose from outside as another one of them was poking his head out. I raised my .45 and fired on instincts, but didn''t get lucky this time.


    The Slavic cunt darts back behind cover and as bad as my hearing now, I caught it clear. The sound of polymer magazines detaching, hitting the bullet cases on the floor.


    For fucks sake how many rounds did he sold them?


    I stumble upon my feet and ran towards the wracked window while pulling the trigger every step I took. My aim''s as good as a blind man, another round even went through the limp corpse''s arm. But it doesn''t matter, as long as it keeps them from advancing I still have a chance.


    By the last round in the mag left the chamber, the slide racks back with a loaf of smoke exiting as I am in front of the sealed window with faint lights poking through the bullet holes.


    I turn my back against the entrance and press my hands on the concrete wall. Curling up my right leg, with my torso leaning back as I send the kick straight my whole body aligned to put all the strength into motion. The Achilles''s knee hurt like hell as my feet made impact on the strips of wood glued on the window. Add to the damage from the shootout the whole plate falls effortlessly off backward into the courtyard of the building with the noise of tens of brittle bones snapping.


    The whole building was abandoned a long time ago, the moon isn''t noticeably bright tonight either but the sudden occurrence of illumination still made me blink twice as it filled my sight with purple and gold hues and I''ve never adored the feeling more than the present.


    No time to waste.


    I cleared the left of wooden shrapnel on the frame with my gun before sticking the piece in my jacket pocket. I command my trembling right hand to pull the climbing rope off my neck.


    As I turned around to jump on the window frame, with the room lit up by natural light my shadow lengthened across the tight space between me and the entrance. The way it spread till the feet of a Bulgarian giant in the dark. Greasy raven hair, fat cheeks. Small eyes behind the iron sight look as hollow as the barrel under them. I want to laugh at how fucking ugly he looks despite everything.


    Smile you son of bitch.


    Act natural.


    According to Vera, hours later.


    The man looked shocked.


    A beam of concentrated light so glaring it looked bluish, cast right at the giant''s eyes from his left. His eyes squinted and was about to turn his head to a muffled bang as if an oxygen tank leaked, and before he could find the source of light, a .40 s&w penetrated his temple. Brain matters and blood spurt from the other side. A shook of head later he fell rightward. By the sound of it, he fell on one of his buddies. As a shit load of grunts and high-volume swears came through the hallway.


    Then the light is gone.


    I''ll be damned to waste the opportunity. Placing the case on my thighs(my left hand is so fucking sore), I hold the frame of the window as I tilt my head outside 16 meters in the air. I lock the carabiner on a stainless steel piton two inches to the right of the window. The clean sound of metal bouncing back to the rivet pin had never been so euphonious.


    Throwing the rest of the rope around my neck off and loosened my right jacket sleeve again to use it as a protection kit while holding the red climbing rope. I grab the case while telling a thousand voices of doubt and fear in my head to fuck off and jump off the window.


    ***


    The wind filled my ears as I''m rappelling down. The falling speed is still too fast as floor after floor of the depressing gray balcony and stained water pipes flash before my bloodshot eyes. My teeth are gritting so hard they might actually break and my right arm is hanging there by sheer will for every single sheet of muscle on it is burning.


    And all of a sudden, I''m back on the ground. However feeling like it crushed down to me. I landed with my feet as a buffer before my calf hit the ground alongside my hip. I take a quick glance at the briefcase to make sure it isn''t damaged.


    I steady myself with a hand on the ground plated by wood shreds to get up. Another wave of gunfire erupts out of the blue from above. As I look up, a figure in black jumps off the same room I was in.


    She grabs the red climbing rope with her leather-clad left hand while her course spins half a circle in the air. Her black coat is lifted by the wind like a bat flopping its wings in the night. She clung her right leg to the rope as well as gripping both gloves tight to slow down the fall, till a meter above the ground she let go and let gravity do the rest.


    She stood.


    The pair of full red booties deal extreme contrast to the whole world about.

 Extra story: Extraction

    "Need a hand?" Vel asks with a faint smile. Her leather clad right hand unholsters a H&K .40 with a silencer and rail light on while extending her left to me.


    "I''m good .... Let''s get the fuck out of here."


    I force my leg to stand and take a step towards the fire exit at the west of the courtyard. Concrete walls around us echos more shouting of foreign language and a hoarse scream erupts from the fifth-floor window with a red climbing rope attached followed by high-pitched gibberish.


    I limp forward as fast as possible but every stretch of muscle inserts a new pain into my joints and both knees. Then, at the edge of my sight, I saw a group on the second floor running past the window. One of them takes a glance at the courtyard. All of a sudden, the pain is indifferent.


    "Second floor. East!"


    I shut and picked up the pace. Vel closed her left eye, her right arm stretched into a line and rapid fire towards the said position.


    A veil of smoke erupted from the muzzle while the slide racks back and forth in a blur of motion. She wasn''t aiming at the targets inside but the trail of glass windows to create as much disruption while rushing towards the west part of the compound for cover.


    The cleaner put her left hand on my shoulder as her sight fixated on the entrance to the west corridor. While giving me cover, I found the last stretch of the planned route.


    Pytor wasn''t bullshitting me with the floor plan he draw. At the end of the hallway by the stairs is a sturdy metal door gathering dust, gradually turing into part of the wall. The lever won''t budge unless the fire alarm is issued.


    Just so fucking happens, three steps to the left, by the staircase there''s a big red button in plastic lid filled with ashes on top. With the sign ''Only to be used in emergency.'' on top. Surely we fit the bill.


    I pull the lid and press the button. A faint vibration under my thumb rumbles then the building came to life.


    An unattended broadcasting system all over the apartment building roars distorted horns with screeching statics intertwined on both notes. And the fire door next to me is unlocked with a flat beep.


    She subtly frowns at the shrill screams as she enters the fire escape route while I find appreciation in having tinnitus.


    Inside the escape route, a dense scent of mold and uncirculated air slowly poisoned my lungs. Vel opens the flashlight attached to her pistol. Sturdily pointing at the pitch-black corridor up ahead while maintaining the pacing.


    The place used to be an apartment building filled with foreign laborer who got a bit more in their pocket to not end up in Parral. But since the southern region was differentiated as designated state houses. Most of them moved out for lower rent and a shorter drive to the city. A couple of months ago, the hobos and the outcasts still lingering around here were either driven out or thrown off the building by the Bulgarians. They occupied the ghost town.


    My legs are finally reconnecting to neurons as the numbness wears off, but the bones still hurt like hell. Good thing according to Pytor the fire exits are supposedly led straight to the west fences, where we planned for Vix to ready the car on stand-by.


    The concentrated light cut a clear path amidst the damp darkness. Vel''s hard booties clack against the ground the sound echoes by the closed walls. While moving forward we can occasionally still hear the horns going off and Bulgarian''s shutting commends at each other.


    "Vix parked on the other side." She change her empty mag to a new one in her coat pocket as she states in a casual tone. "It''s not far but I saw a handful of them smoking nearby."


    "Let''s Hope they rush to put out the fire." I let out a throaty hum. Vera gives me a glance and smirks, shaking her head.


    At the end of the narrow corridor is another fireproof door made of stainless steel, probably the only thing that isn''t expired.


    The cleaner takes point by the door. Pressing her left hand on the steel lever, the gun in her right hand raised at the door lining. I stand vertically by the door with my back against the wall, right behind Vera.


    My hearings are decidedly returning as well for I can note the creak of her leather glove gripping the lever. The adrenal gland pumps a fresh dosage into my vein making my jaded left arm shiver. I look down at the black case with silver-decorated edges in my hand. Thinking how much more should I bargain with Pytor.


    It¡¯s not remotely close to the amount of risk of this cursed job.


    ***


    "Ready?" Vel tilts her head back, her brown pupils find mine in the dark.


    If memory serves, from the fences to the other side of the road is about 20 maybe 25 meters, for there''s a clearing that used to be an attached basketball court between sidewalk and fences.


    I stretch my right leg and an immense pain declares its return, bones, knees, ankles all of them. Adrenaline did some part, but I¡¯ll need something stronger.


    I bring the only thing those fuckers didn''t confiscate while searching and press the strings on top twice, the inhaler consumed the rest of the dosage to create my last puff. Night''s menu is opium mixed with some ergogenic aids.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Throwing my head back as the stimulant kicks the redundant reactions out and off. My hands tremble, my quadriceps tensed up, and my teeth biting down on each other, there¡¯s a rush of heartbeat drumming a escalating chorus in my vain urging me to do something, anything drastic to let it off. I drag my buzzing head upright as Vera watches silently with a sober smile.


    "Ready." I put the inhaler back in my inner pocket and carry the attache case under my armpit.


    My eyes hurt.


    Her shoulder slightly raised before pushing the door open. The illumination amplified the purple and red hues on the edge of my sight. Vera dashes to the left with her .40 aiming at the right, I squeeze through the gap and find myself in the back alley of the compound, in front of the brick fences. The visibility is still in the gutter.


    The door closed behind us and locked itself shut, they had disabled the alarms as the sharp horns were gone but the lights weren''t back on yet. Inside the pocked apartment building is still pitch black, but without any sign of movements on the west wing fortunately.


    I lean the black case against fence with caution and extended my arms to clutch the uneven, moss infested top of fence while my partner kept on watch with her back against the wall.


    Strips of hideous gray buildings stood behind the fences across the street like wind eroded peddle stones, blocked or broken windows, exterior stairs, and no sign of the living. Under the starless stygian night, it''s almost like the world died .... Until a glint of light came into view at the corner of the street across the clearing.


    I squint my eyes at its direction, but the light didn''t reappear. What does appear is a flash of headlight from an import brand four seater, looking like it had been parked at the spot under the shade of eight-story state houses for as long as the road was paved.


    30 meters, maybe more.


    I let go of my hands and landed back on the other side of fence without feeling a hint of pressure or pain in my legs. In fact, two presses might been too much as my muscles are still contracting as if crushing down on my bones between them.


    "I saw our ride. Bout 35 meters away, 10 o''clock....."


    I turn my head towards where she had her eyes fixated on as soon as I realized something was off.


    Following her gaze leads to the window right above us on the fourth floor, the only room on this side of the building lit up by two flickering cigarettes above a set of tactical flashlights resting on the edge of window.


    Thin traces of smoke find their way outside when whoever''s in there dusts the ash off. From this position, none of us can see each other but the balcony is the perfect vantage point over the entire bloody street. Judging by how the two hands sticking out of the window are positioned with both elbows resting on the frame, it''s safe to assume there''s at least one set of eyes on the clearing by across the short wall.


    Fucking undertakers.


    I roll my eyes back to Vera who still had her gun pointed at them with her left eye closed. Funny, only now do I realize she''s not wearing makeup.


    Lowering her pistol, the cleaner threw her left hand over her head and closed the palm into a fist. Then she pointed her index finger at the left eye before raising it towards the two lazy bastards by the window. A moment later, she slam the back of her palm on her upper arm.


    ''Go over the fence, signal Vix the go ahead. Then run for it.''


    My brows furrow as I gesture my open palms at her. Her lips drag towards sides of her cheek but not raised, tilting her head towards the window above and resumes aiming position. I tap my forehead with index and middle finger and salute them at her. Wishing good luck, she does the same.


    Beats getting lit up in a dark room. I thought as tiptoeing to slide the briefcase on top of wall and take a few steps back. The brick fence is couple of notches higher than me. About 2.3 meters.


    Breathe in, breathe out. With a wide stroll forward, my left leg clung to the uneven brick wall while both applied as much pressure as possible on the respective surface like I was kicking someone. Then came a short instant of weightlessness, my left hand press the top as support to continue the momentum while my right found the handle of the briefcase. With my left hand as an anchor point my body spins over the brick wall, my legs almost stuck on the top but the view behind the wall stretches in front of me before gravity takes hold again.


    Both of my leg''s muscle are screaming as my lungs scream and yearn for air, adrenaline and the effects of inhaler peaked a second ago, now every vain in my body is burning.


    Last stretch. Come on¡­¡­. I put the briefcase down and was about to signal Vix to work til I realize, I''m not the only thing landed on this side of the wall.


    A stint on the edge of my sight caught my attention, a spark flew across the dark and landed a few inches by my feet before breaking in two and rolling to the faint sidelines of the basketball court. Leaving a trail of ashes reflecting the moonlight.....


    I sign the position of the Bulgarian to Vix across the street and swipe my right palm on my hinged left arm right before the bastard upstairs roars in a hoarse voice.


    "§ª§Þ§Ñ §Ô§Ú §ß§Ñ §Ù§Ö§Þ§ñ!....."


    But the shutting was cut short as a flash of grey flickers at the front seat of the car. I turned around just to see the undertaker fall forward over the open window into mid-air. His legs ludicrously wide open while the arms are strangely stiff by his hips before he disappeared behind the brick wall followed by a crack made of hundreds of smaller cracks, if you''re far enough it sounds almost like someone got slap on the cheek. All within three seconds¡­.. And in the next, Vel climbs over the fence and roll down by great effort with the gun still firmly in her right hand.


    As she falls next to me I caught a glimpse. Till this day I still find it illogical, or question if I got it wrong because it was too damn dark......


    I saw fear in her brown eyes. As she whispers in a husky voice.


    "Run."


    At that moment I complied only because the look in her eyes.


    We sprint like hell sprouts on each previous steps. The sound of Vel''s boots against the ground and the crack of 5.56 ammo puncturing the concrete floor intertwined and undistinguishable. The gunshots rang over and over across the empty street. A round must¡¯ve puncture through my jacket two centimeters away from the collarbone at this point since the an abnormal amount of cold sweats sinked my back of reaction. Hours later I would grin like a fool at the hole in my jacket, but in that moment I can only see the headlight of the car across the street.


    Vix took another shoot and whipped the engine. The howl of old tires under full pedal adds to the lively fucking night, as she drove the four-seater onto the sidewalks in front.


    "Get in!" Vix extends her right arm to open the back seat doors for us while her left hand brings up the rifle on her thigh. Her right foot steps by the shift lever while right arm is firmly on knee with the rifle mount on it. Left eye behind the scope and the right wide open. The long silencer pokes out the car.


    Six steps away from the open invitation, another muzzle flash flickers an instance of rhombus flame follow by a chunk of grey smoke. I duck down and threw the package in the car before diving right in, almost bumping into the headliner before my shoulder hits the window roller, the smell of gunpowder crank the space.


    I move my legs over and turn my head to the purgatory as Vera bent down to get inside. Her face seemed paler than usual but before I could take another look she slammed the door shut closing the dome light. Another shot hit the trunk with a dull ''plank''.


    Vix steps on the pedal with her left foot while maintaining her aiming posture until the building is not visible in the rearview does she put the gun and feet down to hold the steering wheel properly.


    The gunshots and their echoes faded into background like the knock of a speed bump, the wind blowing on the highway, and the occasional night shift trucks passing by.

 Extra chapter: Per aspera ad astra

    Rows of desolate buildings move faster and faster by us. I throw my head back, letting out a long breath.


    Bloody Christ on a spike...


    The aftermath of the drugs is kicking in, the last stretch and the jump were mostly thanks to the inhaler. But the combination wears off fast, and without it, an immense pain as if my lungs are old gunny sacks ripping itself open. Muscle soreness all over my body are all a hassle to deal with later.


    But a familiar ecstasy surges around my chest, it''s almost euphoric. And it made all the pain inconsequential for a moment, the kick of attending the impossible just to barely walk out, the rush of surviving.


    I check if any shrapnel or stray bullets got me and find none, save for a wood chip on the back of my palm and a big hole ripped through the shoulder pad and the fabric above the pockets on my jacket. Even the 45 is still in its exterior pocket.


    That should be enough to prove god is not fair nor just. Otherwise I''d be dead 5 times in the last 15 minutes.


    I check the chamber and magazine to see if there''s any damage before releasing the slide back and strapping it on my waist. I turn around and see Vera lights a cigarette in her mouth, brown eyes as clear as if it never changed.


    She holsters the modified .40 back on her waist by crossing her right leg on the left in the crank space. While doing so she noticed half of the leather gloves turned white with hundreds of small worn-out cracks spreading like an ever growing tree branches. She sparsely closed her brows together while rubbing them.


    "Your favorite pair?"


    "No, but I liked it." She curl a smirk and took them off. Stuffing the once fine leather in the trunk.


    "So......" Viviane lengthened the word to an unnecessary degree before inquiring. "Is anyone going to explain why y''all never called to update me this whole time?" I can see her raising her brow in the rear view mirror.


    "They kept mine while confiscating."


    "Mine must''ve felt off on the staircases." Vera takes a drag and leans the smoke by the cup holder on the door.


    "Figures...Feels like I missed a whole lot." Viv complains while pulling the seat lever but it doesn''t botch. I let out a cackle.


    "Not much honestly, all went accordingly. Save that brick wall was taller than it looked in a binocular......." With a loud squeak, the lever is pulled upright and the driver''s seat almost slams down on my face.


    "Ohhh right. You looked like some Olympic champion." Viviane sang with a smile hung by the edge of her lips. Pretty sure I''ll fail the drug test.


    Vera puffs out a trace of white smoke, and the car''s filled with the pleasant smell of burned Virginia tobacco. As she rolled the window down to dust off the ashes, doing so showed a small hint of stained blood on her neck while the rest were blocked with the black wool coat collar.


    Which reminds me.....


    "By the way. What happened after I jumped out of the window? I heard a.... series of screams." The older sister knitted her brows for a single second before she remembered what I''m referring to.


    "I was in a hurry and couldn''t finish the job." She said with a hint of disappointment in her tone and eyes. "But he can never walk again." I let out a hum and dust off small pieces of rumbles on my jacket collar.


    "Sounds sufficient enough to me. Those guys made my ears bleed with those cracked riffles.... And whatever the hell kind of tongue that was. I was nodding my head like a woodpecker to whatever they say until you kill the light."


    "Hey, who were those guys exactly?" Viv asks while accelerating past a lone, white mini van by the fast lane. The edge of Euforia is visible at the far-stretched end of the highway.


    "I thought I told you a week ago at the market didn''t I?" Didn''t I?


    "Nah. That was my sis. You know, it''s kind of fucking rude to mistake us." Viviane hisses with her pursed lips and exaggerated expression visible on the rear view mirror.


    "I wasn''t at the market that day Viv. You were." Vera slowly exhales a long breath of smoke as she states the alibi.


    "God damnit. Okay, I forgot alright?" The younger sister turns the mirror toward Vera, giving her an idle look while mumbling something about ''lack of solidarity''.


    I roll down a seam on my side of the window, letting some fresh air in. The tin box smelled of sweat, gun powder, nicotine, overaged leather and I couldn''t stand the last.


    "Well. Short version, they were in the army, then defected to PMC for oligarchies in Eastern Europe, when that didn''t work out as they imagined, they switched to arms dealing. Those Bulgarians are cockroaches that everyone wants to stomp on but none succeeded. About three months ago, they came to Faust to try their luck. Last week, they strike a deal with the mob which ended very badly....."


    "Folks died?" Vera asked with a mild interest in her tone while cleaning the mess on the left side of her neck with a handkerchief from god knows where.


    "Yeah. Lots of them. The mobs were to sell them few craters of rifle in exchange for bearer bonds those roaches couldn''t handle. Problem was, the guns are..."


    "Prehistoric trash," Viv states plainly. Vera makes nothing of it.


    "To put it mildly. And either they weren''t happy with the merchandise or they were setting the mobs up from the get-go. The good people of Nach were furious, but they already got a full plate of problems with the Qins...."


    "So they found you again."


    Vera says in a dry tone. The train station at the far east of Little Italy appeared for a second under the dozens of highways overlapping each other, as the giant billboard with the words ''Welcome back to Faust'' come to view at the exit, though the last syllabus had a big X on it and ''suckers'' graffitied under them.


    "And I found you two again." A twitch happens on the edge of the cleaner''s eye as the last lamp light on the highway momentarily lights up her face through the sunroof.


    "But for the record. I swear to all that is holy, I''ll never, ever do this blackout shit again. In fact, I''m going to sleep with lights on tonight just because I can." Vera let out a hearty laugh resting her elbow on the door and leaning her head in her palm.


    "Long is the way and hard, that out of dark leads up to light." She recalls in a playful tone while the driver roll her eyes.


    ***


    Viv parked the car at the ghetto by the lanes. We cleared all the personal belongings and possible evidence off before Vera stuck a No.73 on the engine and pulled the pin. The thing went off ten seconds later, a blaze from within shattered its glass and swallowed the car and a pair of leather gloves.


    It was just past four in the morning, Vera straight up refused to have a drink this time since the blood stains all over her coat were pretty noticeable under light, I concur in lack of wallet. Naturally, Viviane was as glooming as it gets.


    Half an hour later I crash on their couch for the night as suggested, and I was too tired to dream.


    The next day I wake up to severe muscle pain as expected, what''s not, is seeing Viv poking the black case I''d gone through hell to acquire. Vera''s sipping coffee on the left end of the counter, her eyes not bothering it a glance but I felt like I saw something in them, an impulsive emotion, close to anger but not quite..... I shake my head and categorize it on chemical''s side effect fucking with my brain.


    "If you fellas want to jack it just know that our employer is a sadistic fuck.....and I want a cut." My voice sound disturbed and gruff as I slowly got up from the sofa.


    "Morning."


    "Afternoon." They said in union as I check my watch. 2:09 pm


    I made my way over to the kitchen and grabbed an empty mug on the table, raising it towards Vera who does the same to me. With permission, I opened the faucet.


    "So," Grabbing a stool by the kitchen counter, I ask. "What were you doing?"


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    "I want to take a look." Viviane exclaims while jumping her gaze between me and Vera.


    "You''ll get your share, Viv. I''ll make sure of it when I turn it to the Russkies right? Don''t worry." I chug down the mug of water in my hand as my throat stings simultaneously.


    "Yeah, yeah...half of what you get right? But aren''t you curious about how much is in here." I massage my eyes and shoot Vera a distress signal, she shrugs. I let out a sign.


    "From what I''ve heard.......positively more than 1.2 million worth of bonds." I answer reluctantly as Vera puts down her coffee and the younger sister sits motionless, staring at the suitcase.


    Black leather surface and handle, adorned with silver edges and corners. Three plugs by the left side for unknown purposes. Two glinting metal file locks by the sides of the leather handle.


    "Lee," Vera calls as she gets off the stool and walks by the suitcase as well.


    "Just open the damn thing would you?" She said, dragging her line of sight to stare directly at me like a tank turning its barrel. The edge of her lip is slightly lengthened, the faint sign of black eye tells she hasn''t done her morning routine after waking up, and her sharp brown eyes see things as clear as ever. They convey a calm demeanor but not quite like Enzo''s, hers are much more steady.


    Screw it. At audience''s request.


    I place my thumb on the cold lock hinges as Viviane wordlessly squeezes next to me and Vera leans her back on the counter with her head turned at the suitcase as well.


    The locks release with a metal colliding ''clunk'' by a slight push it''s amazing it wasn''t accidentally opened during the ruckus last night, I thought to myself.


    I gave the twins a quick glance and finally, with a pull on the handle I open the suitcase.....


    "What the hell?"


    I''m not sure if that was me or Viv who has the face of one of those screaming statues of Ancient Greece. Her mouth was apart, eyes wide open, squints and wide open again. Vera ain''t much better, her left eye bags twitched for more than once before shut tight for a moment, though unlike Viv who''s in shock, hers is closer to disappointment. Those two are the composed ones, as for me... Fuck!


    "Isn''t that your...."


    "It''s a vinyl player," Vera says. I felt like my tinnitus was coming back.


    An empty platter, carbon fiber tonearm, cartridge attach to the stylus, couple of turners by the side for whatever the fuck they''re for, a pitch control next to the play button.


    "No built-in speakers, that''s good." Vera adds after walking a circle around it.


    "Lee....did you grab the wrong case?" Viviane asks with a sullen and deep voice. Eyes drilling a hole in the full black interior of the suitcase.


    "No, it was the only one in the room. And I have spent an extra fucking minute in the dark making sure it''s the one Pytor described!" I lashed out and closed the case before I smash it. Viv kicks back the counter and gets off the stool, burying her face in her palms while walking aimlessly in the living room. Honestly, I want to join her.


    "Do the Russians have a thing for records?" Falling on the sofa where I slept, she asks hopelessly. "You know.... The kind that would...."


    "You will buy it." Vera, who''s been quiet this whole time utters with a matter-of-fact tone.


    Tabbing the leather surface of the case she states.


    "What¡¯re you talking about?"


    "You agreed to split whatever we get. And since all we got is the record player, you''re going to buy off the half that belongs to me and Viv." She''s almost commending as her voice adds a weight unlike her usual intone. So are her eyes, reading her eyes had become easier after all these time, and right now the cold glint in them are not for show.


    I inhale and exhale, thinking back at the whole thing and as hard as it was, I reach to the conclusion that I owe it to them. It was me who fucked up.


    "How much?"


    ***


    We settled on 50 large. I took the cursed attache case and left with the promise of brining the money tomorrow. To which, Vera gladly agreed.


    I took a cab, went home, threw the record player on my porch, and went to the third floor. Hours later my knuckles were as red as ripe fruit and a couple of small cuts from rips on the punching bag, but I wasn''t feeling better. Though I had a more pressing matter to worry about, Pytor called just when I got out the shower.


    Forty minutes later I meet the fellas on second floor underground of Icebreaker. With two puffs of inhaler and a last-minute drink by Yulia''s courtesy, I told them I screwed up in the most believable and detailed way, save for the record player. I told them there were no suitcases of description, and I can''t understand a single word coming out of those sons of bitches mouths.


    What''s strange is they act like it''s no surprise. Pytor looks pretty upset though.


    "§ï§ä§à §ã§Õ§Ö§Ý§Ñ§ä§î, §ä§à." He waved aimlessly at the seated members on the board table. Igor, who was silent this whole time strides out of the room as soon as Pytor finished the sentence.


    "§ß§Ö §á§â§à§á§å§ã§ä§Ú§ä§Ö §Ó§Ö§é§Ö§â§ß§Ú§Ö §Ô§Ñ§Ù§Ö§ä§í §é§Ö§â§Ö§Ù §Õ§Ó§Ñ §Õ§ß§ñ, §Õ§Ö§Ó§é§à§ß§Ü§Ú!" He exclaimed at the door with a grin.


    I shoot Ivan a confused look, he returned with a nod to confirm my suspicion. Three black vans will take the eastern highway to ghost town in two days, paying them a friendly visit. The whole meeting lasted 15 minutes and naturally I got jack shit. Naturally as well, I went back to Yulia and drank myself to oblivion.


    The next morning, I woke up in the first-floor bathroom of my apartment with less of a headache than yesterday. Still, the itch in the back of my head still bugs me, reminding me how absurdly I fucked up. Thinking back on all the little details before the blackout I still can''t see any other possibilities.


    If not in the box then where was it? And if not in the box, why would they tried their damn hardest to hunt me down?


    By the drive of anger, humiliation, and simply couldn''t stand a fucking monument of my fuck up in my house. I was going to sell it at Vieja t¨®rtola, but a beep by the porch drew my attention. Opening the cabinet, I switch on the cams. Vera''s standing at my doorstep with a cardboard box in her hands.


    She got a wayfarer shade which contrast her pale skin in a good way. Oddly, she''s not wearing her wool coat, but a blended skinny scarf over a white crop sweater and jeans. As weird as the pairing, she''s still stepping on the same red bootie.


    I need to change my gate lock. I thought while opening the door.


    ***


    "Oh. There it is." Vera''s eyes jump around my apartment before stopping at the case, and the edge of her mouth rises. "I was worried you had sold it." She jokes and put the old cardboard box on the coffee table.


    "I was about to, though I''m not sure if I could get a price as good as your bargain." I toned sarcastically as I climb upstairs to disarm the alarm about to go off and get the fat envelope.


    "I''m glad you didn''t." She smiles with her teeth out, god her smile still gets on my creeps sometimes. "Otherwise, I''ve wasted lots carrying this thing across the city." She sat on the couch and nodded at the cardboard box with tapes wrapped around the wrinkles preventing it from crumble, on the side there was a small marker that had faded over time, it looks like a number.


    I put the envelope on the table, by the box and sat down next to her. As she takes the envelope from the table I open the cardboard box, accompanied by the smell of mold and ashes, is a bundle of vinyl covers.


    I turn and raise my brow, to which she returns with a shrug. "I thought they would be of better use at your place instead of gathering dust."


    "These are all yours?" I ask while going through the records. Most of them are from the 60s and the amount is quite astonishing.


    "Part of mine. I can''t bring all of them by myself." She sits back, leaning her head on the couch.


    "Never knew you''re an enthusiast." Vera let out a small cackle.


    "Was.....I only remembered having them after seeing yours." Her slender fingers brush through the unorganized pile, stopping from time to time upon a particular one. Her eyes seemed quiet. My brows knitted before I notice.


    "I''m not used to see you being sentimental." She frowns while smirking at my comment.


    "Am I? I''ll have you know I''m not a fan of reminiscing or nostalgia." She announced while tilting her index finger at my forehead. "Oh, I almost forgot, Viviane said she forgave you." A small shiver ran down my spine before I chased it away.


    "For messing up the work?"


    "For yelling," Vera states and raises her thumb... "And denies a drink with her two nights ago." I almost choke on laughter while Vera raises her index finger.


    "For the first reason, I''m deeply ashamed despite being pissed at the time," I raise my thumb mimicking her. "For the second one." I raise my index finger. "I would like it to be known. It''s never just ''a drink'' with her. And I didn''t want to end up in the middle of nowhere while the employer calls."


    Vera tilted her side of the brow, as her eyelids unnoticeably lowered, narrowing her eyes.


    "And how did that go?"


    "As expected. They''re a bit dissatisfied and decided to torch ghost town alongside the Bulgarians as they did Moscow." Vera stares at the cardboard box she brought for a moment, can''t read her face, she was going to say something but didn''t. Instead, she sits back and bends her right arm above head while the right pushes it.


    Pale skin leads the stretch of her sweater as she does so. Her arms are the same color as her face save some aged scars and stitch marks that made the tissues around it glisten.


    "So what''s up with the get up? Stewardess selection or you''re going out for a walk later?" I ask jokingly while not having a single clue.


    "It''s hot today." She answers dryly with a nod. Honestly, that''s more plausible.


    "Well, my work''s done. Sadly, I can''t stay for long. I have some other business to attend to." She signed and deliberately got off the sofa with her hand on handle.


    "Too bad. We were just getting to know each other." I drag a melancholy smile on my face and get off the couch to see her out.


    "All the more reason for me to leave."


    With a hand holding the envelope, Vera made her way past the porch and opened the door. The second she''s leaving, a sense of Deja vu hits me. Might be the way she walk or the scenario playing out just the same as the first time we met. After finding the similarities in these events, a chuckle escapes my throat.


    Vera stop and turn her head around on the spiral staircase down. Her inquiring brown eyes dip into hazel under the lamplight by my doorstep.


    "No worries, just..... feel like you always find me in the strangest timing." She stops for a moment, completely stops. Thousands of emotions ran through those eyes as her lips opened and closed. Her line of sight darts to the side and back. And then, Vera let out a smile, almost sarcastic but it did draw a faint crow''s feet by her eyes.


    "Likewise." She said, a bit mischievously, and a touch bitter. Before walking down the spiral stairs, red boots on old wooden stairs pen no sound.


    ***


    The Bulgarians was resolved as expected but Igor''s man didn''t find anything of note. No signs of bearer bonds either, guessing they''ve moved it right after the arms deal.


    I pay uncle a visit later that day nonetheless, to get a set of speakers half the market price. Since the record player cost me a fortune, I might as well make the most of it. In the next few days, I go through all her records since I needed a break after the last job. I started adding mine to the bunch afterwards. Viviane joked about how I spent 50 thousand to pick up a hobby.


    Ivan laughed his ass off the first time he saw the thing, calling me a pretentious hipster. To which I got nothing to retort.


    The thing I find hilarious is, Vera got back in records a week or so later.

 Best counterfeit of death

    The thoughts alternating in my head fade second by second into fog till I''m dozing off while the washer stops the low groans and the timer resets to four glinting zero.


    Heat rushes to my face before ascending to the mold-infested ceiling, the touch of clothes is both rigid and soft as rays of white vapor cloud the sleeve cuffs and zippers.


    Sweeping the lid shut, a low bang sounded hollow in the half-open space while the four zeros on the timer shone back to four eight. I fix the ''out of order'' sign upright and pick up the basket.


    The moon ain''t up tonight, not in my sight at least. Between two lamp poles across the empty driveway and the flickering one on my left, the dark sky above dipping an uncomprehending indigo and the cracked concrete pavement under my feet with the graffiti of a horse head sneezing. The spent incandescent behind me was the only light the world had given me.


    ***


    Past the wobbly gate and a little over a hundred stairs, I was greeted by 25-degree Celsius controlled temperature from the central system again. Dumping the basket next to the closet, the earlier sense of weariness grew passively to a wriggling, soothing numbness. Despite the pocket watch on the nightstand indicates it''s only nine.


    Jet late has a weird way of operating. I put the Colt pistol back on the nightstand and pick up the wrinkled pack of smoke from the mess on the table.


    Sitting by the edge of my bed, I glance at the thinnest hand of the clock. As soon as it finishes a rotation, my left thumb tucks the package open. Bumping the bottom of the pack made two sticks of filter poke out, I bite the taller one between my teeth as my right index finger slid open the tacky, black-and-gold matchbox. My left thumb bent the lid of cigarette pack back and pressed it down between my ring finger and pinkie and the other three pick up a match, rub against the striker, tilting the end of the cig towards the small ember while my breaths grew rapid to draw the spark brighter.


    I flicked the withered match towards the dumpster across the room before cocking my head back at the pocket watch.


    4 seconds.


    A laugh escapes my lips beside loaves of smoke.


    Still second to maxim.


    The afterthought came as a package, with so many by-products, little things linked with habits and intertwined with old faces. But I left the box sealed and threw the pack of cigarettes back on the table.


    Resting the cigarette by my nightstand, I push the mattress aside and sat down by the opened safe to start recording all the expenses occurred today, the blasted 502, the new 9 mm, the quartz dagger, lunch, three-piece suit.


    Then the possible problems in the future, the luthier wants his dues pay in physical labor in the weeks to come. If anything goes wrong at Club 57, dojo will rat me out in a heartbeat, and I have a feeling they won''t be as eager to cut a deal with me again this time.


    I take another drag, running my thoughts back to the bespoke tailor, about Enzo and Maurizio. The tip of the sparkle closes in on the end unobtrusively as it hangs on the edge of my mouth. A whiff of grey smoke stings my eyes shut, exhorting me to not overthink the look on tailor''s face when he saw the strap.


    And there''s Enzo''s fucking takeaway on this city riding towards hell on 5-9 traffic rush.


    "If they could keep it at the edge for five years.They''re the actual voice of this war....


    It''s not that I''ve never thought of it, years ago when the workshops and one-use slug shooter first came to view. Back then everyone thought the Russkies would respond more hurriedly.


    Especially when those greedy bastards are deliberately changing Lesnaya into the second Glen avenue.


    There was always talk at the lanes about who was moving what to the east or who was popping off at the wrong place. Every act of detail and twitch of thumb spells war.


    It keeps on happening for half a decade like pay-to-watch nunciatas at 10th street.


    And it became the new normality, makes you wonder what the fuck are they thinking and if the skirmishes pilling up for more than 50 months are more digestible than the alternative.


    I ain''t buying Enzo''s bullshit, but I know as well there are people chaining the Qins and the Russkies from scorching half of Euforia.


    A warm touch on my lower lip with a whip at the end made me stop writing and lower my gaze to the spark climbing on the filter.


    I snuff it off between my index and thumb before flicking it to the trash can, tracing a spinning trajectory above my bed. Hitting the rim of it, a plaster of grey ash and white rolling paper stamped on the bin.


    Getting off the hard wooden floor to light another in front of the window side just in time to catch a flash of light instigated at the other side of Central Park, close to the west entrance where the cab dropped me off.


    Some pessimistic ideas of its origin materialize before I get back to the journal to add a lousy summary of the situation with the Zhang dao currently at uncle''s shop and the other one sold in an auction without a record of its former owner.


    I place it back between stacks of cash in plastic bags and close the safe, restoring my bed, and head downstairs for a little something to clear my head.


    ***


    I cross the coffee stand to the record player under my TV. Recollecting on how it got here as I rummaged through the cabinets. At the tail of that train of thoughts is forever resenting either myself or Vera before feeling stupid for even reminiscing in the first place, just like between ''At Last'' and ''Runaround Sue'' I always ended up with ''Velvet Underground'' while avoiding Leonard Cohen, still too early.


    I took the cig out of my mouth and placed it at the edge of the table. Placing the sleek black vinyl on the planer and switching it on, I turn the volume wheel on amp up to maximum.


    First came the continuous crackles through speakers by the turntable''s sides until they blear into G choir. Putting the cig back into my mouth, I grab the violin case by the door and strap the Pardini on my back after checking the safety.


    I drag the spare furniture on top of the room corner and dig my fingers in the seam of wooden floor to reveal the hatch.


    I slung the violin case on my back and climbed down to the fourth floor. Leaving the hatch open, simplistic tone and drawn-out melody sounds just loud enough to cover the shit stirring in my mind as long as you pay no mind to the lyrics.


    ***


    Stepping into the workspace with the lights on, blinds down. I take a drag and puff it out at the white incandescent above so the place wouldn''t look so utterly bleak at night.


    Turning on the tube light on the wall gave the black debris and screwdrivers in the left corner tool box a sharp, unnatural gleam.


    As procedure. Unloading the mag, the one in the chamber before switching the slide lock and getting to work. Luthier''s batch is hot as hell for a reason. A piece from him. Let it be a .22 Rugur or a .38 Makarov, you can expect them to work as intended. Since the old man got a strict standard for everything.


    And so does the one in my hand. Lining the barrel''s end at the LED light, I can tell the edge of grooves close to chamber had hints of worn out, but the rifling itself is fine. The slide''s finish was patiently redone for I can''t find a vent or crack on either side but the smooth execution still proved it was used many times.


    Luthier went through a heap of trouble just to make sure every part of it was renovated instead of replaced. The only part that wasn''t original is probably the recoil spring.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    I sit back looking at the mess in front of me, the furthest layer of ashes on the cigarette lost its ember as the sparks burn further down leaving it to falter. I put it back on my mouth.


    Savor of mint and spice lingers on my parched mouth and itches the back of ear while guitar choir and indecipherable lyrics keep coming down from the open door to my left, sometimes loud, sometimes faint. Either is my focus somewhere else or that''s just how it goes.


    I press my left thumb on the magazine release and racks the slide back couple of times making sure all is well, aiming the shallow iron sight at the four-leaf clover on the tube light. With a twitch of knuckle, the firing pin cocks. If there''s a round in I''d be cleaning shatter pieces on the ground and off my face.


    The former owner must have the tightest trigger discipline ever or thought he''s a cowboy.


    Under the bleak white light, the under barrel engraving cuts deep into the metal. Sharp notches biting in my thumb, grazing by.


    It''s not an engraving. Engravings wouldn''t damage the model, but these words were drilled in deep.


    Casios belli.


    Whoever the owner, was very convinced of these words.


    I take one last puff before squashing the cig by the toolbox as it breaks in half, a spoonful of tobacco mingled among black debris. Holding the screwdriver and nibble the tool to insert it through the opening, millimeters from the trigger itself.


    Push the tool in hand to the screw on the left I tighten it clockwise no more than half a turn before trying it on the clover again. The force needed to pull the trigger increased vaguely, but the crisp click from dry firing felt delayed.


    I spent the next 10 minutes or so adjusting the three screws in front of the trigger until the ''wall'' disappears and the pull before the reales are restored.


    The former owner almost unscrewed both of them to get the fastest trigger pull possible. Safe to say he had shot himself at least once.


    Clutching my left palm against the grip, line of sight right above the white dot between my eye and the tube light. Feeling a notion away from pulling the trigger.


    Fast is never the point, you can be the fastest and still get send down by someone with their piece already in hand. What you need before a trigger pull is the time of a thought. Slow enough to second guess, fast enough to swipe away the afterthoughts.


    A clean zap happened as my fingertip reached the guard, like a machete to a metal pipe or the crack of a whip against leather. Putting it done, I bring up the box of 9s luthier commandeer with the product to fill those three empty magazines.


    Pushing the rim of the next round vertically at the point of the former one and again and again. The destructive words above are barricade by narrow opening, all that''s auditable is the half-awake intonation and simplistic melody that swings around the vision you formed in your head as it keeps on playing.


    An untold amount of time passed till I''m done. Inserting one of them in, racking it back, and adding one more to the mag before turning on the safety.


    Causa latet, vis est notissima.


    The metallic-grey words on the frame looked like a statement next to the serial number. An omen.


    I lean the two extra mags on the wall against workbench and strap the Pardini behind to clear the space for the embroidered wooden box. The quartz dagger lies there quietly, spider web of carvings gives the weapon a dazzling outlook but doesn''t outshine the fact that its handle made it a bitch to carry.


    The most optimal choice is under the armpit, by the ribs for easy access, though I don''t think I have the sheath for it. And not too thrilled by the idea of cutting myself. Arms are unlikely either, I''m almost certain Maurizio loathes wide sleeve.


    This makes ankle the only option. Strapping it downwards with the handle against my ankle and the blade pointing at my calf. Since it has a curved handle with a straight edge blade, storing and accessing would actually be easier this way and the rear wouldn''t hump the opening of my trousers.


    But I sure as hell ain''t going to duck tape that on my socks like a moron. I grab the box of parabellum to the heavy steel door at south southeast corner. The thing, which is fully black and does not fit even the minimum furniture in this floor. A strip of metal rebars screwed on four edges, cold-rolled steel surfaces reflects the color of gasoline under sunlight with a surprisingly normal-looking door handle sticks out a bit further than it should with an electronic code pad above.


    Ivan once laughed that code pads are a joke, to which I agreed. Just like every preservation methods in existence.


    I punch in the rearranged code for the safe under my bed to the pad, six digits later the locks retract silently. I force my shoulder by the handle and lean the entire weight of my torso on for it to waver clumsily to the other side.


    Squeezing through as soon as the opening''s wide enough. Pushing aside the hard body armor on the hanger hook on the top shelf and a box of 7.62 on the cabinet to my left showed a square fireproof box with ''high voltage'' warning sign.


    I press it open to reveal the same set of siren systems from the fifth floor and a manual switch to open the vault door from the inside. Switching off the alarm, I take a step back and hold the still-moving steel door from advancing any further. The crack on the right wall''s noticeable enough.


    This room is right under my bathroom while the whole building has the same layout the size of it ain''t much to complement its density. Three sets of metal cabinets on three walls, all filled to the brim. It used to be for the arms that I ain''t got enough room for upstairs, (mostly to luthier and my lack of judgment)


    Rifles and shotguns of all sorts and purposes leaning on the front, an entire cardboard box of stripped parts from pistols and attachments, a set of hard body armor hanging on the top shelf to the left with boxes of 12 gauge, 45, and cans of 7.62 behind it. I add the box of 9mm on as well.


    On the right are the manual maneuvers. Bayonet, machetes, bent daggers, an old leather suitcase stuck between shelfs, a .22 with silencer on, bottles of wine with labels infested with mold, bottles of bourbon with no labels at all and the only revolver in the whole building. (Yes, it''s Malcom.) Some military-grade flashlights I added about a year ago shortly after I bought the record player. And a sealed plastic box at the northeast corner.


    Every now and then ought to be items too hot to keep or of no use to me. Most of the time I could get rid of them at the lanes or the market, but there''ll always be unlucky days where you end up with something you don''t have a single clue what to do. Here is also where those things went. Years later, place''s a post soviet junkyard and looks good enough for me to open a pawn shop of my own.


    I push a series of Russian dolls at the right lower shelf aside, to start trying out the sheaths. After some rummaging, I settled for one made in hard leather and about the same length though the original design was for a hunting knife with a wider blade.


    The quartz dagger fits wobbly with a small part of the handle sunken in, but it wouldn''t matter. The thick sheath has an extra strap of leather and a buckle sewn in to hold the knife.


    I strangles the part where the blade curved into the handle tightly. Far from perfect but sufficient enough. To choose a belt of the same saddlebag color as the sheath before stepping out of the vault and dragging the handle on the way. The door swings slothful till I''ve sat back down on the workbench does it shut. The bolts automatically lock in without a sound.


    I place the sheathed dagger by the wall before kicking my right foot on the bench. I press the end tip of belt just above my ankle, close to the calf. And round it spiraling upwards so it won''t overlap and derail the result. After three and a half circling, the buckle meets the tip again. I grip both ends and pull as hard as possible till it feels identical to my usual carry, though I can''t do anything about the lack of flexibility and the weight.


    With my right hand holding them in place, I extend the left towards the toolbox for a Phillips screwdriver and stab a white crack where the prong touches the end of leather strap and throw it back in the toolbox before I lose the balance in this pose.


    28 cm from the buckle to the white marker.


    I lay it flat on the bench and reach for the hobby knife that I don''t even remember its presence in the box. I hold the knife between my index and thumb for a clean cut about one and a half centimeter to the right of the mark.


    Throwing away the rest of the belt by those violin cases on the left. I was lucky enough to find a nail corrosion by the brown stain around the tip. But not a hammer, so I pick up the spare mag leaning by.


    Pressing my thumb on the first round while the free hand nibs the nail in place. The magazine made an ominous noise of cartridges grazing each other, which made me dial it down to light tabs til the nail could stand without support. I put the tool down and with my index and middle finger to pull the nail off. Now there''s a new notch on my workbench among others.


    Restraining it onto my leg, the freshly cut leather is rough around the edges but tight enough to stay in place under the calf. Finally, I brought up the leather sheath back up.


    A hunting knife''s is usually designed as daily carry so a large number of them also have another notch to strap it on belts and jeans pockets, and this one''s no exception. With the same extra strap of leather on the back adorned with a buckle.


    Holding it downwards, it took some effort to clasp it ob the belt. The straight edge of the dagger stretches to the middle of my right gastrocnemius, I adjust the sheath closer to the front so the carved handle won''t poke out of my trousers. I can feel the edge of my eyelid twitch for this thing looks like a goddamn boomerang.


    I iron out the wrinkles on my trousers before standing up to stroll around my place like a 6th grader in flea market.


    The tip of the sheath occasionally stabs my leg, the leather belt is nowhere near as comfortable as the polyester one I kept daily, especially with an extra buckle pressing on my shank. Then again, dressing in a fucking suit and boots probably feels just as cumbrous.


    I walk from the kitchen to the front door repeatedly, imagining I''m on the neon streets, the damp metro, a pitch-black ally, the hallway to Club 57.


    The sway of hands deliberately widens and so does the space between my every step. My hands sway back from the hip to the waist, nigh to my heel. I put the image of a faceless bystander five steps ahead and made him walk towards me as well.


    Two steps we took, one to go, double the arm''s reach. As my left feet scratch the floor and my right heel leaves the ground along with my right hand swaying to my hip. While the center of my body moves forward to my left foot, the right foot kicks back completely, the trouser sleeve is lift up by gravity. My right hand grips the carved handle as my thumb unbuckles the lock. The grip fits surprisingly well in that moment.


    Pulling it out felt natural and swift as it leaves the sheath along with the movement of my mass. Within the period of a step and a half, I buried the dagger in the person''s abdomen.


    I look down the transparent dagger shining a confused glint under illumination, griping it normally the handle bents like the grip of a saw-off shotgun. Heedfully knocking its spine, the brittle piece clinks like crystals intended to. Accommodate by the eccentric handle means it''s only suitable for stabbing soft spots.


    Hitting a bone could make it snap in two.


    I think about if a broken grip''s enough for a refund at Glasgow while resting my feet back on workbench to slot the knife back in, buckle it, and loosen the belt off my leg. A round of purple strip appears on my leg like the shackles of an inmate in Garrison.


    ***


    I put the shabby-as-hell knife sheath in the embroidered wooden box and the extra mags in my pocket, the 9 mm on my back, the violin case dump along with the rest by the west wall. Up the ladders, the A side of the record just finished. And I still don''t know if Lou Reed''s talking about self harm or sex fantasies.

 Phobetor

    I switch the record to the side B and tune the volume down a bit. Putting the pistol on the porch and the pretty wooden box on bookshelf on my way upstairs again. From afar or near, it looks like a cigarette box.


    Walking past the branching chandelier on the padded staircase to closet. I slide the extra mag of the 9mm into the slot of my shoulder holster before hanging it back on the hanger.


    As I turn around, finally free from the course of nuisances I''m left in my own element. My eyes drift to the empty inhaler on the table and my mind to the bag of canisters downstair.


    The weight on my chest isn''t getting better throughout the day. Like a train without proper lubing and maintenance, to eventually derail.


    So I toss another cigarette in my mouth, light it up leading to a dryness at the root of my tongue. So I walk back downstairs to the repeating lyrics with the tone of a man as high as a skyscraper or slept in the studio last night.


    "I''m beginning to see the light...."


    Funny, me too. It''s right behind the swine bottle standing above the stool.


    Not in the mood for delicate work. I open the cabinet to grab one of the biggest containers that can still pass as a whiskey glass and have it swallow Polish vodka to feed it to me.


    ***


    The song goes round and round, the cigarette burned shorter than my pinkie and the glass emptied and filled. Cold fire left its mark in the depths of my throat as if tearing a layer of flesh down for my stomach to digest.


    The liquor''s not to blame. In fact, the import brand was dime-for-dime decent with an aftertaste of vanilla and the rush of ginger.


    It''s the obnoxious noise telling me to do anything but the liquor.


    To think about the meeting.


    About where Viv is right now.


    Were the cops following me in the lanes?


    Was the man with a missing nail from Qins?


    Who was knocking on Ivan''s door?


    Each time a peddle rippled the lake, I down a glass. By the fifth or sixth, even an enjoyable savour would be dulled into nothing but shots and shots of tranquilizers and each hurts lesser than the last.


    The vinyl goes round and round. Yet my mind''s pulling tricks on me of becoming more and more focus as the bottle went from the top shelf to the coffee table to the ground to the seam of the sofa by my hand.


    Don''t think.


    And things will be good.


    It doesn''t matter the thought.


    The outcome''s set.


    Dice thrown, cards dealt, odds stacked way too high to matter. You could die in an alley with couple of holes in the wrong place or get flayed in a basement or of old age.


    And that''s that so stop bothering yourself.


    You''re out of things to care for long ago. And long enough.


    Words recited in a husky low groan. When it''s angry, it may overpower Lou Reed''s voice from the speakers. And after a while, even the music disappears. Or maybe the tracks ran out. At least before the liquor did.


    I flipped around to a hard object at my back before it got pushed to the ground along the slope of sofa.


    A loud but absorbed puncture against the floor followed by a clean smack of glass got through the turbulence and stunned my expanding dizziness.


    I climb to the handle of sofa and raise my head off the leather surface to see the slander bottle rolls wobbly across the living room, passed the shadow of the chandelier in the air and onwards.


    I turn around to the empty whisky glass on the table, the swirling record on the planer, the distant light reflecting on my window visible by the black shirt I''m wearing. Like sculpting a well on the wall.


    All of a sudden I''m wide awake. And felt worse at the tranquility of this fucking place. I think about calling Vivian again, her and Vera''s apartment came to mind and the last time I was there it had me dropped off the idea. Then the icebreakers came to mind with everything I hate and love about it. Walking down the balcony hallway to Ivan''s office, noises from the left, laughters from the right walking closer and closer, the image of the place deliberately stacked onto another, so different but still the same. With a couple of fellas in suit smoking on the right, one of them holding the ashtray, on the left some lazy bastards holding off the waitress''s shift, and an asshole at the corner flirting with a shit-luck receptionist.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    And a women. A woman with more details than the others walking through everything. In a red dress, fingerless long gloves, soft shoes. Walking in only the way someone with a clear purpose could, shoulder length hair covering ears.........


    Another subfusc thud from behind drew me back. The bottom of the bottle hit the bookshelf.


    I turn back to the deaf silent living room, save for the crackle from the speakers and patterns formed in dotted lines that rise willfully east towards the city center where the dotted stars gather and climb up the dome of starless sky. Like a highway to nowhere, a mass suicide pact.


    I got myself off the leather sofa with some new stains and followed the trail of the vodka bottle as the stars shone disinterestedly behind me.


    I pick up the empty flask and stand it next to the wall. The urge to get another one comes and goes. What''s getting hammered good for, if it can''t muffle shit? And between a puff or two from the inhaler or anything else. I choose the less destructive option and pull a hard-cover red book which''s especially ill-fitted on the crank shelf.


    ***


    Sitting back on the right edge of my bed with my feet on the floor, I flip open a page somewhere close to the middle without bothering to read the title.


    The story starts with a death row''s visions of Santa Muerte herself walking past him every night. But she never stayed. Nor gave the prisoner a glance with her hollowed eye sockets.


    The day of Volley crawls closer and the visions double until the inmate can''t take it anymore, he kneels in his solitary cell, in front of the little gap to the corridor where she passes hourly, from left to right.


    He begged and cried and pleaded and bargained and went back to begging again.


    "Santisima Muerte. No me abandones porque nunca he sido fiel a nuestro amo mutuo, el amo de este mundo a la luz del d¨ªa. En el poco tiempo que me queda, nada de este polvo y tierra cubierta de ceniza y carne magullada y rebozada importa. S¨®lo importan t¨² y lo que he descuidado, la luz de arriba y el cielo oscuro.Por favor. Que ¨¦ste sea mi peregrinaje, no mi final. Pues dejalo ser."


    He repeated the prayer over and over and apologized for he had no tobacco left on him to offer, nor would the priest bless him a rosary.


    The days spent doing this pathetic act didn''t pay off. The hooded woman did not stop upon his cell nor did he stop. All until the night before the shooting. The inmate refused his last meal and asked for a nib of tobacco from the only CO who smokes a pipe and had a flask by his overstretched belt. Said he needs something to chew to calm himself down.


    As request, he puts a small pile of raw tobacco that can''t even fill his palm at the corner of his cell behind the toilet where he had drew the face of her with his now gone nails and dried blood.


    Half an hour before midnight, after the chains and the priest had already blessed him on his way to the final judgment.


    There and then, he kneeled again. With the back of his feet flat on the damp and rough floor, chin touching the notch on chest, eyes squinted closed.


    He abandoned hope of a way out now. A man who knew he was done for. Now, on the last ray of the twilight of his life. He asks for a swift slide into the night, and he thanks the Santa muerte for letting him gaze upon her again and again in his last days.


    The metal door swung open, two guards lift him up by the arm, cuffed his hands, and shackled his legs, keeping in mind to stuffed a 10 dollar bill between the chains. They hold him down with rigid force on shoulder and under the armpit, pushing him to the end.


    The shackle drag dangling between his legs, each click a tedious reminder of his life, the better, the worse, the forced, the willing. They announced like an old couple bickering in the confined subway.


    At the end of the hallway is a room filled with two inches deep, freshly-turned sand on the ground so the steps of the firing squad won''t make a sound and the blood is easier to clean. The inmate facing the opposite side of the entrance, with his knees buried in the sand, shall not turn his head. After all, looking through the eyes of a death row brings bad sprit and the executioner already have their own spirits to dread for.


    The perspective switched to the youngest member of the firing squad.


    He walks in silently wearing flat bottom shoes with the others while the two guards stand by the entrance to hold the door. They spread out a loose line by the wall, proximally 7 meters behind the kneeling sinner.


    Ready and aim.


    The guns issued are locked and loaded. He heard two out of five rifles were filled with blanks. That upset him slightly in his fast-moving mind with a thought jumping to another. They can''t be given details about the death row''s crimes. Only orders are to execute at midnight and the person deserves to be put down like a dog.


    The small crackles of bolt shaking against the frame are faint but audible, the young man find the prisoner kneeling with his head fixed, body slight bent forward which made he''s head locked in place, almost extending to the giant mural on the other side wall.


    50 seconds past midnight. All gunners finger moved to the trigger, each starting their count down as well as peeking at the clock above the entrance.


    5 6 7....... The just turned adult, who was thrown to the dead-end spot out of spite from his seniors recites inside his mind, he took a glance to the right, then pressed the first layer of pressure on the trigger. His eye aligned the iron sight towards the heart of the prisoner.


    8 9..... breath hold, arms relaxed. Trigger squeezed, the muzzle spit fire, and the backlash carved the stock into his shoulder belt.


    And he missed. More precisely, they missed. And he actually did much better than his colleagues. The shot punctures a thumb-size hole in the man''s left lung and a fist size one below his nipple. Leaking out half of the blood around his internal organs besides making his lung collapse.


    Of the other four shots, two are blanks, one hit the sand bump by his feet, and the other shredded his pelvis.


    The executioners are some of the most superstitious ones.


    A small panic broke out silently among the firing squad, nothing like this had happened before and the man remains kneeling. His breaths were unfinished, the oxygen couldn''t leave his nose properly. But he paid no mind to it, he raised his shaky arm and pointed towards the mural. A finger turned to a palm like he was trying to grasp the air in front of him.


    Then he turned around. Years later the young executioner would still remember his face and those frenzied eyes.


    What he said, or trying to say before the young executioner pulled the bolt back to push another cartridge into chamber and send the bullet through the man''s face just to get rid of it.


    "La santa muerte esta mirando!"


    ***


    Some pulp this is. Wonder if they spent the 10 dollars ....... I flip back to the cover thinking.


    ¡®Faust Folklore and Urban myths.¡¯


    Right. I shut and massage my sore eyes and let the book slip off my palm. Falling by the foot of bed.


    The bronze pocket watch clicks every passing second as if they hold a different significance. I flip it open to the realization it''s way past 11. Raising my head to the old jacket hanging by the window some wild idea about what I should have been doing came to mind as I turned over and rested my feet on the bed, laying back on the pillow, ignoring the lost man at the left corner mirror of the room and switch off the master control, though the twinkling city lights of all colors still foretells.

 The other side of karma

    As requested. I told him three stories.


    Three only I can recite and known to no one, about when I first found the central library''s door''s unlocked at night and how I understood a stranger''s inadvertently act may end him as well as saved a lost soul on the street.


    The second. Is about the first time I met them. How I learned to forget and abandon all that defines a person and how little significance it holds. How we could become anyone with a wrong turn of life. And how I''ve become unconcerned if that''s a bad thing or if it''ll eventually doom me. In the next second or many decades later.


    The third is about last night. The fight at the pit scored us enough to get out of that dump we lived, shit, slept in for longer than anyone should. How I went in and got out by the skin of my teeth. Scraped off some of the hide on palm and almost unhinged my jaw, tibia and knees still burning.


    "You should see the other guy. He ain''t moving on his own for a long time if not ever."


    The old geezers at the table under the lamp keep on bickering over some politicians who''ve been dead for a long time. The bartender is now rinsing the neck of a whiskey bottle if that makes sense. The air is still for a moment after I finished the stories in one go, I raise the glass to my mouth and find the liquor tasteless.


    A gram of salt fell slowly into the brown liquor as if it were normal before dissolving.


    The man by my side leaves his drink untouched. In the duration of my telling his expressions, if any, are behind the collar and the eyelids dropped too low for me to read his eyes. He kept his leather-clad hands intertwined and elbows on the edge of the counter.


    "Do you think." The man''s voice is like a beast''s. Throaty and.....uncivilized. "You''ll tell the same stories. Tomorrow? A week later? A year? Ten?¡±


    Without an answer to his question, I shook my head and tried to shrug but felt like I didn''t do either.


    "You will. And you will become a better teller. But for now. Thank you."


    He reached for his glass, the worn-out gloved hand spread out like a spider as he drew it behind his collars and downed the quarter-full brown liquor. He rotates the glass along with his head tilting left to greedily catch the last drop of it without raising his head.


    "Now for my end."


    ***


    My eyes open to the sound of rain bearing the glint of sun splattering on windows. I peer at the left before moving my head in confirmation I''m not plagued by hangover today.


    It''s closer to noon than morning now.


    With the sun high above and the clouds not thick enough to completely block it, each dribble of rain is lit like plastic fairy lights on holiday magnified by my blurry vision.


    I rub my eyes and roll my feet to the cold wooden floor. Some fragments of dialogue and details from whatever the hell I dreamt of still linger as I walk to my phone by the table to find no missed calls from the sisters. Not sure what I was expecting.


    Walking downstairs, I turn on the 24/7 news channel before going to the bathroom sink. The cold water from faucet shook me wide awake from the tangible grip of 12-hour slumber. The voices from the living room go on and off as the sound of water down the drain triggers a slight tinnitus.


    "Last night at the North Valley residential area......."


    I run my closed eyes to get rid of the dryness cause by whatever. Tap water washes down the edge of my eyes to the cheeks till made it to the chin.


    "Report of a break-in from the famous producer......"


    My left leg hooks the door shut to block the inconsequential. Not that the media are afraid of reporting the actual crimes going on down south and by the docks, they did, and the rating barely holds up to weather podcast. No one gives a blink about their own shitty life or the life around them and I was on the spur.


    When I felt a certain resistance to my rough palms against skin, I dried off the drizzle with sleeve and took a deep breath. My eyes swum to the mirror and my face in the mirror.


    Line of sight fixed on the eye bags in shades of gasoline under sunshine, short and stiff hair sticking out to all directions from the middle while some covered the earthworm-shaped scar above my right brow. I open the faucet to get them moderately fixed up into the worst definition of a side part.


    "As the vehicle cruises off the exit, we can ''clearly'' see that the......¡±


    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Turning off the water, I walk back out to the third CCTV recording playing back on the crossroad from Monclea to the Lanes and decide the weather anchor''s voice sounded less galling.


    The rain is still going on as an occasional reflection of glitter stings my still sore eyes. Don''t remember puking from the vodka last night. I thought to myself while putting the coffee capsule in slot. I open the top shelf to find a shot glass small enough to fit under the coffee maker and press start.


    Sound of an airplane taking off incarnated behind me as I started cleaning up the glasses in the living room along with the bottle by the bookshelf.


    Throwing the mugs and all containers in sink, I turn on the faucet adding to the statics coming from the TV, rain drops against window, and coffee maker. They reminded me that I downed almost a litter of vodka before sleep and it won''t reckon no consequences.


    A sharp pain goes through my left ear and spreads to the edge of my jaw and up to my temple like there''s a generator on the double inside my head until the coffee is done.


    I grab the espresso smelled of microwave and fake aroma to rush the blunt caffeine down my organs. The headache intensified for the next 6 minutes or so until my body started to detoxify whatever the hell was inside.


    Could''ve taken a puff upstairs.... About the tenth time the thought flew by my mind in the past 24 hours. Now the voice tainted a sense of sarcastic sadism. And I punish it by gulping down three glasses of tap water.


    "......further expecting the rain to continue till at least the end of week, or also likely till the end of the season....."


    I take a peek at the drizzling rain relentlessly washing the window for me while sipping coffee, thinking about what I left off last night.


    "Areas by the shore might experience a rise in humidity......." Swallow the last bitter drop of espresso, I leave the shot glass in the sink and close the TV.


    A dizziness from the not-so-sweet slumber last night still left me longing for an even longer unwind. But it''s time to work again.


    Standing in front of the city map, I pick the tape measure by the oven handle and round it on the pin stiffed at Central Park and draw the red string to an inconspicuous small church on north lanes. In fact, it''s likely the smallest Catholic Church in Faust, counting out the shrines in Disalos.


    42 centimeters..... About 50 minutes.


    Say what you want about this city, but you can''t deny how the circle line under Via Martinase made our life easier. A quick mental math can get you a pretty good idea how long of a ride it takes from one side to the next, of course traffic, blockade, nasty neighborhood, Disalos, snooping pigs around downtown need to be spent separately.


    I untie the end at Kirov and bring it to the one on top of The Market, a bit south of the church....12 minutes.


    Leaving the tape on map, I climbed back upstairs contemplating what to do before a confession. After closing the hatch, I settled for lunch by the lanes not just because the beef roll last night was palm-size, but also that these four walls ricochet too much of my thinking.


    Slipping the shoulder holster on, the extra 300 mg of steel proven to be quite a big differences as it drags the leather belts down much more than the 509.


    Gonna need a shoulder pad at some point.


    I double check if the bulky pistol is tightly fit in place before putting on my jacket and three new heavy envelopes in its inner pocket. And a mental note to grab a new pack of cig as I feel the rattling against packaging on the one in hand.


    ***


    Either my luck is turning or the scorching rock in the sky really hates me. The rain had stopped during my slow march down the stairs and the sun blinks through the dented cloud as I shut the front gate.


    A smell of mold and gasoline swirls in the bright noon''s air, breathing it in feels like chewing something tangible, something you could choke on.


    Pedestrians put down their umbrellas and let it drip down their hoodies and coats. I turn right toward the closest station on Via Martinase, or I was about to-when a small group of intellectually challenged jumps out of the grocery store by the park. They grin ear to ear while the two in the back smile at each other with hands in pockets, eyes beaming with nothing but fierce excitement. They burn unknowingly in the fiesta to come and dance a path of crushed grass, igniting the world as well as their own. Thinking the sea of flame is everything they ever wanted.


    I can tell by their steps they ain''t on anything external. As preposterous as it is, walking like you own the fucking road is tiresome and demands a certain level of focus, like circus clowns dancing on a rope. And those guys, as high spirits, are still composing the facade.


    "Told you it''s coming soon! Didn''t I say it? Didn''t I?" The one walking backward out of the shop while facing his pals exclaims. His steps wide, from left foot on the stair to right heel on the pavement before bringing his whole body around and slipping his empty hands in pocket just like his mates.


    The taller one walks out with his toes pointing in two different directions and heavy thumps like he''s walking with heels. A sly smile draws a hint of vain in his otherwise dull face before turning right to walk side by side with his friend.


    The last one in the back tilted his right foot to 45 degrees on the stairs before the left seemingly kick itself into the air as he tramped on the cracked pavement behind the other two and hook his arms around their shoulders, startling a man in yellow cap behind him who was numbed in his own thought just like the three lousy fellas.


    I take two steps to the left and walk on the edge of the driveway while controlling my sway of arms to be less abrasive. Keeping eyes on the front but lowering my head a little. Turning my body left towards rows of cruising four-seaters to pass next to the taller one of the three. Narrowing my shoulder, softening my steps, dragging the edge of my lips downward while clinging to my teeth to put up the look of another miserable day halfway through on the street.


    Did as much as I can to not be an instigator of bullshit 20 meters away from my doorstep. But two quick paces later, as my torso''s still facing the driveway, vertical to the pavement.


    Shooting a glance at the boys without moving my head. The taller one knock the arm of the loudmouth while his pupils roll between them and me. The same excitement from earlier had carried on to something else.


    Should''ve head straight for confession¡­. Gonna have a bountiful to talk about later.


    Among a few dozen pairs of footstep, it ain''t as hard as it seems to distinguish those three. Especially after they stopped talking.


    I withdrew the act and resume my usual demeanor, steps not further than the sway of my arm, moments when soles off the ground reduced to a minimum.


    A slit of irritation must''ve slipped cause a couple of passersby in the opposite direction kept me well distanced and so did the three morons in the back as their footsteps sounded drawn out to the rest of the city hums.


    But the growing pressure at the back of my neck didn''t cease. I signed internally. The metro station at Via Martinase is about 8 minutes of walk, double without going through dark alley or blind spots.


    I could of course, take the cab again.


    But spending 9 bucks for them feels too much of a compliment. So I keep my ears to the back and eyes wide for more surprises.

 Author’s note (2)

    Wake up in the morning,


    drink a mug of water,


    ate some,


    unplug my phone.


    And holy fuck it reached 10k !


    ***


    From the bottom of my heart, to those who had stuck with the story for so long and to those stumbling upon it:


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


    Thank you all.


    This means the world to me, for someone who had no prior experience or drive to write and started the story solely because I¡¯m sick of the reoccurring dream. (The first chapter, literally)


    I know damn well, my craft to express what¡¯s in mind and grammar are far from perfect. And the bad habit of wandering off to the creation of an extra chapter out of nowhere lol.


    I know the shortcomings are still present, and I¡¯ll do my hardest to conquer em.


    Again, to you all.


    Thanks a lot. Truly.


    Ps: If you have any questions related to the book or me, ask away!

 Tour guide

    Crowded scenes have a tendency to squeeze you up at folks you''d rather not meet in broad daylight.


    This route up north shines me in streets I purposely avoided. Too many tourists, pickpockets and cops. The so-called normal landscape you''ll have a hard time appreciating after noticing the small tents made of scrape of jackets in shaded corners or under the linden trees further from sights, more so if you know what the place looks like at 3 in the morning. Word of caution : don''t wear flip-flops around here in any circumstances.


    The painted tiles draw a great mural depicting an Aztec celebration under thousands of feet and used needles in styrofoam takeaway boxes. I kicked off the letter and joined the former as I squeeze through a 50-ish-looking man with short legs taking pictures for their kids and square-face wife.


    I follow the flood of people, wherever they go, I go. Only when I derail too far off my initial destination do I cut some corners. Trying to shake someone off in a crowded scene is extremely easy but the pressure at the back of my head is still haunting me with the sun above occasionally making me squint my eyes, wishing I''d wear the shades.


    Something''s wrong.


    It''s been 13 minutes. No one would be that persistent on jumping someone on a fucking whim, at least those three don''t appear so. I''ve tried to spot the tailer with bay windows across the traffic or sharp turn into dead ends but the pressure only disappears momentarily until I return to Via martinase.


    Counting paranoia out of discussion, whoever it is has some serious talent.


    I turn right out of intuition and find myself in a small parking lot surrounded by three-story-high brick walls partially blocking the daylight and a small gap between all the moss and dried paint blinks at me. A hangman-looking wire pole nailed next to a closed window with newspapers as curtain. The wire runs along the wall into the gap and is turned right by the distant gleam from the sunlight through the shapes of people back on Main Street. The place is empty, quiet, and filled with reflectors.


    My vision dreaded hues of purple and the pressure continued throughout my walk across the perimeter. I turn left to walk along the gray and maroon washed brick wall to the left, by a light blue truck at the corner with side mirrors closed but the see-through glass gave me a small insight into the rear mirror reflecting the sights of the parking lot entrance on my south-east.


    The timing would''ve been better if I slowed a step or two but I saw it. A slightly hunched figure with a flash of gray hair pokes out the alley before I lost sight. I saw his face but couldn''t remember a single detail.


    Didn''t hear any footsteps. Didn''t blindly follow into a possible dead end, and only did so when I was off sight. Shit, I was close to faulting this on paranoia.


    With the newfound confirmation. I gave up on catching the person by myself, it''s not happening in a neighborhood I''m not accustomed to. Instead, I widen my steps and paces towards the metro station.


    20 paces behind. It''s the perfect distance for gaining ground or a left turn into a kiosk if the target suddenly goes towards you. But 20 steps is still far. Far enough for me to work with.


    I left the shiver up my spine and the pressure up my nape in the parking lot. Forgetting their existence all together and walking side by side through the gap back in the malevolent embrace of a sunny day and heaving wave of Yankees and Europeans passing towards farer north.


    Across the four-lane street and a row of bollards in the middle is the horizontal street, possibly leading to downtown or Augustus. St. My eyes swayed around the foreign district as I pathed the quickest path away from this spot in my mind.


    I take the left and cut through crowd of white summer dress ladies walking at the speed of a Parkinson unbuttoning his pants. Then run a small traffic light to an overpass made of reinforced glass and bare rebars but the stairs up are padded by peddle stone. I quicken my steps to the limit before drawing pedestrians'' attention.


    And as I climbed up the stairs, the traffic light I ignored turned green. Those summer dress hags remained their marching speed even if the countdown under the green light only went up to 25. I skip two steps by an unmoving hobo with a board leaning next to his green army coat. It reads ''fuck off''.


    20 steps behind....... I took a gamble and kneeled to the left of the snoring homeless man as if I was tying my shoelaces while I stare through the transparent overpass at the small alleyway I emerged from and everything near it.


    A rat climb up the tube by a leather shop''s bay window, causing a little girl who was staring at the sewing machine on display to trot and jump, the two well-dressed old men by the storefront turned half-interested towards the scene while a man in lose sleeve shirt tilt his figure into the boutique behind them. On the right the alley between shops raised of spotless windows and dirty marble, those white-dressed swine finally made it through the traffic light, and the ones rude (smart) enough to bypass them were off quickening their paces as the light turned red.


    Sun sets from the tip of the distant sky right above the skyscrapers taunting their shining integument in front and spraying the sun light into this already glinting side street, west of Via Martinase. The fake jewels hanging by the 40ish woman''s chest and the real ones biting the earlobes, the golden rim of aviator shades lock on the bald hotel doorman''s nose bridge, the bronze buckle of a flat briefcase which looks too shiny to be real, sitting on a lone bench by the bus stop.


    My eyes traced all the little details of the street but found nothing wrong, everyone was doing exactly as expected. But no one was paying attention to the overpass, or the guy kneeling unnaturally close to the hobo while tying his shoes......


    "Qu¨¦ demonios haces?" A surprisingly clean and well-articulated voice rings from the homeless man''s throat. I knew he was awake the second I stopped by, but did''t expect his tone to be so calm.


    "Escondite." I shoot him a quick glance before darting my focus back to the exit of the parking lot alley. The man in a green army jacket turns his gaze to the spot as well, while doing so, I give the side of his neck another glance.


    He''s way too clean.


    His layers of coat, hoodie, baggy jeans, beanie, and face. Get him shaven up and he''s as good as anyone else......


    "Lo perd¨ªste." He states annoyingly.


    "Qu¨¦?"


    "Te lo perdiste cada 15 segundos..." The glistening hazel color eyes roll down and the wrinkled hand pulls out an old chronograph leather watch with lines of crack across its surface and mold-infested dots on belt. His bony index finger dances on the hands of the watch before hiding it inside his jacket again.


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    "You''ve missed it 7 times. You''re about to miss it again." He knocks the window behind while he announces sarcastically, hooking the end of the syllables up in the air. With the back of his hand flat on, he opens his empty palms with countless callous most noticeably around his thumb. Then he retracts the pinkie.


    "Cinco." I press down the irritation in mind and pull my vision back to the full view beneath.


    "Cuatro!" Ring finger bent inwards.


    The man in a loose-sleeved shirt walks sideways out the alley and.....whoever the hell''s next to me is watching. Weird, didn''t recall there were back doors around the parking lot. He side-eyes the narrow seam before sauntering along the street.


    "Tres! Estas ciego?" The middle finger twirls tauntingly before joining the other two.


    Puta madre.


    I squint my eyes toward where the loose-shirt man is heading but the small queue at the bus stop blocks out further sight.


    "Dos!" Bloated thumb up.


    Fuck it. Instead of trying to find the stalker, I burn the image right at this moment inside my brain, every single pedestrian''s whereabouts, what they''re up to, where they''re heading. Like a painting on the ceiling. Don''t try to change it, mesmerize it, and wait for the reckoning.


    "Uno." A fist on the glass. He turns toward the street along.


    An itch at the back of my head as the pressure reacted for a single second. My eyes move by themselves to a pair of green at the shadow of a wire pole next to the alleyway I''ve been fixated on. That single second, three shops and a traffic light away. I see them widen as the gray-haired man in a track coat, cotton pants before he disappears into the closest open store without making a scene. Can''t remember a single face feature from this distance but I''m sure he has a hunchback.


    "Aficionado." The homeless man leaned back on the overpass with his eyelids lowering but noticing my raised brows he added. "I''m talking about you.¡± Now should I thank him or stomp on his face?


    "And you are?" Not answering my question. He tilts his head back onto the street view while his rounded eyes trace the storefront where the stalker has gone. A moment later, he moved his hip back a little to sit upright and tilted his head slothfully at me while keeping the line of sight.


    "Got smoke?" I look around the empty overpass for a second thinking if he''s that out there and took out the pack in my jacket pocket. Half a column of ciggies lean on the wrap paper with their mildly squashed filters. I cursed in my head and threw him the whole pack.


    "Here." He catches it with one hand to flick open the packaging with his thumb and catch one between his unkempt beard. Then, he twirl the pack and raise it back towards me in which I wave it off. The homeless man blinks twice before stuffing the pack inside his jacket as well.


    "I''m not gonna light it for you." Upon my words he dart his clear hazel eyes at me like I just cursed all his ancestors. "You can get matches at any Red Cross if you ask nicely.....in English." He hums before checking his watch again, murmuring a dialect I never heard of in Euforia.


    "Then give me a hand." He grunts and hangs his right arm on the handle and raises the left at me. I sign a silent breath and warp the arm around my shoulder before dragging him up right after a couple of hops.


    He''s surprisingly heavy.


    With a hand on the handle and his left leg dragging in a strange, curled stance. The homeless man rest the cig behind his ear before limping towards the stairs I used, hard boots knocks and screeches against the glass floor.


    "He won''t give up, little birdy. He''s determined..." He exclaims as well as waving his hand aimlessly to the left. Unconsciously I glanced the pharmacy the tailer walked in only to turn around and find the homeless man''s already at the edge of the stairs.


    "Hey! How did you found him in the first place?" I shout towards his descending figure.


    "Jugu¨¦ mucho al escondite!" He laugh ironically with a crystal clear voice before it became a genuine guffaw as his figure disappeared under the peddles stone leaving me wondering what the fuck happened. To the right, the man in an army jacket mixed into waves of moderately interested pedestrians heading west towards shore or Disalos.


    ***


    I shook off the speculations running wild inside of my head and paced through the empty overpass with ''fuck off'' cardboard sign leaning on the side.


    1:11 I''ve spent way too much time playing games with that stalker and gone stranded to my original route. Judging by the landmarks, I should be somewhere west of the closest circular line station now. I can barely see the signature twisted structure of tower 57 behind columns of ''preservation act'' marble buildings, the silver rebars swirl elegantly towards the sky swaying sharper and sharper until the lighting rod dipping the sky shaped it as a drill, a nail on the floor amongst the classical Hungarian oriented hotel buildings and the glorified khaki color shopping centers and business headquarters that''d been off trend for half a century.


    Three blocks later. As the tension at my nape subsided and the red circle sign hung by the wind on the underground exit''s malachite green canopy finally appeared at the fourth wrong turn.


    Stepping down a bit more urgently than the others, the dimmer lights of warm yellow need some time to adjust as the afterimages of scorching sunlight reflected on rows of double parking windows.


    The old incandescent lightbulbs in budge black cages shines the musty, damp air in its half-meter radius. They were set along the freshly tiled mosaic frescos after the cultural reawakening project (currently the most successful project run by Congress).


    10th Street and the docks might''ve been the earliest development jump for Faust but the first metro system was the circular line at the east. Evidently, it attracts quite a few as the whole system got an aesthetic that some consider romantically nostalgic as if they spent their childhoods in a fucking underground shelter.


    The lights were blocked by the inconsistent rush of people going by with their 2000-dollar suits or 20 bucks worth of fake citizen IDs. Their frail and uptight postures are depicted as shadows on the right of the mosaic tunnel, painting it black with flecks of light jumping up and down like the night sky in a blackout.


    Crowds of people at half an arm''s reach trying to give each other as much distance as possible natheless acting like you''re offending their personal space as well as them too. I adjust to the pace till I hear the screeching chime of the red line express across fare gates. There, I bypass a group of college kids in tap-water-taste jean jackets and squeeze aside a dame on her phone standing not too close nor too far to the only card reader without a waiting queue.


    I sprint through the already cleared platform with only a few sitting idly on the benches tilting at the information board. Two seconds after the last chime stopped I skipped steps into a leap. The hem of my jacket almost got clamped between doors but I got on. As I pat off the wrinkles by the zipper I notice the wave of folks by the card reader were still in their initial careless pace.


    Made sense, anyone who''s loitering around the by-branches of Via Martinase at 1 in the afternoon probably never got anything to hurry about in their life. But amongst them, despite I couldn''t feel the pressure at my nape, it felt like I could see a pair of green eyes jumping from a man''s shoulder to another''s.


    ***


    The ride was uneventful, or so I thought as my mind was occupied by the grey-haired tailer and the army jacket hobo. Whatever the hell they did what they did, it¡¯s telltale these ordeals had been happening way too fucking common. And no matter if their ''Liu Jiu'' or else it had become a problem.


    As I step out of the Saint Christopher station to the familiar sights of degenerates and whores. I took the lesser traveled alleyways and barbershop''s backdoor that saved me a couple of minutes and made it to Dean''s at 1:34.


    The slightly obesity man smoking out in front the walkman sits somewhere between a jazz player who had endured physical labor for too long time or reversed.


    Though fun fact: Mr. Norris over there in a lampblack stained apron is a real undertaker and bonafide tone deaf.


    "Shit.¡± The cigarette got tossed to the empty lot as he rests a hand on his left knee to get up ¡°Lord don''t take me now for I am witnessing a sight to behold. That motherfucker''s still alive!" Striding towards me in the same demeanor as someone who''s got a bone to pick, grin like the first time an infant sees the television.


    Dean practically bashes my shoulder down, shaking me in his left arm while simultaneously leading me to his run-of-the-mill-looking dinner in the southeast of the lanes, it''s closer to Manche Mousquetaire than anything else. Things are relatively much less dense in comparison, but it''s without a doubt part of the lane''s crude and wicked tradition. So does the man laying half of his body on my shoulder despite knowing I hate it.

 The best of the worst & The worst of the best

    "There, eat." Dean threw a plate of over-seasoned, extremely salty salami slices, spicy sliced beef, pigeon peas, rice, and eggs lots of eggs. And they are the most delicious things I''ve eaten in the last three months even if the risk of getting hypertension increased tenfold. The cook leans back with a face of clear amazement while I gurgle down the egg. He lets out a snicker.


    "Christ, you look like a lamp pole in Vietnam, I thought you''re loaded as those posers up in the valley now.......or did you blow the scratch on boosters?" I swallow whatever the hell I put in my mouth a second ago with great effort before taking a swig of his house-made tea


    (I don''t want to know the recipe. I don''t.) in the big ass plastic cup that seems suspiciously similar to those cheap shit college kids use.


    "First of all, I don''t do boosters. Nowadays that chemical got a higher chance of giving you myocardial infarction or dropping dead on the spot than hard substances." He rubs the sweat on the apron and pulls out a pack of cured cig while dragging both sides of his mouth down and squinting his eyes in the purest form of ¡®<em style="font-family: georgia, palatino">Said it. Done it.¡¯


    "Second of two." I take another chug of...... tea to get the sputum down along with the food. "I''m doing just fine, keeping it to myself, earning an honest check, visiting old friends while making new ones from time to time." To which he let out a smirk, ash brown skin under the lack of illumination except for bare sunlight through the blinds made him look melancholy and ludicrous. Like a jugular taking the act too seriously.


    "You forgot about the part about staying out of trouble."


    "Isn''t that a guarantee with me being around?" Dean got half of his teeth out and brows knit to the left. His line of sight jumps around me before pursing his lips and nods lazily.


    "Fine, it is." He puts a roll of yellow wrap filled with Virginia tobacco in his mouth and purse his lips to send it right between his teeth so he can talk with the smell of the most expensive third-grade product.


    "Shit, now for the million-dollar question¡ªWhat the hell were you doing for half a year? You dropped off the radar more utterly than a corpse! Corpse stinks and I got a pretty good idea of how you''d smelled after you bit the dust. But no, not even a whiff left......" He takes the initial drag to ignite the smoke.


    He used to complain how the wrap paper''s goddamn fireproofed.


    "I was off town for a while. Vocation." I answer between bites and swallows while glancing up at them small pupils squeeze into the seam of a big face. Dean wasn''t moving, but it still felt like he stopped completely upon my answer as he tilted his brows, corner of mouth uncertain if it should curl or shut until he saw the look in my eyes. Then, he let out a short cackle sounding like lumber combusting in a forest aflame.


    "Boy, you''re the last person I''ve thought to get tired of this damn city, but also the one in the direst need of a break." He moved his hips and across his legs on the empty red sofa while laying his head closer to the blinds, his head turned towards me after blowing a puff to the ash-lit, dim dinner. "So out with it! Where have you been? Haiti? Down south? Fucking Las Vegas?"


    "Far from here," I answer dryly and reach for the napkin on his side of table. Dean passed it to me while half of his face wrinkled around the eye leading every facial muscle to the left eye bags.


    "Europe? Don''t tell me you''ve been going back on those wops." A gram of rough pork slice made me cough while trying to laugh.


    "Ahem. I stopped going east a long time ago, ain''t got nothing to do with them slugs in cheap suits for a long time." Dean roll his eyes at the blinds for a moment putting another drag on the cigarette. Daintily at the end of the street, a six-wheeler with the sirens on is gunning up north with possibly a dozen scared officers inside or adrenaline-drunk operator. Depends if they''ll turn left at the next block.


    "Speaking of which...." He waited till the siren was off our ears before asking. "You still on with that Italian chick?"


    "The what?" With my hangover burning like a whimper under a blanket from the siren and scrambled eggs tasting kind of sweet in my mouth. I couldn''t bang my head around what he asked, hell. Give me three mugs of coffee and I''d still don''t know who is he talking about.


    "The one with chains and nails all over, looking as Christian as a stripper in nun''s habit."


    "....I would say either hell or living the best life. No clue which is it." Dean scratched the back of his ear with his cigarette-holding hand. Leaving brisk of gray ashes on the side of his buzz cut gaining an inch, making him look way past 30 even though he''s a couple of years younger than Ivan.


    "Son of a......The brunette? The one you pick up at Noch?" That. Narrowed it down by about two percent.


    "Didn¡¯t made it, supposedly since I can''t remember. And why the hell are you acting like a single-soned mother?" I round the scraps on the plate up in a pile and tilt my eyes up, dean avoids them and shrugs it off.


    "Forget it. And how''s Ivan holding up? Haven''t seen him in ages." He wiped the blackened mark on his thumb and index from taking the last drag too long. His eyes were down on the greasy aprons while asking.


    "Much better than me, that nut job had done it all and have it all in Lesnaya." I feel the smirk pulling my face. "The world''s a fat oyster. And he snatched the knife from someone''s bloody hands now."


    "Dostov." A small wrinkle on the lake.


    Dean shook his head smiling to his belly. "Remember?" The wrinkle turned to wave. I fake a laughter just in time and push the empty plate away.


    "Maxim started it, Ivan continued. I remember." The man pushing to the title of middle age slides a pack of blue to my end of table, I hesitated for a millisecond before putting the cig in pulp paper color in my mouth. I clawed the matchbox from my trousers pocket, index finger pushed the lid off and nib one at the striker only to be met by a single click. Dean extends his lighter at my box of matches, his face writes rueful sarcasm.


    I put the dry match back and lean to the only light in this run-down slope. The amber flicks its tail onto the paper, the air smells of an assertive aroma. It reek the ground of a barren plain in constant sunlight and tastes like a thumb pressed against your forehead, with a certain pressure behind it.


    "Christ on a spike, I still don''t get the kick of this thing." I hinge my chin forward and tilt the cigarette up as slithering smoke waves above us. "Say, you wouldn''t happen to notice a fuck load of patrol rides wandering around the neighborhood?" He raise both shoulders.


    "Sure, ever since the new policy dropped." He dusts off the ash to let air touch the burning tip, eyes tracing upon it for a moment.


    "Policy?" He twists his scanty brows.


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    "Mr. Governor threw a new sheriff in town, came here with all kinds of agenda." Dean shows his bare hands as he stares, with the brown dot on filter pointing at his palm.


    No wonder.


    ¡°Straight from the top?"


    "Straight out of the congress''s gold gilded rim." I chuckle, he grins.


    "What the hell happened to the local autonomy and the beer belly fag?" With the hands still facing up, dean shrugs too before shaking his head and bringing the cigarette back up.


    "Took a mark off his shoulder."


    Fucking A, now there''s a higher chance of running into him.


    "Should''ve sent him to the firing squad if they''re thinking about change." My throat itches as the words left. Dean knit his brows for a second and twirl the cig closer to my face with a slit of irritation in them.


    "What''s going to change if folks like you still think like you do?" I strength my back at the reply.


    "...What are you saying?" Thanks to him, a hint of haste can be found in my tone too.


    Dean looks at me with the ferocity of a man in wrong. Opens his mouth till the teeth grin out then closes them as he pucks them lips at the left corner of his mouth as if swallowing a melting capsule. Eyes wandering off my vision on purpose. Between my usual tendency and curiosity, I choose the latter out of ...whatever friendship means to me nowadays and wait.


    A couple of seconds, few inhales, still head, unmoving wave in his eyes when he finally decided to meet mine.


    "Ain''t nothing''s going to change." Pretty fucking obvious.... "Because of you people." The wrinkle on the pond shifts the color of surface, from sapphire blue of the coast to the asphalt black of further Pacific.


    "...Okay. You lost me." I still tried to crack a smirk on my face, as out of character as it is for me. "What people?"


    "I...Forget about it, Lee. Never mind that." A vein at the side of my head hurts like a snap as sudden anger under the rug creeps out.


    "Forget what. ''Folks like me''?......Fucking hell Dean, who do you think I am?" Dean''s mouth twitches before shutting them tight and waving his head at the kitchen.


    Dean was the only one of the people I associated with who had a relatively normal life. But before that happened.....


    Folks like me?


    The last few functioning cells in my head urge me to take a puff, the rest had me made a dry laughter unwillingly.


    "Hey, Dean.... Just realized I''ve never asked before. What got you leaving in the first place?"


    The cook widened his eyes as the drag of smirk by the cheek disappeared, along with all the little lines across his face. I take another puff and let the whitish gray brighten the room a little as slim rays of sunlight embodied them like fireflies in bedsheet.


    The initial amazement and defensive reflexes in his eyes passed into a calm almost aloof attitude. He looked away, across checkered floor covered in marks of spilled beer, grease, and corrosion from self made detergent. Probably at the counter before the kitchen, behind the cashier.


    "Do you remember, days before your fight with that piss-colored fool?" He rubs the middle finger across the temple suggesting what he''s referring to. "When the fellas were shooting the shit on the street, by the......"


    "Glen. You horn dogs just had a go, we caught a bus, made a scene, got out by Central Park on Kirov. St" Dean blinked twice before nodding in the smallest motion like having a seizure.


    "Well, did you notice something wrong?" He asks as if someone''s life depends on my answer. I remember everything back in the day, but hell was I dense back then. All I got for his inquiry was a shake of head.


    "I was in no condition to be perceptive." Dean snickers with a grin, his eyes jump to the empty plate in front of me.


    "You didn''t notice I was dead silent after the booth?" I take a drag out of habit.


    "Thought you were exhausted. You spent longer than everyone else, we thought you called room service to sustain your stay." I smile, the best I can. He does as well before whiffs of smoke escape his teeth.


    "I had a.....long talk with kitten after we finished." I tried to laugh and it came out a hum. "It was her last night. She made it, she actually got that fairweather-looking fuck to agree on a price. And she paid it off, Lee. She did it."


    "Good for her." I bite down on the yellow paper wrap and raise that plastic cup of tea into the air. Dean makes nothing of it and continues.


    "She said, she''s leaving the city tomorrow. But she won''t tell me where. I suppose that''s fair. But she did say she''s going somewhere cold. Had enough of humid nights, probably." Dean takes a second to put down his cigarette on the edge of my empty plate as a tinker of ash fell. His eyes beckoned like an elder gazing upon and beyond the shoreline.


    "And she said." The outline of his chin tightens as he closes his mouth temporarily.


    "Said. ''Nobody''s meant to live in this city.''"


    Spot on.


    "The words stuck with me, for days. At first, it felt like the stupidest thing in the world." Dean let out a grin. "I even thought about asking professor Dostov over here what the hell was that whore yapping about." I squeeze out a smile, not sure if he can see it through the smoke rising from his cigarette between us.


    "A week or so later. You fought in the pit. ''The highest betting of the last five years''. Like it''s a ball game or some.......You know I''m not a fan of that place, too much degenerate gathered in one place will produce a smell. But of course, I was there with the gang." He picked the cigarette back into his mouth, finished the last inch, stuck another one in, and gave the half gone one between my fingers a glance. "That day, I''m not sure if you noticed. But that Russian prick was on the second floor, close to me and the others." Dean raises the tip of the cig at me then shrugs off his own question.


    Of course I noticed. He told me and Ivan he would be there.


    "When you entered the ring, I couldn''t recognize you." A drag. "I''ve seen you in the pit, but I knew that night was different. It was more than the boosters, hell I was getting more used to you being high than not." A puff. "But it was something else, you..... radiates a message. There was more than frenzy in yours and Ivan''s eyes. It was an assuredness. You knew you belong there, here. Doing what you were doing..... and the more you do. The deeper you gone the more it arouses everyone by the pit..... heh! I was shutting you to kill the poor son of a bitch with the rest at the end." A sly smile sits at the crossroads of loathing and pity, it gazes upon the world before and the man across the table.


    I took a drag that lasted the last of my cigarettes until the chain of ashes resembled an impotent man. Dean passed me the pack, teared lid towards me with the last''s filter sticking out catching the beam of sunlight through the blinds on its golden wrap paper.


    I sway my palm to decline it before placing my elbows on the table, eyes lock an inch under his.


    "That got you decided? That you had enough?" I ask. Well, I try to ask without sounding sardonic. Dean holds back the pack and pulls the last one off shimmers of broken, dry tobacco before he realizes the one in his mouth''s still burning.


    "Not entirely. But it connected the dots." The cinder tilting in front of his mouth burns bright red in tainted black as he inhales deeply.


    "Kitten was wrong. You, my friend. Fellas like you are meant for this city and the rest will eventually turn into you or get thrown into an early grave fill with concrete above......" Dean speaks in a rhythmic tone, like he practiced it over and over in his head to which words translate to songs as he gets deliberately louder.


    The ripple on the lake turned into a tsunami. I look up. Not sure how I''d look in my eyes, but it got Dean to lean back on his seat.


    Calm down.


    Feeling like someone spilt my head with an axe and I told myself while it sounded like I''m taunting myself. Breathe in and breathe out. Continue. The storm didn''t stop, but I continued talking with one of the oldest friends I''ve ever known.


    "Not concrete. Above the casket, there''s soil, whisky, beer, and vodka...... Every couple of months, sometimes I couldn''t find the time for almost half a year, some nights I slept there. It ain''t much, but it is not concrete or rebar or ash." I rest my left arm behind the sofa and the other over the window and drag a blade of blind down to let the outside world peek in. First, in a long time, I wished for the bitter sunlight, at least I would''ve know how to deal with it.


    I see you as lots of things but never through resentment.


    "Tell me." Please. "If you think that way. Why don''t you just bounce off north to catch a fresh one?" Dean darts his transfixed glance at me and laughs without a smile.


    "Look around."


    He opened his empty palms with a comical surprised face like those half-a-decade-old ads that fooled the rest of the world to come here.


    "How would I ever want to leave?"


    He sings while gazing over the dead restaurant, empty chairs, stained floor, newly installed fans with rusty hinges, confined counter, cramped kitchen behind notes of unattended orders like paper dolls holding hands, the bent cardboard sign saying the place will be close for the week hanging by the entrance double door and steel locks on them which looks too glistening compare to everything else. Should count him in the bunch as well.


    The city doesn''t sleep, despite wanting to.


    Smiling the most genuine smile in amusement while getting off the red sofa with rips and tears over the sewing. I pulled out my wallet and left a 20 bill on the table.


    "I hold no grudges against you. And I hope you neither... and that you left just because you were a pussy." My line of sight traces off his index finger drumming against the edges of the empty plate pushed away. I can''t read his face, nor the grin.


    "Go to hell Dostov."


    "It''s Scheduled.¡± I said while opening the door, outside''s too bright for me to see his expression on the window.

 The smallest church

    I lay upon the asphalt roads gilded by the afternoon sunshine. The uneven white lines of parking space by the pavement inbound the radiant like blocks of concentrated grounds by the cemetery.


    This is Parral. North border of the lanes, of Faust, where nothing happens. Inappropriate city design led to the outskirts west of the luxurious valley of Monclea just a shallow slope away turned into a small village. Initially, after the first wave of immigrant workers failed to buy a place to sleep by the shore or the central train station and the housing plans were nowhere in sight at the time.


    Where used to be a three football fields in size, of barren sand and broken rocks, transformed into horizontally placed, five blocks of bungalow thanks to sloppy ownership restrictions.


    From the older generations and their father''s occasional reminiscences over dogmatic systems, they remembered it was not until the idea of Monclea came to be do they had to relocate again. Since the construction of an entire bloody mountain slope would sure as hell raise the pricing up north, the entire north. Which includes Parral.


    After dozens of recorded protests that ended in rubbishes and botched helmets all over the road, the residents gave up in hope of the public housing project down south of Nochnaya ain''t a pile of horse shit.


    In truth it wasn''t, even though construction took a couple of months longer than promised but the congress delivered and the residents are more than thrilled to relocate to a place much closer to downtown and the docks where most of them will work in building the columns and rows of skyscrapers bridging towards the sun.


    And so the narrow seam between iron ladders climbing onto red bricks, and pillars under the breeze block pavilion. Parral was reduced to two vertical streets before the road stretches to a curved highway across the slope, to the back of the mountain where none of the shit on the other side matters.


    Fun fact: The road doesn''t have a speed limit. As Viv nicknamed it Indianapolis speed away.


    You''d think all is happy in this arrangement, which is not far from true. But a small detail everyone overlooked is that the congress never mentioned converting Parral into a part of Monclea. They just didn''t want the prime residential area to be right next to bungalows infested by the poor. And since they can''t think of a better way to utilize the plain. They perfunctorily mark it as public cemetery.


    The cursed irony is both disgusting and hilarious as the size of ''Parral'' grew involuntarily towards the north. Dojo once estimated within a decade. The well-fed preferred folks will see hundreds of tombs grow like daylily in the edge of their backyard.


    As for the last street of Parral, it had become a part of the lanes a decade ago. And on the verge of everything, in front of a small tranquil plaza lies the smallest church in Euforia. It welcomes all, though some more than others.


    ***


    The broad daylight of napalm sky at three in the afternoon flooded the celadon blue sea at the furthest reach of the street to my left as Parral lengthens at the border of Faust all the way to the shoreline. But the perfect white wall pressing down on the horizon couple of hours away notes it will catch the city before the moon does.


    Between the shimmering, single dot of blue and the burning saffron sun engraved by thin traces of cloud it bestowed them the same graces until the entire corner of my eye dialed the same.


    And in between them, in front of me. A couple of barefooted kids are playing football using two chalk white frames on a steel rolling door on either side of the trapezoid plaza as gates. Each time one of them breaks through the other side''s defenses and intentional trips and pulls to score a resounding shot that echos against metal like a gunshot traveling afar. One of the two middle-aged women sitting by the exterior stairs up the rooftop addition of old, blue bungalows would spit some of the most vile Spanish curses at them for disrupting the afternoon broadcast on the radio.


    Some call it here the most peaceful part of Euforia. Without anything worthwhile for the grips of chancers and scoundrels. Sitting behind the massive and ever growing graveyard, facing the ocean, the lanes beckoning across the street. Kids go to catholic schools five stations away in downtown, folks get by, old man visits the graveyard, the young works night to five at east, and wives find ways to entertain themselves.


    Nothing ever happens here.


    I walk around the plaza in the pine tree''s shadows. The marble floor of eggshell white registered my steps as clearly as everyone else''s except the 11 kids in the middle. Just like the peeled cadet grey eyes at the top corner of the plaza had his eyes on me ever since I made the last turned.


    The heat radiates from everything in this coast neighborhood, I can feel sheens of sweat on my neck even under the jagged shades and with sporadic breezes from electric fans on the counter of family-run restaurants and air conditioners on the walls of indoor stalls selling chocolate cups and cherry moonshines.


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Five meters away, the rows of pine trees loosely planted by the twin edge of the plaza stop at the front of a church sitting at the far end as eyes take you within the zone.


    It''s made of dirty stones and washed wooden beams. The outlines were first sharpened by the rain before sea breezes yielded them smooth as waxed. The building''s small in any sense of word, about three times my arm''s reach if standing in the middle, 10 steps at most. Not a window in sight from this angle.


    The exterior''s a grayish to put it nicely considering the broken tiles are white once. So was the cross at the tip of the tower, the uneven walls of granite, locked and held in place by the thoughtfully placed timber supports around the church like a net over a slope of rolling rocks. It somehow looks as sturdy as it is fragile. Just like the man sitting two stairs on top of the plaza with a pair of scythe eyes. His hands rest upon his knees.


    ***


    "Good day to you." I take the initiate step, and the bold man nods a very low nod in return but without any sense of politeness. As he does so, it is impossible to see past there are no traces of hair follicles on top. In fact, there''s no a trace of bodyhair on his face except two sparse lines of brow the color of his eyes.


    "As to you." Distorted. That''s all you could think about as he utters. This freak could keep any unwanted guests out of the grace of lord''s five meter radius by returning a greeting.


    "Are you here to exchange a prayer?"


    "I''m here for he who receives them." The featureless face moves forward as if it''s floating in the air.


    "For your sins, merc?" The left corner of my eyes twitched as I thought about the prospect of public execution at this fine hour.


    "For my conceit actions against the lord, yes." I let the words out of my mouth while feeling an obnoxious animus running wild in my chest.


    You pathetic fanatic.


    The bald man stands up with a smile that defies your knowledge of facial muscles. He''s at least a head taller and on top of the stairs, that childish pale face blocks out half of my sky as if tearing the middle of a deliberate painting on canvas into a gaping nothingness.


    He lowers his head in front of the double wooden door about three steps away and extends his slender arms to push the left one open with his body leaning forward but feet planted as if not daring to walk any closer.


    The squeaks like thunder with a smell of incense coming out of the pitch black inside of the church. Everyone heard it, but I couldn''t feel any pressure on the back of my neck or shiver down my spine. The daily of parral continues as I dive into the narrow gateway.


    Nothing ever happens here.


    ***


    One strained ray of light filtered by stacks of dust in the air, the dirtied, only window in the house of god is sculpted right above the cross on the alter 15 steps away, the polluted yellow light just so well blocked the face of the poor son of a gun nailed on it and lit a pathway between two rows of waxed wooden benches, some padded with red velvet, some not.


    Besides the extinguish chamber sticks with coagulated lard reaching down, in the dark corner to the left is a heavy wooden door with iron rebars on hinges and bolts around the keyhole. It''s shut if not forever as its characteristic confides.


    The old tiles on the ground absorb steps from soft-sole sneakers and announce it through the cramped space like a door chime on the rim of a coffin. I walk through the benches in an awkward, almost crouching posture for there''s no space left on either side.


    About three lumps to the east wall close to the corner is the confessional.


    Old as the fake testament of dogmas.


    Two identical panel doors sit aside the one in the middle adorned by a single cross carved into existence. It spread from top to knee height, from one''s handle to the other''s hinge.


    Blessed be the wavering heart, for I thought it was a hut the first time I saw it.


    I crack my joints and stretch my leg before pulling the panel door on the right open. The thing appears not as sturdy as it feels.


    Inside, is a red cushion on the seat that took half the space. The interior walls are entirely covered by wooden panels, there are no blinds or curtains or grilles between rooms. Just a small ventilation seam blocked by bars on top of the wall to the priest''s.


    Just below it is a slender counter like the ones in stall coffee shops, with a wavering candlelight on one end, and a pack of cigarettes by the seat. Both brand new.


    I close the door behind me and let the flickering light the size of a knuckle and restricted sense of halo on top be the only lighting. I can barely see my fingertips as I rest my right arm on the board.


    ***


    The smell of incense and heat around citrus is all there is besides me. The 1 square meter box is dead silence without the city forever next to me. Fitting. This place is for you, your sins, the lord, and about half of the city''s most vile secrets.


    I concentrate the questions that''s been piling up inside my head and deduct them into something plainer. The priest next door waited, if you wanted to stay in this booth for half a day without uttering or lighting the cigarette, he would''ve waited as well. Doing god knows what.


    Time is irrelevant here, so I take mine in spades to contemplate the question marks left by my footsteps in these few days and the meeting two days away.


    The emperor''s baby girl got a little fight in her spirit and more than a complaint about the way things are. So she set up a meeting in a couple of days, in a mutually agreed position which just so happens to complicate things further especially after I went to the dojo yesterday.


    Japs, Qins, Russkies...... too many sharks under the same roof is never going to end too well. Throwing myself into the pot might just be the flicker to set the shitstorm on fire. Other than those, there''s still the personal spies of the old emperor creeping around like shit under boots. Plus a whole that of ominous misbehaves here and there.


    But my goal, now that I''m neck-deep in, is to be the goddamn mediator. Which means everyone''s peace of mind, body and soul during that time is my priority.


    Unconsciously, I''ve put my arms on my knees and lowered my head to the candle''s height like a true pennant. I straightened my back and neck before the guy upstairs got the wrong idea and started taking a good look at what this one''s done.


    Qin Yan ain''t going to try anything at this Friday. That is certain, she''d pathed the red carpet at our doorsteps if needed; Xiao is...... strange to put it in embellishment, she acts overly protective of someone who, in her words had only been in touch with her for less than a year. Not to mention her personality as a bodyguard is as fitting as me being a therapist.....


    Shit.... And how can I forget about Nan-Shi-Pei? The man of the hour and the reason I''m in this mess. He''s capable, very fucking capable in all factors. A great actor, good with brains and tongue, got a shit luck for ladies though. But what concerns me the most is his reaction when I mentioned ''Liu Jiu''. He was the most radical one if only for a second. And everyone seemed oblivious of anything before he gone under Qin Yan''s wing.


    With the shooting thoughts in my head more organized than before, I lean back on the wall and pick up the pack of cigarettes.

 Confession

    It is an act of great courage and honesty to discern your sins......to whom?


    "Hieneni." I declare lightly in a volume only we can hear. Nib a brown wrapped cig from the cramped and plump pack, the dried leaves of grind pepper size fell on the lid.


    I hold the fag horizontally above the candle, the sight of flickering flame bridging the cinder to tobacco seems as sacred as an infant crawling out of its mother''s gaping hole. I take a single drag to incinerate the smoke. Despite the strong urge to seize the whiff of burning soil again, I place the cigarette on top of the pack and push it to the far side next to the candles.


    The loaf of white smoke and the delayed smell in the air got lure into the seam above the wall.


    4 minutes, give or take.


    "Bless me, father. For I have sinned. And I couldn''t remember how long," Never. " it has been since I heard from him." My words are corse as if hissing or grunting after a slumber. He replied two seconds later.


    "We all do, my child." Nasal and clear. "But I urge you to be more specific with them, there''s no shame in admitting. No need for hiding in the presence of the lord, it''s futile." The voice isn''t loud, isn''t remarkable or intimidating. If anything, a touch distant and exhausted.


    If I have to guess I''ll say he''s a native English speaker in his late 40s. And that''s all, that''s everything anyone knows about the father of Paral. The man''s a myth and has a tremendously small flock of ''receptions''. I initially ran into him by accident and beforehand, have never even heard of him and not much was revealed afterward. There was a story of someone who apparently got all the time in the world and decided to spy on the church to see if he could unveil the priest.


    Take a wild guess how that ended.


    To this day I as to anyone else, only know four facts for certain. The information he provides never contradicts; his voice sounds a tinge different each time but I''m certain it''s the same person in the booth; he only trades in hard cash; you can''t squeeze him. You just can''t.


    "The sin of prying the others. Of secrets off my reach." A small chuckle crawls through the gap as the first quarter of cigarette is vanquished. It sounds rhythmic, kind even. Like an elder on a rocking chair with a rifle on his thighs.


    "It is not a sin my child. We are all....... curious creations of his." Ha. "But I''ll bear it along if you wish to speak it." An itch under my armpit in this dim stall might as well be a copra slithering, the dark amplified all the sensations.


    "I do...I was in the audience of some despicable people, and two of them I''m most intrigued by. I would like to know more of them." I watch as half the cigarette turns to ashes.


    "I see, well let us start with the one you find more difficult. Shall we?" The rise of tone at the end is the only change of pace in his voice.


    "A woman in her mid-twenties might be younger might be older, dark short hair, oriental facial features. An assassin, now a bodyguard of the emperor''s daughter. She goes by the name Xiao." A pause from the other side made notice.


    "She''s stranded from the lord''s eyes a long time ago. Down the crypts of Capadocia, she came back by the calling of her lord and her only lord, for the pressing of barbarians is immediate. At least that''s what the edicts told."


    She was thrown under Qin Yan''s wing by the order of her father, before, she was buried deep within.


    "Any other insights father?" A short exhale came through like responding to my inquiry a moment late.


    "I have a story of hers. A description, from a long time ago. I can''t guarantee it''s about her. But that''s all there is to exploit from me. Take at your own concern." I felt a crawling smile on my cheeks as the right corner of my lips fell.


    "I am aware father."


    Everyone has a story.


    "Then take a puff, my child." I do as told and reduce another fifth of the cig. Extra charge. As the veil of smoke disrupted the constant flow above the seam, padre speaks again.


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Once. A lamb of my flock came upon a wounded lady in the night, she was shot up. Filled with dirtied metal." That''s fucking cheap. "The lamb was a good man, with the presence of god in his heart constantly. So he took her to the nearest clinic of the Red Cross. By the time he''s back on the street, he sees the unconscious girl open her eyes. Staring through the window and right into the depths of his soul. I only heard it by his descriptions but it''s as if I can see it as well. A soulless whimper." Another pause. Like the good fucking storyteller he is, the tip of the cigarette burns closer to the filter.


    "The lamb came the next day, crying. Saying it''s his fault. Turns out the lady''s situation wasn''t as critical as he saw, in fact, she was perfectly capable of slaughtering two volunteers, a nurse and a doctor at the site in cold blood, painted the room red before vanishing in the streets. I remember it was on the paper." There''s no grief in his tone, but his breathing between words was much more audible.


    A cleaner?


    "Days later, the lamb came and asked for my aid. He keeps seeing strange figures near the window at night, said they''re the manifestations of his sins." An exhale, not sure if it''s from mouth or nose. "I assured him those are the manifestation of his guilt but he hath none to answer for, the lord sees all and hears all. And he can surely see that your previous actions meant goodwill and great sympathy. It''s the sinners that should cower at night." He states plainly as if chewing tasteless food while my mind worked out some possible outcome to the story.


    "Did he ever meet her again?" I ask without much care of the ending.


    "I do not know, my child. The lamb lost his way home some nights after he came to me. Never return." He''s a loose end by all accounts.


    "Well....thank you for the story, Father....." A series of chuckles came through the seam sounded like a dog whimpering.


    "The story''s yet to end my child....." I lean my head on the hard wooden wall, arm on the counter. "Though he never returned to the lord''s embrace or his home ever again. By another colleague''s request, I always keep a degree of interest in his locale over the next few weeks." The priest pauses once more. This time I can tell by the sudden stop it is not for the play or to rip me off. He''s deciding how much he''s to enclose.


    But as seconds shorten the worn-yellow cig on the counter reduces it to proximally one and a drag away from the filter ring. I lean closer to the wall even and utter. "Father?" I count to four in my mind before he replies.


    "My child. I do not hold any of the pennants accountable for the secrecy of my information. With this line in heart. I can only tell I eventually found his...the remains of him in Glen Avenue. All I got from his leftover is a picture of the inside of a closet." Fucking hell. "Will this quench your thirst for tales?" Indifference is hard to detect, add to that this guy talks without cadence.


    If true, with the minimum information in mind I can only come up with the conclusion she wasn''t always with the Qin. Or her identity''s truly so sensitive. And it still didn''t get me anywhere closer to who she really is, except for the fact she held no reserve inflicting the normal people.


    Sometimes spending too much time in the company I kept is bad for perception. But there''s a boundary somewhere everyone agrees to avoid, despite it''s a very individualized concept where the line is.


    ***


    By the bright, silent glimmer of burnt tip at the last ring of black marker counting the drags before you burn your fingers. My confession''s about to end.


    "May I ask you one last question, Father?" An emotionless hum went above my head.


    "Of course, god''s grace is charged by the minute." Goodness sake, the indulgence isn''t practical in this century. I thought to myself as I pick up the cigarette butt between my thumbs. "Is it about the other one?"


    "It is." I blow off the ashes shaped like a drill at its tip to reveal the bright amber core. "His name is Nan Shi Pei, works for the Qins. I would like to know everything you have on him." The candle flame an arm away flickers at my words and the priest''s quarter exchanged a squeak of wooden bench.


    "Nan shi pei.....He''s a scoundrel, pretending to be a counselor. He is not welcome in either the lord''s gaze or the blasphemies they worship. A true man of nothing. Not even defined by his own existence. And now, he''s in a position of great respect as well as danger." I bite down on the last bit of cig and inhale as hard my lungs can take, inflicting the cinder onto the filter, turning it and the tip of my nail black before spitting it out.


    "I hope it suffices my last question, father." I blow the long veil up between the wall. It lasted bout five seconds. "Tell me, who was he before the Qins took control? Who was he five years ago?" Because it is dull as hell to only know one side of someone.


    To my great surprise. He laughs. He laughs like a natural occurrence of thunder, rain, fire erupting from a match. As if his voice was meant to laugh at other''s inquiries.


    "Oh. Forgive me for returning you with another question. Do you know what awaits at the end of revelation? Or better put, what resides at its opposite side?" His nasal voice urged a creep up my shoulder in the dark. The Derisive tone carries a touch of caring as its shell. I waited two breaths before answering calmly.


    "Apocalypse."


    "They''re two sides of the same coin. With one comes another in the shades where the sun''s pale to reach. Take it as mercy, mercenary. Do not approach further." I exhale a throaty cough at his warning.


    You actually think yourself a benevolent Shepard, don''t you?


    "Priest." I lean back on the miserable space and vow. "For these and the countless sins I had and in future. I am sorry." An itch in my head buggers me as I brought up the hefty envelope in my inner pocket.


    "Your sins will be forgiven. Go with peace bestowed by the god of lamb." He solemnly promised as I place the money on the red cushion I sat on before opening the soundproofed panel door.


    The sun dived a little, and now the ray of light spreads horizontally like a mosquito net. The cross 8 steps away tainted by the shadow below the veil. The stupid bastard nailed on the cross couldn''t catch a simmer, not even a reflection of the halo since he''s made of dust and ground. While this is the land of inked flesh and shiny bones.


    An inconsistently blaring squeak came unannounced behind me. The bald freak stands ludicrously far from the entrance while his left-hand holds the door open for me. The outside world slithers across the floor to my feet while the light from greasy window slashes a fine line above my head like a knife cut. They sheathed the shadow between them, and squeezed it in. I give another glimpse to this church and watch the stale air flow in front and above the altar. The man left for the world while god stayed in the shade between light, sheathed like a relic in fab.


    The bold man''s line of sight stayed low and off the inside of the church while closing it.

 Same old tune

    I left the narrow, scythe-shape neighborhood merging vaguely into the cold indifference of the lanes. Parral has nothing left for me now. Hell, not much to begin with.


    3:21. A bus came to an empty stop at my left just when I was thinking if I''d run into any more trouble riding the metro. Skipping two steps up the slanted stairs. The driver keeps his eyes on those bloated fingers strangling the steering wheel with a leather pad as it creaks. By the look in his brown eyes occupied. He¡¯s either reminiscing something explicit or on the edge of a breakdown, though one does not exclude the other.


    I took my time counting the cents and nickels from all the pockets and sewing lines on my jacket only to end up a couple of number behind the digit. Reluctantly, I nib a perfectly unbent 10 buck between my ring finger and pinky before snapping it by the board between the driver seat and the bus door.


    The driver rocks his head back onto the padded seat out of reflexes before rotating his giant eyeballs to the bill. The bold top squints them eyes at the dollar before tilting his head to me through the swill glass, his face looking progressively akin to the stretch marks on the hips of some south continent whores in Little Italy. He flicks the green piece of paper while keeping the eyes of an empty boiling pot at me as if reinforcing the idea he''s either mentally challenged or had a problem with me. The driver raises the southwest corner of the green paper at the reflection of the sun on side-view mirror to check the national emblem.


    After a time longer than anyone with eyes needed, he deliberately counted the change through the bucket under gap on shield glass, gray tongue licking his thumb at each coin he flipped. When he''s done, the coins fall one by one off his glistening, fat fingers and into the blue plate under the board.


    I take the paper and leave the scattered coins and a smile to him. I''m not in a rush or a few years younger is the greatest blessing in his lifespan.


    The sound of rain on hot coals bursts as the door closes behind me. The bus is mostly empty, save for a girl in fur lying across three seats and using her hand-weaved bag as a pillow. I pick the last row by the window and lump under the emergency button.


    The ride goes on and off, stretching few miles drive into almost half an hour. But that''s a realization coming much later, while I''m considering my options at disposal.


    The father of parral don¡¯t lie, that''s an unbreakable rule of constant. But before today, I had never heard he''d refuse an inquiry. I believe the story of the psychopath wench is the only thing he knew, which faintly relates to Xiao. What intrigues me more being there''s something very wrong with Nan to the point even an information broker''s unwilling to disclose.


    Rubbing shoulders with these businessman for so long. I¡¯ve learned the concept of ¡®Not for sell¡¯ depends drastically.


    Call it morbid curiosity. Watching hundreds of faces pass by the window side like stamps on a long-winded letter printed on my pupils. The Friday night''s gathering¡¯s starting to develop an appeal to me.


    ***


    At the heart of the lanes where a three-story high, humdrum bare compound could be Pulitzer Prize-worthy if she wears the neon strips right. But it''s barely 4 in the afternoon. The lights are off and her bare, repellent features of years drowning in night shows. The office slugs haven''t dig their way out of the concentration camp yet, and the crooks and freelancers are just your ordinary citizens window shopping the lottos across the street, waiting for the cigar bar with the railing half shut yet to open.


    It''s the dead of hours around here. You won''t find anything worth your while, not that it''s a good idea for foreigners or folks from other districts to loiter around the block. The scarier things lurking in the alley are simply bored and looking for something to go off......and the pigs as well.


    Five stores away, a black and yellow police patrol car caught my attention. It double-parked across the two-lane traffic in front of a fishing store that sells a lot more than gears.


    Slanting sun braces half the street, half the road. Like I said at this moment there isn''t many folks around to the point you can see the stomped bird shit on the bricks and hear the door lock bolting as a blonde cop in civilian clothes, jeans, and combat boots step out of the patrol car. He''s wearing the lightest version of the Kevlar vest I''ve seen with a radio strap on the collar.


    A shiver down my spine rang a second before he reached for something inside the vehicle which doesn''t have a plate or serial number on the back, and the scorching sun could not penetrate its windows.


    I shorten the length between my steps and walk closer to the row of parked four-seaters on the left side.


    I couldn''t see what the hell is he looking for inside but a piercing beep loud enough to wake any slackers on a siesta decided for me to change a route and lose all interest. That sound of switching channels on the portable can be recognized by a toddler. Fucking hell, with the amount of publicity they get it''s weird if anyone does not.


    Those ain''t dolls on a payroll.


    A burly man in a hoodie sprints past me and straight across the two-lane road causing even noisier honks and tires screeching from bikes.


    If any of the previous signs ain''t enough, The cop just brought up a polymer helmet from the back seat and holds it under the armpit as if it''s an evening newspaper.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Not giving what''s happening another glance, I pace through the pavement and into one of the catacombs-like alleys. The raucous radio sound is a very distinguishable trait of the NDU. Some call it ''the head start'' or ''the whistle'' cause most of the time when you hear one of those it''d be in a movie or somewhere that''s turning into a smolder.


    In a very compendious sense, every gang and criminal in the city is paying the cops to not get the NDU on their tail.


    Straight from the branches of national guards (not that it''s more rectitude, but the price isn''t open for us) the unit''s about three hundred in number, usually used upon terrorist attacks, riot control, some excessively broadcasted decapitation ops. And the fact that a squad''s in Faust, in the lanes means someone fuck up in every single way to the point it pisses off Mr. Gov.


    I draw a very Impressionism path around where I saw the unit and took an extra 8 minutes to the narrow entrance of the market. Heard a scatter of shots and bangs when I cut through the back of a courtyard, and it ended before I gone past the front gate.


    The unit operating in the city did not go as discreetly as they''d hope. A clear wave of interest and footsteps are leaning misgivingly up the north blocks where the shots echo. You can almost smell the adrenaline of the pedestrian''s pores and the sweet and sour at the bottom of their tongues as the latest gossip manifests itself so close.


    The men in stone-washed jeans and black leather shoes in front of newsstands tilt their heads before resuming chatting with the owners, the kids in sea blue school uniforms are rout out the street with their parents'' hands on their shoulders while being transfix on the ones in dirty sports shorts. They race to the scene hoping to scavenge a few bullet cases on the ground in exchange for their next meal with the amiable adults in suits at Piao Jie or with one of the Russki''s newly appointed cannon folders on the street for something prettier. Depends on their skin tone.


    News travels faster than telephone line in Euforia, a quarter of the freelancers in the panes had heard the news by now on a conservative estimate. Within 4 hours, the news will start pouring in; small shifts and wild speculations will surface the next day. I suspect Lev had known it a week ago.


    ***


    Past the fourth vending machine I saw on this street, the familiar details all around guide me to the particular basement stairs of an unremarkable, equally filth-layered, dead end of little illumination even in daytime.


    Second-hand sunlight glazes the narrow seam of twisted shape through the cable lines and balcony cages before painting a stitch mark of brightness on the concrete ground, inches by the stairs down.


    My steps seem louder without the occasional pacing of welcomed pedestrians of the market. Some also called it Baghdad.


    The closed wooden door of the first floor underground now stands without the shoutings and greetings of crude language and the stairs smell of something rotting silently with the humid and uncirculated air simmering.


    By the last four levels, the beckoning drums under my feet became apparent with the space underneath hollowed. And the now brimming dark breeds a room full of them to make the squeaks and thumps louder in your skull.


    Myths and rumors has it, a group of kids once came here for dares and giggles but they ran into something worse than the candy man.


    I let my hand guide me through the narrow hallway to the second set of stairs while my eyes slowly adjust from blaring sun to the dim basement. You don''t even need eyes to understand the second floor is in much better condition than the first, at least in terms of smell and litter on the ground. With the usual green and teal neon sign right of the clunky entrance turned off, the visibility ain''t much better than a floor up. And only because of the near pitch black environment, I saw the red dot on the peephole camera blink to life for a second.


    Stynx doesn''t have scheduled opening hours even if the owner claims it does. The earliest I''ve seen was 3 pm, the latest being 7 pm, closing time is sunrise. But in the past five years, the bar had never skipped a night. With all the bullshit happening around the city lately, the business ought to be booming for Lev.


    I lean my left shoulder on the elevator door point my index at the red behind tubes of neon and raise an open palm between my face and the door.....Five seconds later the neon remains unlit. I flip him and punch the only button on the elevator pad, sharp edges of cracked stainless steel surface stab my wrist.


    That ought to become a joke someday.


    A steady hum echos the well, like an old man on church choir before it becomes a car''s tires grazing the asphalt. The door next to me opens up like a giant stretching its eyelids, that painless grim white, more yellow than white greets the leaden space. Again, who the fuck designed an elevator at second floor underground?


    I step into the confined space of four at maximum. The lower half''s red metal fell to erosion with dots of black spreading from the gray, heavy wool carpet which wasn''t three months ago. I flip a side up with the tip of my sneaker, and the color underneath made me kick it back. The door closes the dark behind me.


    I push the B5 button with a graffiti


    under, the abbreviation of a shoreline dialect which roughly translate to....


    ''Dip yer nail in the pond...... It won''t bite.''


    The light above totters while the cable above them runs an ominous bang roll it retracts. I lean back on where the broken mirror used to be(Fun fact: I''m 90 percent sure I broke it), now the empty wooden frame''s cover by a poster of Gypsy queen cigarette.....at least it''s the same lass.


    My right hand runs in jacket layers out of habit. Everyone smokes in the lift, it''s almost a custom at this point since most agree the smell of tobacco and cancer is better than dry piss and mold. And so do I, but all I got on me is half a box of matches.


    The other thing everyone agrees on, is that elevator rides are unbearable without alcohol or nicotine. One gives you an imaginary audience, the latter lasts longer than checking your watch.


    It''s 4:12. And the whiff of fermentation is coming off under the carpet.


    ***


    The lift doesn''t have a floor indicator. The sudden stop as if an earthquake''s enough to notify anyone. Giant''s stainless steel eyelids move to the sight of a Chinese sweatshop. The fourth floor underground is, to put it mildly, a fucking mess in all specs.


    The stairs up are blocked on this floor but the way down is link by incandescent lights and smokers and balls of peanuts by their feet. Blades and veils of smoke coming from downstairs. Smell of opium intensify the already inordinate floor.


    The basic layout is the same as Stynx but there isn''t a big piece of iron between the rooms. In contrast to the other floors, B4 and 5 are already bustling at this hour with not just the Philippines and chinks in lose black suits and cheap trousers, the freelancers in whatever the fuck they feel like can also be spotted in all corners of the place browsing, exchanging hand gestures and threats to burn their house in the night.


    Patrons from downstairs wander off the staircase and lump down next to the elevator door. I give the trail of happy, skinny men and women on the stairs a closer look to make sure cricket ain''t one of them. Entrance to the market is through the small pathway between three conference table. They spread along the wall from the exit''s left to the stairs on the other side, peddlers behind the counter stack their shit over each other''s but never mistaken which is which.


    Lights coming from bulbs taped on walls, neon strips on metal wire meshes which also hang vests and polyester jackets, but mostly from the 2 meters in height carmine-red striper sign leaning next to the entrance on the left, her mouth faintly agape as if yet to decide your position but few of her teethes broke off years ago making that grin look more of an invitation than seductive. Her left upper arm swaying towards the entrance forcibly with a checkered flag in hand stays the same just as the neon tubes running her outlines are cranked to a blaring glow in comparison to the otherwise inconsistent lighting of the doorstep to the market.


    ''Dip yer nail in the pond...It won''t bite.'' The sign above the narrow doorway reads in Chinese.

 Collateral damage

    I once saw a Russian doll. Each strip, reveals a new page of Alice in Wonderland, and the pictures are linked together from head to toe like an ouroboros mural. Despite the differences in context, running around the market on the fourth floor underground and you''ll find striking similarities.


    The space of Stynx stretches and concentrates. Plastic seats spread on the rounded route, benches link together till some selfish bastard takes the corner space for himself and decorated the end of the east and north walls with merchandise of ambiguous quality. And for some reason, each got at least two drapes of red and white tarpaulin covering the back of their stand.


    The lights in here are dimmer than the other end of the hallway. It consists purely of lightbulbs hanging in the air from railing they added or lamps set on tables for the window shoppers and counting coins.


    What are they selling?


    Well shit, take a wild guess. Hinges the answer at last second and you''d still get it right.


    A pre-war Soviet riffle and gears, jackets with extra pockets, half a gallon''s worth of AB plus blood bag, fingers and toes shipped straight from the local clinics this morning kept in small freezers (heard they struck a deal with the Norwegian doc downstairs for a package price) cheap-ass suits and cheap-ass trusses the Qins fancy, cricket''s stories about his last three wives, re-boiled chicken breast from Piu Jie dinners, the law prohibited knives, self-made boosters in alarming visual clarity, two 30ish looking Chinese prostitutes at the entrance of the corridor behind corner where lights projecting from within are changing by the minute. Where Stynx would have its private booths, here they got mattresses and free-of-charge voyeurism and a nasty madam chewing Areca nut with one of the vendors.


    Vera''s No.73s were bought here before handling tweaks somewhere else. My inhaler was the work of cricket and Uncle. As I said, you can find pretty much everything here. It''s a junkyard full of tossed-aways in great conditions. Even if the place got a certain musk in the air, years of sweat, mold on fruit and cheap perfume, scented lotion from the whore house on top of the knotted circulation in the basement. They infuse a stench, some hate it, some get a hard-on by the whiff of it.


    A kid at 12 or younger squeezes between me and the left wall as I step through the small corridor. I saw a quick grin on his cheek before disappearing faster than I could turn my head. Thankfully, my wallet''s in the right pocket, but the skinny Malaysian tripping over someone else''s bench just to limp towards the gate would think very differently...


    Fuck me, is that cricket?


    Narrow nose even under the disadvantaged lighting could not stretch its shadow across his winded cheek, thin and petty lips, skin as slippery as if someone''s pulling his hide backward. Sports jacket over a polo shirt, a notch shorter than me...... shit, he lost enough weight to make two more kids.


    With his face a shade of red and purple and a slender arm in willowy sleeve supporting the ground, he raises his head to me crouching right in front of him.


    "Bad day or bad week?"


    ***


    "I''d say it''s Wednesday....." He grunts as his chin''s finally above the ground and his arms push himself up. "Wednesday in the middle of the month."


    Cricket is nothing special in the grand scheme of colorful assholes in this city, hell he might as well pass as a nicer guy than the rest. The most intriguing thing about him is that his little shop''s always open, and he''s always somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors underground. He told me a lot about himself, which I reduced in half and watered down ten times first since most of his ''history'' is told when we''re bickering about prices. Though I do believe he has kids and had a wife, once saw two wedding rings on him, a gold one on his finger and a silver one stringed as a necklace inside his shirt.


    "Middle of the month means the waves are calmer no?" Cricket drags three layers out of his cheek in a smirk as he cock his head towards me while dusting off the stent on his trousers.


    "Ah, you''re a true sea waver Mr. Lee." His head cocks to the opposite side, the waggling gap between a wall of fridge under boxes with duck tapes all over them and a small stand run by a 16-year-old Chinese girl selling charms and singular bullets of .45 and .38


    "Mister! Three rows for one! Six shooter specials picked last week, great condition!" The girl leans a bit closer to the table and calls in my general direction. Cricket kicks the plastic bench that tripped him, the short chair bumps straight into a leg of the folding table causing the girl''s stand to rack a little.


    She retorts in some of the worst Minnan slurs of the last generation while I take a quick gander at her merchandise that consists of bulk cartridges and shells in finer condition to be reused mixed with some trinkets here and there and torch lighters...


    Blood-soaked luck.


    Cricket pays her continuous cusses little mind with four fingers lazily flicking her the other way as an apology and to fuck off. The girl''s shop got it bad at the worst spot in the B4 market. The north wall, horizontal to the guy with a batch of half-assed gems from some poor bastard at Via Martinase. She''s at the sole of the food chain over here and she knows it.


    "Oi." I stop her exceeding volume of swear and sweat-covered face growing reddish. The girl slides her pupil in my direction like a cleaver across her neck before squinting her eyes and changing back to above-average English.


    "Yes, mister? What are you looking for?" A twitch at the edge of her mouth sunk her acting.


    "An air circulator. But since you don''t have one. Instead," I give Cricket a quick tilt of eyes and brows as in what that hand gesture meant to the girl. He shrugs and steps through a seam between two dart machines and into another row of stalls. "Let''s switch up a role a bit, you looking for a tip?"


    The girl sits back down abruptly. Her head slightly, unconsciously falling to the left as her eyes locked onto nothing for three seconds.


    "Second mattress is closer to my......"


    "There was a raid at east within five maybe six blocks close to the fishing store with the hideouts tuna sign." The girl''s eyes relocated mine with a glint in them.


    "When was it?"


    "16 minutes prior....." I let out a mouth click at her obvious disproving. "I''m not going to tell you who did it since you won''t believe me, but I know you can tell some of the fellas got a quick shift on topics." I let that moment sink in for a breath.


    "Already saw a couple brats running towards the scene...." I pick up the black lighter that shapes like a padlock and flick its torch to make sure its chimney isn''t plastic. Adequate.


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    "Place''s swarming with aftercare units and blockade. But tell your friend up there to look for the alleyway two shops away across the fishing store. There ought to be something." I wave the torchlight in front of the kid before sliding it into my pocket.


    As I walk towards the most crowded end of the market where Cricket''s shop and the whore house reside, I can hear a quick dialing on the phone pad from behind.


    ***


    Between the thin wall screaming for help and abhorrent chitters of 30 bucks for half an hour. Between the occasional lanterns by camping polls and shacks under parasols. Cricket''s shop stuck uncomfortably and fittingly there by the entrance of the whore house consists of few mattresses on the floor.


    The space looks like a small shrine of some prehistoric barbaric god or a drive-thru. Trinkets of malicious and inscrutable intents filled the little gift boxes and wedding boxes, they pilled up two pillars by the petty Mahjong table with its folding legs locked by bricks. Countless bills and notes and receipts by his shit scribble taped all over the table and the two pillars like some failed exorcism. A hook hanging from the top left connects a chain of rosaries with rings intertwined, in display.


    A lamp rests on the bottom of the table confining the light between the boxes of merchandise and the table itself, and another one on the right corner of the table which faintly illustrates the notes and bills on it. A string of lightbulbs drape down from the neighboring stand on the left and hang its other end at the poll in between.


    The place ain''t always as run down and barebone as it is now. The light tubes half a meter above were busted far before three months ago. Heard it was at midnight when the lights suddenly got killed off.


    Now, there ain''t no official claim to this cesspool of wonders, just a bunch of downtrodden peddlers who knew their way or people around the border. But it had become increasingly obvious over the past few years that the Qins are paying extra care and excessive visits to this place for it is right above their enterprise.


    And when the initial shock and disarray of the sudden darkness are gone, the Qins and some of the vendors gather around the elevator light, with lighters in hand. And they all agree on the speculation that it was the Russikis that cut the separated cable to this floor since they''ve been


    coming downstairs jabbing the owners and warning them about the repercussions of selling or making ghost guns.


    Plus, their lights are still on (completely disregarding the opium dem''s lights are still running too). The incident quickly escalated into a small brawl which considering the fellas upstairs have riffles sitting right next to fucking everywhere, ended rather free of bloodshed.


    But the discontent and speculations of them cutting off their livelihood for petty reasons fuels off control, some sellers start pilling shit on the stairs up, the custom grows until, today the way up by stairs is completely inaccessible.


    They did check the cables eventually but the separated cables are not just cut off, they''re gone. Pulled from the root up on the surface. It would take a generator to shine the floor again, and it would take more than rats and roaches to make an entire system of cable disappear.


    The Russians denied the blame half-heartily, although the last time I asked some fellas admitted the idea crossed their minds.


    I was bewildered, to say the least when the next time I came around the lights were off and the lanterns were up. Then I was impressed when, three weeks later the vendors and dealers stayed and the business was unharmed save some inconveniences.


    ***


    Cricket''s shooting the shit with those two long-staying chicks in their 30s. Clock hasn''t strike six yet, only the ones in high demand or their own desperate group are busy. Bystanders don''t count. So instead of leaning on the low groans and moans of someone younger, they might as well make a quick buck watching the shop for him.


    His eyes tilt violently in my direction while still keeping the conversation going with those two lazy-eyed covers in furs and traditional makeup (heavy on the red). I carefully step through the cable lines and boxes on the ground to greet them three.


    "Christ on a spike. Bad weeks ain''t exclusive to you cricket." I step through a couple of pals in my line of work to the right of his ''service window''. "Jin, may..." I nod at the two ladies of the evening by the corner, a moment of uncertainty later I tilt my head at the 45 or above standing at the entrance to the disco lights, in a khaki blazer. "Madam."


    The first two threw me a puzzled smile as their eyes jump between me and...lower half of me before giving me a smile that showed just how many layers of powder''s on. They pressed a giggle behind them smile and push the other off the crickets stall while giving me side glances.


    Right....


    "Fuck is up with those two?" I snort while the Malaysian sorts out the stuffed board boxes in the back. He shrugs and brings the lantern on the table to a small hook by the left pillars. It shakes with the movements of the top like a chandelier.


    "You''ve been gone for a while. Crazy things about you pop off here and there. And the ladies take gossip as tips." My sides of mouth curve downwards. I''m getting real sick of this. Cricket tilts his eyes above the table before giving another, more apologetic shrug.


    "Figure as much...You said you have a new batch right? Got my usuals?"


    "Sure do." The little man brings the box his been messing with up under his armpit and drops it on top of the ledgers and notes on the table, narrowing down the space between to only his head and shoulder. He then pulls out three cartons of black and red. On the packaging, ribbons with abbreviations on them around a mansion on a heap.


    "Wonder how you survived without these Mr. Lee." He grins while placing them on the table before diving his arm inside the board box full of exotic contrabands.


    "Same as everyone else. Grocery store Marlboros." He whistles an antic note.


    "Good for a change don''t you think? For your lungs I mean." He raises his head at the last sentence with a frown.


    "Made me a calmer man with lesser sleep. Can''t wait to forfeit that." He cackles and brings another batch of ribbon and mansion to the table.


    "I got four rows of special, five packs of black.....Reds are kind of off-trend now, they only shipped 2 this time." I hum a little, thinking why every ''special edition'' of a product is always the most mass-produced.


    "Give me a pack of black and red each and a row of special." He throws back the extra black and pulls out a carton of 8 from god knows how many discontinued cigars and cigarettes in that board box before carrying it down by his feet.


    "Two and a half from last......" He murmurs as he comes back from under the table with a pen and a new piece of paper. "That. Would be," His left hand drew two lines of Illiterate sketches before signing my name at the bottom at a speed that''ll put type writers in shame. "...236 bucks."


    Oh fuck off.


    "Did a nuke dropped when I was gone or was the canal shut down?" Cricket raises both of his hands and plead innocence.


    "Congress has been pressing down on import laws and tobacco tax. You know ''For a cleaner street, for a cleaner city'' and all that piss. It affects more than traditional import, times are hard Mr. Lee." He shrugs again and brings his empty palms around.


    "For you or me?" Cricket took an actual second at the question before responding.


    "...Both?"


    I roll my eyes and hand over half of my wallet. The Malaysian vendor snatched it away before I could extend it across the table. With a flick of finger he counted the tens and coins and held the bills between his ringed finger and pinky while pressing the portrait of a medieval knight in armor on the lanterns.


    When it''s done, he rolls the cash up like a tube and slips them randomly into one of the air holes on boxes. And very enthusiastically tears off the aluminum foil in the red and black pack before handing them to me with the gold carton.


    "Trustworthy as ever." He sings while crossing a line under my name on the newly made receipt and pierces it on the hook. "Anything else?"


    The lantern behind reveals its shallowing yellow and dims the already insufficient light. I contribute a little by pulling out a red one, lighting it with the windproof lighter. The brown filter with images of white swallows across like worn-out furniture. The torch incinerates half a cm tip in a blink.


    Breathe in, breathe out. The light in the air just got worse. The spice inclines the sweet into a luring trap, what hits the last few teeth will hurt when it reaches your throat. The aftertone''s smooth and can choke a newborn to death if you let it linger too long.


    The weird combination of earth and nicotine made a few fellas window shopping turn their heads. I take a longer drag to the edge of a cough before letting it off my lips.


    Something''s it makes you feel like John Wayne, sometimes it kicks you in the nuts. Three months without this did wonders to my tamper.


    "Since I''m here you wouldn''t happen to have a ma..." The face of cricket got my attention first. Years crawling in this damp hell got his eyes train to distinguish customers, regulars, doubters, shitheels and troubles. And those eyes of his scream trouble after darting to my left.


    "Binzai! Two packs of limousine and bring the order around." A high-pitched male voice came behind me with the kicks of leather shoes audible from a mile away. And a set of heavier ones behind him.


    A young man in a black suit. Couple years younger than me stands. The tip of his feet clacking long after he stopped next to me.

 A flick by the fuse

    God willing. Lord above. If this man isn¡¯t Qin afflicted, let me be struck down by a rod of iron.


    That polyester black suit with sewing line by the sleeve, armpit, ankle to fit his statue. The shirt collar upright and stretched like two pointing guidance to the face that had never seen someone''s body covered in yellow cloth, look only a man younger than you can channel. Snake-like nose, skin tone a step under wheat, narrow lips, emaciate cheeks, he''s got a small cut under his right ear and temple.


    Green eyes with petrifying energy that can only come from someone who''s unstable. Walk with the back of palm towards the front. Now he stands very fucking close to my left with a hand in his pocket, another as a fist on the folding table full of ledgers.


    I don''t judge a book by its cover, or pin a man by his first impression. Even so, I believe in his inability to live till the end of year with his attitude at the lanes.


    The fella behind him on the other hand, is the reason I haven''t broke the fuckboy''s arm for shits and giggles.


    The cigarette in my mouth burns nonetheless for an inhale. The lousy thug''s urging the owner to hurry the fuck up in Chinese coats in a thicker accent than my own. Cricket opens his mouth but not a word came out as I saw him visibly swallow back whatever was on his mind, and close his eyes for a single blink before nodding numbly.


    As he bent down under the numerous boxes at the back with a thumb pressing against his temple and before I decide if I intend to instigate, a shift in the air change the trajectory of the thick line of gray smoke. Maybe it''s one of the pigs gasping in the second mattress by the entrance, maybe it''s cricket''s silent venting or maybe it''s a butterfly flopped its wings one more time at a Brazil rainforest.


    The whiff brushes off Qin''s eyes, instantly making his right eye water as he recoils by closing it and pressing two fingers on the eyelids to stop the soreness.


    As someone who had been on the receiving side before. I feel for him in that one second before tensing up my muscles and tugging the cig with my tongue.


    "Cao!" Leather shoes banging on the floor as he turns entirely to me. Ignoring his red and green eyes on and off and all over me, another man in a black suit strides over in well-placed steps and reluctant spirit. Some fellas recognized the small incitement and throw their heads the other way when they see the black suits.


    "You got any idea how hard it is to wash the stench off this shirt?" The man scorns in broken English. His voice is.... it''s not nasally, not gruffly, it''s high but not as a pitch. It sounds like a tenor with a reconstructed pipe and it works hilariously bad with the demeaning tone he carries. But for whatever it''s worth, the aberrant crux in his eyes are legit.


    Those two fingers under his eyelid drag down to his nose as he snorts and pats on his shoulder pad like it would do anything. I screamed some blasphemy in my head and piled up a thin smirk as I take the smoke out of my mouth with my left hand while the right slide into my pocket.


    "Dear apologies, my eyes must be blind to miss you." My gaze sways down to his black shoes and back to his slightly dicey face while I respond in Chinese.


    Half a step away, his palms are now agitating by his sides, on and off in a fist. Considering what I''m ought to do, now seems to be a very bad time for trouble with these fellas, but that doesn''t change the spite for them in somewhere south of my heart.


    "If I may suggest," I put my right hand in my pocket, each of my fingers found its lock on the steel as I grip it. "Supermarket vodka works wonders for cig stench on polyester, old leather, patched suits and other cheap as shit outfits." Heavy lidded eyes. The edge of both his green eyes draw longer as if smiling without a stretch of cheek. The clacking of the leather shoes stopped, cricket appeared and immediately disappeared behind the counter.


    "I don''t mind the smell. Problem''s it came out of your mouth." A long slurping came behind his mouth, like a loach being pulled out of a tube. A purely white sputum drills down his lower lip and takes a long second while he tilt his face closer before it falls between my sneakers. "You know who I am?" Thin lips sucked in and out glistening.


    Someone failing his job. I thought the big one behind him was his bodyguard or pal, but considering he''s just watching it unfold. The kid in front of me really don''t worth shit.


    I smile. And it turned into a grin as the adrenaline kicked in. Three days without a puff slips me closer to my old compulsions.


    It''s been a while, but I''m feeling lucky today. Fuck, after all the bullshit happening to me in the last few days it''s about time I get lucky. I tweak the burning cigarette in my left index and clock them behind my thumb.


    Left before right. Might racked cricket''s place in the process. Oh well, what the fuck.


    "Paotang zi."


    I flick the cigarette a second too late, aiming directly at his right eye when a palm comes out of the blind spot between him and me. Its movement doesn''t agree with ergonomics as it flips at the man''s right at an adequate speed but accelerates faster than the flick of my cigarette.


    The relaxed palm at the end of the third person''s arm retracts into a fist at the brink and the momentum slings it like a hammer.


    It sounded like a whiplash. The cigarette flew past the trim of his side as he takes a step back and bumps into Cricket''s counter, knocking off the lantern under the table and making the unknowing owner jump back to hold those two stacks of boxes in place while tilting at the scene.


    Funny, he''s the only one with the full view of this ridiculous commotion. From his angle, the glint of my brass knuckle half out of pocket while I dash my head at the big guy standing two steps away with his right arm hinges downward in the air, a flash of red at the back of his palm resembles the singular drop of blood on the edge of the skinny guy¡¯s right eye socket. And that cigarette butt is still spinning in the air before it reaches nothing.


    What couldn''t be seen from his perspective, is who the big guy is.


    And in that instant. It genuinely escapes my mind as I stare at the burly man in a fitting black suit without cuts and lining. Then I remembered.


    He''s the poor son of a bitch still on guard duty when the rest of them went inside the Jiu Lou. He''s the doormen I asked a light with.


    ***


    The doorman doesn''t say anything, his eyes are still on the thug covering his forehand and a hand holding on the table for support. A second later, the big guy takes a wide step forward closing in on the thug still in shock of the situation and hooks his right arm on the man''s neck, like tagging shoulder in the wrong way.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    He drags him forward as if a sweep brushing through ash-covered floor as the thug struggles to walk backward and his leather shoes kicks and stumbles and make every noise noticeable through a path cleared by doorman''s cold stare till about four meters away. There, the man lean his head to the thug''s ear for a moment before releasing his iron rod of an arm and banging his left palm on the thug''s side of head.


    The folks around got their attention distributed half on maintaining whatever they were doing and the other half at the burly man walking back at me.


    I have to hand it to him, the guy''s movements are immaculate. Proper placements only someone who''s not only trained but zealously so in boxing or other forms of aggression can unwittingly do. He moves like a matador without the extravagant, just the right postures and pacing with almost no tilt at the tip of his shoes while walking.


    His boots have dirts on the side and brown splatters of crushed areca tree seeds by the sole, the black suit sure as hell wasn''t tailored but it fits his slate of a build.


    I inhale slowly, dragging the breath longer as I let go of the brass knuckle in my right pocket, it ain''t going to work on him. In the time of two paces, I concluded he''s half a head shorter than Ivan, but his reach is further and has a touch more resentment in his eyes.


    Let''s see how this plays out. I swing my wrist to get the numbness off my knuckles and pull out the pack of red again. By the last four paces, I had lit another one and the figure of the other man in black suit had disappeared in the resuming flow of the crowd.


    The doorman¡¯s steps sound way louder up close with an extra weight behind it despite no slugs while walking and the sway of his blazer''s way too rigid. Two nights ago I thought he knew better not to pull a gun at breathing distance, the assumption he was carrying one still stands now.


    "One pack of limo, the six craters need to be on the way before next week. Are we clear?" He states in Chinese and a plain tone towards Cricket who''s looking like he could finally taste air again and immediately gauge out a pack of purely red-wrapped cigarettes from where he was rummaging through. The big man pulls out two bills behind his suit lapel and throws them on the table before taking the pack off cricket''s hand.


    He tabs the bottom of the pack couple times to make sure it wasn''t cut short before raising and tilting it in the vendor''s direction as acknowledgement or appreciation. Cricket smiles like a wax figure.


    The man slides the pack inside his blazer and finally turns to my direction. Loaves of smoke flow a crooked way to the starless sky made of concrete ceiling without illumination. I lean my shoulder on the tower of boxes on the right, waiting for him to make up his mind. Which is taking a while as he stares at me like two nights ago, sizing me up and down.


    Another drag and I take the smoke out so I can see his face better. And turns out, he might be older than initially estimated, around the late 30s perhaps. With two black and heavy brows upon tired but vigilant brown eyes, and the hiding vain on his forehead where the stretch of his frown points at the neatly kept hair without wax unlike so many others in his company, by a knuckle''s length. The rest of his face contradicts the irritation and fatigue in those eyes. Broad jawline, weather beaten cheeks that plumps his face into an oval. Under a sunken and reformed nose bridge faintly resembles Enzo, its lips that purse constantly.


    And only after my line of sight had wonder long enough do that gold chain behind wrinkled dress shirt and collar rustle against the second loose button. I''ve seen my fair share of folks like him, shoot a marble into a random window at Piao Jie and hear the sound of pachinko ring. They''re like rusted nails on a board of blank white wall.


    He might actually work me up in front of the Jiu Lou.


    "Did you meet your employer?" He asks in English with not the worst accent I''ve heard, the ''you'' sounded more like a flat whistle.


    I take the cigarette out and let it fall between my fingertips and nod. The same trick won''t work with the same audience. "I did."


    "Nan took you there." The question in tone of a statement came while his lips are sucked in as if hiding teeth, thin and lacking pink.


    "He did." With another nod, I keep my eyes on him for any signs of insidiousness but all I found is the moving of the crowd beside us doesn''t match where their eyes are turning and the madam by her whore house has been listening for quite some time now. "....And I saw some of your boys by the lift as well, pretty sure they saw me too." The powder lag of a man in front finally let out a smile, as hollow as his brown eyes.


    "What do they call you?"


    "Broad question, usually Lee." He stops whatever''s going on in his head for a second and cock his head and squint his eyes. I shrug with my open arms and extend them like a person to be crucifix or avoiding further inquiries.


    "Lee," The man slips his right hand in pocket and pronounced my name in Chinese. "You work for her, you''re not a merc.....Not anymore." It feels like he''s almost struggling to put those words together to the point I thought about dropping the act.


    Just when I was about to dig some out of him opening up. The burly man pops his neck and shoulder and crooks his head at Cricket who''s trying to be invisible throughout the rest of the conversation by pretending to sort out his stock and crouching at the corner like he''s taking a shit.


    "Lao xi jing! Four days, got that?" Cricket visibly froze for a second before spinning back to the counter with a full smile nodding. The man in suit tab the receipt at the corner with his callous plagued hand, his first knuckles are twice the size of a normal person''s. The index finger reaches and drums forcibly on the piece of paper on the top left corner of the table among tens of others and I feel my brows knitting. That one''s clearly written in Chinese, unlike the others.


    ...six craters need to be on the way before next week.


    An unwelcome answer forms in my mind while I watch the burly man wipe off the printed bloodstain on the back of his palm on his trouser and stretch his sleeves before turning in my direction again.


    "They call me Lin Zi.....Kirin." Wait.


    With that behind him, the man in black strides off towards the exit down south. With the terrible lighting and increasing flow of people my eyes lost track of him at the first corner.


    Where did I hear that name before?


    ***


    "Please quit that bullshit smile before it turns to a grin." I slowly turn my head back to cricket and put my hands back on the table while giving the other vendors and bystanders a quick glance.


    "Wednesday in the middle of the fucking month....." Cricket massages the side of his cheek under the earlobe and signs deeply with his mouth closed. He mutters and tears off that piece of paper Kirin points out and squishes it into rubbish in his fist.


    "Had those two been bothering you for a while?" I ask without much hope for a different answer than his exclamation in obvious frustration.


    "The small punk? No no no..... first time I saw him. But the big guy, yes! It''s been almost a month." I hum a groan that suffice as a sympathy in my ear.


    "What do they want? They''ve done peeing on every concrete block on this floor already." The small man grins a pretentious smirk at my comment.


    "Mr. Lee. Did you forgot we''re still at the Lanes? Nobody owns anything here...." He cross his arms in front and a twitch of lip stretches his skin making it look more waxy. I let out a genuine smile of myself at his blind confidence. The Qins been lurking in this district long enough, longer than the Russkis. Since Saint Christoper neighborhood developed a system of their own, everybody wants to dip a toe in but no one wants to make it too apparent.


    "Too true. Though, I got to remind you. That hunky poker face....uh," I open my mouth and stop abruptly, licking my last few teeth like it would bring my memory back. "...What did he call himself again?" Cricket''s face develops in a small instant of confusion while his dirty pupils dart to the left.


    "You mean Kirin?" Who the hell else.


    "Aye, I remember he said ''four crates''. And by that receipt in your hand." I close four fingers in a fist lazily and point the last one at it. "Cricket¡­. you do know I can read Chinese right?" The same reaction, he nods slowly as the confusion on his face clears out to a faint smile and the lines of his jaw press his shining cheeks. Under the strange lighting of lanterns and lamps in the dark his expression looks homicidal.


    "Times are hard Mr. Lee.......Not everyone can enjoy your freedom." Cricket states in clear pronunciations. His right fist let go and the rubbish fell under the table along with thousands of items he had lying around behind.


    The man upstairs''s humor works in mysterious ways. I asked for luck as in chances and he gave me this.


    "That it is." I let out a smile, this one to myself. "No worries. I wouldn''t go talking to the fellas in Noch if they don''t know it already. I''m not bored out of my mind." Cricket remains silent for a duration still comfortable till his mouth opens with a click.


    "I surely hope not. And is there anything else you need?" Unlikely of me, I actually thought about the question this time and thankfully remembered what I was asking for just before that confrontation.


    "I need a mask." Cricket raises a side of his eyebrow."


    "For......parties?"


    "In a way."


    "For....those kind of parties?" His eyes wander off and squint for a second.


    "It''s a masquerade." Both brows are raised now as he tilts his head down while keeping eye contact.


    "And isn''t it..."


    "No." The Malaysian''s mouth opens and closes and blink long enough for me to fall asleep.


    "Well. I have some for those themes but I''ll have to warn you. Most of them were used in one of those parties."


    ***


    12 minutes later I left with a mask that looked leeast resembling ''those parties'' in my plumped inner pocket. On the short alley by the wall, the young vendor I tipped off smiles with a missing teeth on the bottom row. I give her a nod and slip through the narrow entrance of this deliberately noisier place of trouble.


    And amidst them behind me, I could almost hear the sound of chime in distorted qualities play through a speaker.

 Extra chapter: Quarrel

    "What do you think?"


    "Of the kid?"


    "He ain''t much younger than you."


    80 miles per hour on the southern highway.


    The sun''s at an equivocal angle of either rising or falling, but it bothers them not.


    "So what do you think of him?"


    "I asked first."


    "You get to answer first."


    The light pierces through the corner of the window of the convertible, barely registers at the seam of the woman''s sunglasses. She took it off and on the dashboard, it moves a few inches left on every bump.


    "He''s alright. Paranoid enough to live an uncomfortable but longer life."


    The girl on the steering wheel snarls.


    "I''m not asking about the expiry date."


    "Well, what are you asking about?" The woman in the passenger seat takes a quick glance at the rearview mirror.


    "I want to know what you think of him as a living, breathing person." The woman signs deeply and slips her arm out the rolled-down window, catching wind between her fingers.


    "He''s a mess." The girl tabs the steering wheel but doesn''t say anything. "And he''s in bed with the Russians." A short silence sits by the broken air conditioner, with hands hanging on the rearview mirror.


    "You see him as one of them?"


    ".....No." The pause from the older woman draws a quick glance at the rareness of it happening. "I don''t think he is."


    "Me either." The driver confirms in a plain tone. The rail by the cliff disappears at the next turn and the woman stretches her arm over the rolled-down window, couple miles under her curl up fist is the ocean at the brink of day or night, dimming the reefs inches under sea level the same color as the heart of a flame. But she wouldn''t notice, in her view there are only occasional seagulls.


    "What about you?" The woman asks out of boredom after checking every pocket, and pocket of the coat in the back seat to find no packs of smoke left.


    "I''m thinking about the Colombian bunch by the park before a drink but you know, a drink first would be a nice change of pace....."


    "Viviane." The woman pronounces the other''s name calmly as if resounding a poem. The girl signs.


    "Why would I ask you if I have any notion?"


    "Because you figured I''d say it for you." The girl gave a defiant look that turned hollow by the rattles under the wheel, the road''s been deserted for over a year now.


    "I don''t....I think he might be a bit...out there." The girl stops for a second, dash a glance at the woman with a grin under the unreadable mask. "As in...bonafide fuck in the head. Couple of days ago I saw him handcuffed himself as a joke just so the cops wouldn''t search him." The woman raises a side of her brow before it meets the other in the middle.


    "Couple days ago?"


    "You were drunk.....seriously you need training on the aspect." The woman shrugs.


    The girl signs.


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    "That aside, I don''t see him as another crazy. Just way too conscious of himself." The woman was about to say more but swallowed them back.


    "I didn''t use the c word."


    "Because you''re still waiting for me to say it for you." The girl grunts as they speed into a short tunnel with the sunset on the other reach becoming more apparent. After the third flash of tunnel light, the woman notably continues the conversation for it''s usually the other way around.


    "You shouldn''t think that way." The girl''s right cheek pushes a line under her eye and stares between the road and the passenger seat woman. "He''s more real than anything in a long time.... despite occasional behavior." The woman smiles to herself, for the first time in a long time. "Besides, you ain''t much better." The girl rolls her eyes at 65 miles per hour, hands on stirring wheel.


    "That was blunt slander." The girl steadies her grip as the tunnel ends in a slow turn along the riff. "And very unlike you." The woman moves both her gaze to the driver, the tunnel gone behind them as the last bit of sunlight passes its glint to the sea and makes the girl squint but the woman''s eyes only reflect its shimmer, one more than the other.


    "How''s that?" Her left eye encapsulated the glint and her faintly red lips narrowed.


    "You never care much about these things. You just nod and act like whoever it is doesn''t exist." The girl pronounces with a slow but aggressive cadence. As if singing an old rhyme she''d forgotten.


    "It''s better judgment." The woman responds in dry. Brown and browner eyes speak aloud.


    "That doesn''t even make sense." The girl pauses for a second but continues this time. "How''s doing fuck-all around other people called better judgment?" She exclaims puzzled, as the girl waits for an actual answer to a remark. The woman only hums a silent exhale and leans back on the seat, closing her eyes.


    "Whatever you say." The woman''s breath becomes sluggish and indolent.


    These pacifying words infuriate the girl more than any malevolent act upon her at any given time. Her lips purses down and the corner of her eyes lengthen, biting teeth sends a hint of pain up her skull and gathers around the dotted eyes staring in the setting sun and the distant city lines afar the perilous highway like an abstruse and foreign word. She wasn''t going to say anything for the rest of the drive, but by the third slope, she had gotten sick of the silence already.


    Turning the radio on did it until the next tunnel ruined it, the girl results to plunging and unplugging the cigarette igniter by the air conditioner, and by a slip or a flick, the burner rolls off the slot falling on her leather boot, the bounce trigger her reflexes to retract her legs up bumping the dashboard.


    "Oh for fuck sake ...." As the girl curses and kicks the igniter to the far end behind the peddle, she peeks a sly twitch of lip on the presumably sleeping woman. The girl thought about giving the woman a wack or just keeping the silence but ended up doing neither, for the woman speaks first.


    "I care a lot, Viv." Upper arm covering her closed eyes as if blocking the sun, she said. "I do."


    The girl glances over her and back on the road, and back to her again.


    "So......what do you think of the kid? For real this time." She asks, not knowing a smirk blooming on her cheek as well. Upon the inquiry, the falsely napping woman stretches her neck while still leaning on headrest like a cat upon waking.


    "I think, he had seen enough in his life." Voice husky, shorter eyes lashes slowly rising. "To the point that he couldn''t recognize how messed up he is." A blink turned her gaze from aloofly afar to the girl''s darker shades of brown.


    "...Are we talking about his line of work or personality?" The woman cackles.


    "I''m talking about he himself. He sees what he does as normal, and to an extent, what we do as normal too." The girl''s grip on the stirring wheel results in leather cracking sounds.


    "Haven''t you noticed?" To which she receives no response. The girl sits with slightly puzzled frown. "Our work, his walk. Nothing bothers him...." The woman lets out another chuckle and adjusts her seat to accommodate. Her gaze was still for a moment before blinking to the left, not necessarily to the girl but very likely.


    "Let me ask you. Why didn''t you pull the trigger that night?" The woman asks, not expecting an answer while the flashes of memories fly through the girl''s mind. Some more lucid than others, the further it goes, the blanks expand. But there is a part that remains clear after months and presumably, after years.


    "Consequences." The girl recites quietly in a nod.


    "What''s that?"


    "Nothing." She says with haste and a turn of her head before she remembers she''s the one driving. "...You said it yourself, he had no intention to kill you and I thought you got it." The woman frowns in an intrigued demeanor.


    "Aye, he didn''t. I did." She sings in the passenger seat. "But why didn''t he pull the trigger?" The woman''s question, again, hangs in the humid coastline air.


    With eyes back on the tendril of the city suburbs, where the lifeless blocks of identical apartment buildings in plain white or brick-red are inhabited by equally lifeless walks of normal. Good father, dead beats. Junkie mother, extra shifts. Six miles to school, two floors underground.


    "I think we should just head home after collecting. I''m not in the mood for a drink." Eight fingers tabbing the stirring wheel eyes far from where she''s at, the girl says.


    "Shame," The woman exhales, and the last breath turns into a faint smile as she spots the last of sunset between the harbor and the towers. Her browner eye dipped a shade of glee and serenity. "I think I could use one."

 Fables and facts

    A pair of girls from Madam''s establishment are smoking with their backs at the barricaded way up and short skirts pressed on the stairs. One of them tabs her wrist and made a suggestive gesture which I politely declined by ignoring.


    The elevator passed this floor with its lousily recognizable screeches from the coils and hoisting rope. And when it finally opens, I found myself stuck between a lady with wheat color skin in zebra strap pants and a guy in three-piece pursing his lips to the far right of his mouth.


    Three floors of elevator ride in the tangible air of loom got me taking out the pack of red again. I almost let a laugh slip when the man immediately emulates this action just to find something to do.


    The ride was torturously hilarious for what happened between them is written on their faces in excessive details that would put the Iliad in shame. But the repressed grin by the shaky cigarette in my mouth dropped as the door at the second floor underground opens. Beyond the veil of ashes in the air between the elevator light, it''s still pitch black.


    The man and woman bypass me in impressive speed and hurling footsteps. The man tried to slow her down but she ditched his approach at the first level of the stairs up. In the dark, the man''s restive action of tossing away the just-lit cigarette draws a very slow curve in the air before it hits the steel door of Stynx.


    And I can swear. The camera buried behind the sign flashes the smallest light in the world before closing. Someone''s home huh?


    5:07 I check my watch under the dull lantern hanging above and decide it''s about time they open.


    I step through the closing door kick off as much debris and trash and peddle and avoid the gooey substance on the wall and sit 2 meters away from the entrance. The concrete ground of an abandoned second floor is....well you get the picture, you can work out the imaginations.


    I bring out the carton of black specials from the cramped inner pocket with a carnival mask next to it. Took some tries but I found the lid opening and the lighter in another pocket.


    8 packs of black and gold special with two letter marks in the middle line from my feet to the wall. I pull the first of many out with my thumb and index finger on the dark brown filter, the lighter buzzes rhythmically upon the king-size cig and shows the small golden ring of brand name between the black wrap and filter.


    The thing sells the best not without reasons. Constructed savor, low nicotine, filled to the tip with tar so it burns twice as fast despite the length. No more than 2 minutes later, my tongue tastes nothing but butter and fake burns and glimmering dot of yellow moves closer to my lip by the inches before I nib it out and flick it at the steel gate. The camera light came back to life, I wave at it, it closes. I pull another one out,


    done it, and this time flick it at where the red pinpoint was in the dark. It''s actually easier if you think of what''s in front of you as a picture. By the fifth toss, the green and teal neon sign turns the basement from pitch black to sinister in an instance.


    "Business or something else?"


    The door rolls to the right and the light from within made me squint my eyes before the familiar figure blocks it like fucking saint Petyr at pearly gate.


    "Business," I say and put the sixth cigarette back between my lips. "Strictly business." The green sign and teal rules of the neon at the corner vision made my right eye twitch. Warden was about to say some but curled it back in his throat and behind his eyes.


    ***


    Almost forgot silence exists in Stynx too. Before the animals get in and after the hangover starts. The music isn''t louder than the other bullshit going on by the pool table but I''m pretty sure I had them opening half an hour earlier.


    The place''s empty with chairs leaning by the high tables on the right and the poker table at the west corner. The green carpet under warm lantern light bears no trace of the brown blood stein two nights ago. And the most unearthly of them all is the lack of that albino, smirking bartender in long sleeve, black vest all year around.


    I pull a chair down at the counter and fight the urge to poke my head over the row of rivets at the other side of it. Some half-assed decency and the prospect of Lev walking straight out of the dark red curtain had me in check and smoking quietly like a homesick child.


    Out of pure boredom, I bring out the mask bought from cricket''s. Toying it in my hands just made the idea of eventually putting it on more absurd. I read it somewhere its called ''Volto'', a full oval mask in porcelain white that hides everything before my ears except those two eye holes. I''d say it''s made of stiff leather to the touch.


    Between two ceiling lights in black cages emanating yellow lights that barely reflect the strips of metal on the counter, the hollow eye sockets and the golden floral trims at the edge, and the star of the show, the Augur in the middle. It''s made of straight and thick lines, depicting a man in robes of tunic with his hand holding a curling wooden wand. His head raised at the black nothingness of eye hole in seraphic.


    Fitting as hell, this one.


    I stash it in my jacket and snuff the cig butt on the metal counter. The White Russian just walks out of the red curtain, it doesn''t sway an inch as he squeezes through the half-shut gap with an ashtray in hand and clear violence in the first three steps. But as his sharp features through posts of lamps like a speeding night drive, the steps grew mild and the hint of displease by his brows untied.


    "Your nights grow younger by the day." He places the heavy glass ashtray down in front of me and gestures a hand forward like an invitation or a salute. Slim fingers as white as a butterfly specimen.


    On the opposite side of the counter, he puts a hand by the sink and the other one by the waist.


    "Couldn''t tell them apart. The city never sleeps and nor do I." I grin a meek smirk in response and bring out the pack of red on the counter. He nods, then again more compellingly.


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    "What can I get you?"


    Eyes up, head low. He slaps the switch and while the sleeves of his smooth shirt barely stay by his wrist. "Gin and Tonic?" I scratch the side of my tongue with teeth to get the clingy taste of butter out.


    "Rusty nail."


    "At six." He move his hands off the faucet and bends over for the whiskey. "Sure you''re here for business?" A bottle of single malt without age tag between him and I before he moves silently to the back shelf for honey liquor. Left sleeve dragged down just a little as he reaches upward, revealing a part of his arm full of complicated images of a checker and a large ''T''. I¡¯d say his skin is more dark green shades of ink than bleaching white.


    "I''m not planning on staying long." I can almost hear a hum out of him as he holds the bottle by the bottom and brings it here next to the whiskey.


    "Expecting another friend?" He continues, innocently enough as he pulls some hat trick behind the bottles but instead of a rabbit, he''s holding a whiskey glass and a pre-sculpt rock in it clinking the corners, both seemingly out of thick air.


    "Looking for new ones." After some back and forth I sweep the cigarette bud and the black smears off and collect them in the ashtray.


    "Then," I pat off the black prints on my palm while Lev draw a straight line in the air from the pourer by his eye to the glass. He brings a spiraling stir from counter and digs it to the bottom, tilting the spoon end of the rod made the ice resurfaces as well as letting the sweet flow above the whiskey.


    "I suggest you come back later with the crowd or get four more drinks in advance." Lev jokes with slightly hinted brows and clears out the bottles to serve the drink. I take a sip before answering. The first of today couldn''t come sooner.


    Savoring the robust and invasive honey and spice in the tincture carved a yawning path to the bottom of oak and alcoholic finish. Some have it down their throat in one go for the easy swallow, it''s a damn shame to do so.


    "Who said I''m looking for one here?" I let a grinning of teeth slips through edges of the glass and his abruptly raised expression. Blue eyes behind, veil of cold dribbles at the rim of glass from mine. They look far away for some reason.


    "Well, where else would you be looking for them?" He put the stirring rod down in the sink and presses both hands behind the counter, two-button vest strangle his torso like a nut job''s jumpsuit, and as he leans ahead the figure of him grows smaller but the presence of his gesture multiplies. He''s not reaching for a gun right now, the arms spreading further than my shoulder it''s not an ideal way for firearm access. But it is a very palpable foretold of warning and initiative.


    So I shoot mine for the heck of it, nibbling out a cig from the pack beside the ashtray. Lighting it turned the tip into a weathered lily, a bore burst case of lead.


    "Piao Jie." Lev''s vision turns seamlessly left at entrance before shaking. "I know you don''t serve drink while doing business, just like you knew I don''t like the taste of booze for my first drink." Five fingers on the rim of glass I swirl steadily and watch the thickness of the gold melt into amber as the ice collides the sound in an otherworldly quiet place with still chairs, hanging signs, turned-off neons and a bartender breaking me down piece by piece with his sharp eyes.


    ***


    The pale bartender drops the act and wipes his hands dry off a rug by sink. "Tell me about these friends." His voice carries no accent and his tone wears sarcasm as a disguise. Whatever''s behind those eyes switched.


    "Let''s start with the less troubling one." I take a small swig from the glass, the cubs numbs my upper lip for a second. "Does the name Xiao. Mean anything or ring any bell to you? Black hair, about half a notch shorter than me, always wearing gloves....." A frown was repressed by him. "Very well-trained bulldog under the Miss Qin¡¯s wing." Lev hums a dry laugh that makes him look even older than he already looks.


    "Sounds like you already done the work yourself. You want to spend 30 thousand just to hear my voice?" I drag a corner of my lip to cheek, head tilts in the same direction.


    "I paid the good Christian up north a visit already." I lean just a bit closer and bring the glass up for another sip. "Now I need you to give something other than mandatory horse shit I already knew."


    He laughs genuinely this time and draws his hands off the counter and back on his belt. His head is low with those bleeding white brows knit and untie simultaneously. The sharp features of his mirror a statue of an angry Greek god.


    I pull my other leg up the stool footing and my hands move to the pack of cigarettes out of habit and a distinct intuition I won''t like what he''s about to tell me. If he doesn''t refuse this trade altogether.


    A small silence. The irritating ones. Like waiting for the fan to swirl in your direction on a summer morning. When it passes, Lev takes two steps right to the end of the counter and shouts, the loudest I''ve ever heard of him, at the hallway behind me.


    "Push the opening hour back 20 minutes! .....Someone''s got a bone to pick." Couldn''t tell if warden made any response. But the last sentence was undoubtedly directed at me.


    Than. Lev did something unseen again. With proficiency as mixing drinks, he pulls out a king-size, full-white pack of cigarettes with his left hand while the right snake out a zipper.


    "I assume the sacrilegious father didn''t tell you much did he?" With the hard pack as veil, he pulls the spark closer.


    "Told an interesting ghost story. Some¡­.fable." A twitch of mouth behind fingers and the totting fag. A breath came after another, each time breathing out more smoke till the first centimeter''s completely black.


    "All I got for the question are fables as well." He stashes the pack of cigarettes back in his vast. "She''s a myth. A very recent myth."


    "6 months ago, the name came to my notice." He took a puff, like dipping a toe in water. "A closer with excellent skill. Three cases in downtown in broad daylight, four in Little Italy, a couple more in your neighborhood too." Lev extends the cigarette hand at my face on the last sentence, the ember draws closer and I take another sip watching it stop on the ashtray.


    "You smelled something odd?" I ask with a clear answer in mind just as Lev.


    "Good hunches." He let out a bitter smile "Want to try your luck as a broker?"


    "Your market seems oversaturated enough. I''d rather be a bartender." I smile and take another sip to let the image of Xiao....the face of Xiao disappear in my head. Leaving just the figure, the contour. "So what did you find strange about her?" Lev shake his head slowly as the burning ring of cinder between his finger twiddles.


    "I don''t make assumptions. That''s your work." I found myself unknowingly copying his response, shaking my head at his comment.


    "But you''re not a fucking robot. You overthink as well, so come on now." A side of brow''s tilted with the eyelid as he brings the smoke back between lips. A twitch by the eye and a small drop at the corner of mouth.


    "The hits. They look fabricated. Her identity wasn''t done properly. Her handiwork for the Qins appeared in accordant attributes. Precise, clean, but always sloppy at the end, as if she was begging to leave a mark." The burning tip of cig brightens at his indifference. "It''s a bad joke like pulling the bedsheet over a corpse." He hinges the lower lip as if chewing the smoke in mouth. His blue eyes survey the empty bar like he did a million times during rush hour.


    Six months ago.....


    "What I found strange is. She came under the scope six months ago and I hadn''t heard of her at all, wouldn''t that contradict your point?" Lev shrugs at the question but still takes a long drag before responding.


    "She wanted to be seen, but avoid the spotlight. She wants a role to play in the background....." His eyes wander off the surface of the counter and downward while slightly frowning. "That is," He bends down a little and reaches the left hand under the counter. "until she became Qin Yan''s personal bodyguard not long after you disappeared. Now that completed her story."


    "I can strike those conclusions through flair. What else you got?" A flash of alien emotion glazes through his pupils, a faint stretch on both eyelids. The glint itself and the expression ain''t much of a spectacle, but it is unsettling seeing the mischievousness in them.


    "Come to think of it, I also have a brief footage of the woman from not long ago. Do you want to see it?" My thumb slip off the whiskey glass for the sudden pressure of clinching my fist and a skip of heartbeat, that single pump of blood gone to adrenaline and the glass slides five centimeters left.


    First worthwhile thing on her¡­


    "Yes." Words jumped out before anything slightly less patent could muster. Lev crook his brows and puts the cigarette back in his mouth while depicting my every flow of thoughts.


    He takes a hard drag that sunk his cheeks in and the dry Virginia tobacco with little tar moves lazily like a cigar, direct contrary to the massive vail of smoke he puffs out.


    Haphazardly, he takes out a pruning scissor under the counter and cut the brittle tip off the cig. Lev places the rest of it on the groove of ashtray. The whiff of smoke invariably spins through the air like a censer before the leftover on the glass burns out.


    "This way." Lev motions at the curtain in far right corner the color of poisoned blood.

 Rashomon

    Behind the dark red curtains is a confined corridor made of similar designs. Booths, closed curtains despite being empty, each shoves a golden plate hanging down from the ceiling.


    Six in total. Unlike the ebony wooden floor outside, this place is plated with thick burgundy rug. All that you see is either red or shadows of red by the heavy folds of curtain.


    Lev doesn''t lead me in, he stops at an inconspicuous cabin by a small table with rows of opened scotch and a small bottle of champagne next to a bucket of ice. Everything here looks in union but polar from the scene outside.


    Pulling a door open reveals a small TV screen the size of one''s face. Circuits fill the next few slots under with hints of orange light from the switches at the bottom. But what caught my eyes initially was the wall of notes stuck on the door of cabin. In clear ordinances, rows after rows each has a few numbers in quick scribbles and none oversteps or blocks the other.


    "Please excuse the quality and the lack of sound." Lev hid the wall of secrets manually by standing in front of them and plugging the monitor back on with a flip behind the screen.


    The screen flashes and shows the basement outside. Judging from this angle, I made a mental note there''s a camera installed at the left corner between the elevator and the bar entrance door. The footage had clearly been filtered since even with the neon signs on there was no way the basement would be this bright. The edge of the camera view contorts like painting a picture with steel glass.


    .....this ought to be amusing the next time I meet Xiao.


    And he''s not joking about the video quality, it''s shit. Even more so when he claws his finger into the side and pushes the rewind button.


    The screen lets out a loud hiss before it starts doing what''s intended. Even though there''s no sound to the recordings, the very presence of the static is undeniable and surprisingly similar to the ones I have in my apartment building.


    The filtered screen moves to the point when the steel gate opens and I walk backward out all the way to sit on the wall and flashes of light fly themselves back to my fingertips like a low-budget stage play or show of a real magician. The goofy scene runs for about 15 seconds before I collect the boxes of cigarettes on the ground and stash them in my jacket, and moonwalk back into the automatically opened elevator door. Half a second later, those two men and woman rush into the elevator too with rigid movements.


    Then there''s nothing.


    Nothing after the elevator door closes. Sure sometimes people come in alone or in pairs like those two Qins I ran into but most walk straight into the warm incandescent light inside the elevator like moths to a flame, some litter around the ''Stynx'' sign for few seconds(in fast-forwarded time), some even wave at the exact position of the peephole camera on the sign but nothing happens. After a while, the vendors downstairs move their cargos and valuables out, the few Russians at 4th underground strides off to the stairs like they own the whole place, three Japs in vests and one with silver grey hair.


    Lev gives me occasional quick glances but mostly focuses on the screen as well.


    Before the earliest few mercs and vendors, there was nothing. The view of the basement is an inactive scene as if the monitor''s showing a picture except for the numbers indicating the time counting back which is the only proof that the record''s working.......


    "Did you hear shots on your way here?" Lev asks out of the blue with his eyes moved to mine since god knows when. The incoherent and inconsistent statics still bop on and off, and the timer on the left corner is moving past this morning at about 9 o''clock. I turn my head before my eyes would give up on searching for any signs of importance.


    "Quite hard to miss. I heard whistles too." Lev tilts a side of his brow and acts surprised,


    "Whistle?"


    "Radio tuning static." He blinks at my answer with almost perfect confusion in his look, brows ephemeral knitting, thin eyelids squeezing the corner, thinner lips open silently.


    What are you up to this time?


    "That''s what I heard." I shrug and shift my line of sight back to the timer currently at 6 and a half.


    "Sure they weren''t cleaners?" Lev asks with an acerbic tone and a palm massaging his nape. The timer moves to early morning about 4.


    "They came down in a fucking police patrol with ballistic helmet," I answer dryly and start using the little trick taught by that..... homeless- looking fella at the overpass. Painting the image of the basement as a whole and look for anomalies like searching a fly in a white room.


    "Hmph that''s a strange coincidence." A shock of head. He states each syllabus slowly as the timer passes 3 and the last drunk-as-hell patron trots each step and..... disappears in a blink like a shadow.


    Son of a bitch quicken the replay.


    "I heard a police patrol car was stolen two weeks ago......." A slap of pain cracks the side of my head like a short circuit while trying my best to maintain composure. The words of caution from Cal and the patrol car at the corner from yesterday. And by that half a second of cold sweat, the last customer of yesterday had left with the others following not far behind.


    "You think someone''s playing cops and robbers?" Lev let out a condescending smirk while turning his eyes back at the occasional shed of light from the steel gate opening and the elevator door creaking. Customers leave the facility in high spirits or dire need of a crutch, sometimes the patrons from Stynx meet someone from the lower level at the stairs, sometimes they just walk by as if the other person doesn''t exist.


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    But those are all fleeting and abnormally white eyes through the filters, they flash by hardly leaving a trace and barely recognizable like ghosts of midnight. And by the few wasted mugs I can distinguish, not a far stretch.


    "Wouldn''t end well if they are. And if so, begs the question who''s the robber....and where did your enthusiasm come from?" I let out an exhalation like a cough. The timer just passed 12.


    "I thought assumptions ain''t your jurisdiction."


    "It''s not." A thin grin, like a dog showing its teeth.


    But he sure as hell likes to trigger them. The timer past 11 and the drinkers start walking out of the steel gate to greet the warden before walking backwards up the stairs like Nutcrackers. You can almost put a mirror on the timeline between 11:30 to 12:00. Those who left in early morning arrived at midnight, and those who left at midnight came as soon as the place opened.


    As much as everyone loves to hang around this place, a large some of them treat the pub like a billboard tapped with job description sheets. They came, picked up what they wanted, and left a hefty tip. You could see the same flash of a figure going in and out the next second, and as the times push forward back to younger nights this happens more rapidly. At 10 I caught a glint of orange-brown on the camera, ginger must''ve had a clear purpose in mind since he came out 30 minutes later passing a lean figure walking in strides.....


    Warden stop him for a second longer than most. One second of interpretation couldn''t divulge much for the man''s head was bending low, chin touching the collar of his shirt. But the pose of his hands in pocket and arm hugging sleeves up the tight blazer looks.....


    Before I could paint the rest of the picture in my head, the second had passed, warden let in possibly one of the first patrons of that night. And a buzz in the back of my head materialized with a faint pressure on my neck, telling me something was off.


    The edge of my vision catches Lev side glancing at me with an evasive look before shifting them back to the monitor. The flood of customers and patrons and wandering scoundrels and hobos slowly die out as the night grows younger until nothingness reminds the entrance of the market and Stynx what this place truly looks like. Dead and decaying silent. And it keeps it that way for a longer time than last, especially so without Lev''s distractions. He deliberately robbed my attention at 3 am this morning and whatever it was for, succeeded.


    What was he hiding?


    When the neon sign''s off, the color of the basement becomes a unit of a linen grey like a flimsy veil, a brush of lime powder. The still image accompanying the static only gave my paranoia more space to exact its influence.....


    But only until the timer hits 3 again.


    I put my hands in pocket and lean closer to the screen, trying my best to make out the identity of everyone passing through that gate. Three freelancers I''ve never seen walk out first, few vendors from the B5 market with rickety steps, and a figure who greatly resembles Ann strut out a while later......I flinch my eyes at the timer.


    1:27 am.


    Smiling internally at my ability to only run into the ones I despise.


    About a minute on my watch passes and the numbers on the screen dash toward the midnight watershed, as if by cue of some sarcastic make-believes of fairytale. The princess in a black wool coat covering every inch of her skin strides out with complementing lipstick and boots. Though she probably just killed the prince on her way out with those eyes in a storm..... 11:53. Two and a half after I left.


    Well, that is a surprise. She doesn''t drag her present when the due''s met...... few more long-ranging thoughts shot in my head before I was pulled back to the monitor by the sheer amount of patrons leaving and coming in that night. I sure missed a party.


    Faces come and go in the blink of an eye, at some point, all I could focus on was whether I knew the last person. The timer ran particularly slow at the expense of my concentration as each second dissipated. But at some point around 10, I notice the timer slow down. Lev had dialed down the replay speed.


    "Are we getting closer to the footage?" I tilt my face but keep my eyes on the screen.


    "Yes." The bartender answers in a brittle voice like there''s a lump in his throat. "But for clearance, it''s a very brief one.....and you won''t like what you see." Coming up with the ominous tone I guess that lump is laughter which makes me more worried now.


    The timer goes past 10 as both of our eyes lock on the 30 by 30 screen with a resolution worse than Glen Avenue''s peephole. At 9:20 or so a ghostly figure walked backwards down the stairs without a raise of shoulder or glancing back, the full black coat proof to be Vera in all possibilities since I remembered entering Stynx about the same time as...


    Two muffled clicks behind the monitor and the replay speed got dialed down to the normal without any acceleration.


    What in the...


    Lev throws me a confirming look and pulls his hand off the control. Leaning by the closet door, he hugs both arms in front of the chest. Three minutes later, a man in a shaggy, baggy bomber jacket with a face I couldn''t look straight at even in this crude portrait, sidestepped out and walked backward toward the stairs just like Vera, though his steps were in direct contrast, one''s of glided sliver, the other, with everything hooked on his heel.


    He stops the replay.


    ***


    From the stairs, the man in heavy cloth and strange pacing moves closer to under the camera angle. A few knocks on the door ring deep thumps in my head as there are only statics.


    He waits with his arms hanging by the pocket. The door swung open by the clue of light on his cheek, and just now do I realize the man was squinting his eyes unconsciously. His mouth twitches like a puppet.


    Clunk!


    The bartender''s knuckle on the left corner pulls my attention to the stairs behind. Lev then moves his right hand to the back of monitor again.


    The man curves a smile and shrugs tensely but somehow heedlessly at the same time, now at the edge of my view as I''m fixated on the lenient contour in the dark, between the stair handles.


    The chunk of shadow blocking the light finally moves where the screen doesn''t show and the man in a ragged jacket leans in impatiently...A twitch at the back of my head spread to my neck, a shiver down my spine in less than a second as if my nerves aflame. As abruptly as my hunch, Lev stops the replay in motion.


    With the statics growing louder from a mosquito''s buzz to rocks against peddle walks, the screen grows brighter till the floor in front of the bar entrance becomes a glitch...


    And the outline of the figure clears. It prowls behind bars of stair handles with a leg down two stairs, the other crouches down as a balance and torso against it, a looking face above with a blade shaped blank next to it, shimmering in the supposed dark. It''s almost like a motion picture, a visual novel. Each space between balusters conveys a movement, they spell primal violence almost unhinged yet reserved through the stretch of tense muscle that can be observed under this distorted footage.


    The only thing that remains ambiguous is her face, the motionless expression with feral eyes. Her short black hair behind her ears, red dress held no part of her agileness. A perfect knife.


    I breathe in and out the emotions in my head. Turning towards Lev who¡¯s been side-eyeing me in a suggestive manner.


    I nod. He presses play.


    The figure...the woman behind the stairs slips the blade dangerously close to her cheek, before hinging her wrist and pulling her left arm back. The blade hides between her index and thumb, it draws just as I step through the edge of the screen. By the one millisecond before she releases the sling of her arm, just while the pressure at the back of my head crosses the threshold to physical pain. She leaps away.


    Left leg pushes her entire body off the position in bewildering speed as her torso turns swiftly. Four seconds later, the light from within the bar got taken back in a swing of the door.

 Sides of a coin

    "I was told you were acting strange at the front door two days ago." Lev says in an easy tone with shoulder against the closet door. I let out a dry laugh unwillingly through reflexes as my mind''s still trying to convince the other voice the obvious.


    "And what? You got bored on after hour?"


    "Quid pro quo." His pose remain relaxed but the mischievousness can''t be found in them no more. "You know it better than most."


    What you give, what you get.


    One of golden rule of the lanes that keep all the screw looses and psychos in line. Don''t expect no consequences to whatever foul or decent act you commit. Funny how it rhymes with Miss Qin''s tone, and how he mentions it now.


    "Does that mean the service''s on the house?" Lev tilt both brows in a ''What you think?'' I sign sarcastically, the need for a hit''s never this urgent. "In that case,..Think you can mange another drink before the business hour?" The White Russian shut the panels and gestures an open hand at the heavy drapes behind me, as much a yes as denial.


    Splitting the burgundy red apart leads back to the relatively lascivious space and the rare sight of warden sitting on a stool, minding a half empty bottle of beer.


    Didn''t even know they have it in stock.


    He gives a glance at us walking out the booth and each find their spot on sides of counter, then takes swig with his head lean a bit backwards. The stool under the giant squeaks a whimper.


    "One drink." Lev tog the blackened-tip filter on ashtray, letting it slip down the groove of the ashtray before taking it down the counter. "I don''t want a circle of ashtray at the front." I nod and a peek at warden at one of the tables by black washed wall at southeast.


    "Bobby burns." Might as well, since it''s the last drink of today. Lev gets in motion wordlessly a hand on the Benedictine from earlier, a brush on the labels of whiskies on shelf.


    Xiao wants me dead isn''t unspoken for. I finally let the thought stuck at my throat goes further up my mind. She expressively made it clear many times at the start of last night. Fuck me, actions were taken too. The first time I''m outside Qin Yen''s room, that wasn''t a bluff of any means. The girl''s eyes don''t lie.


    Bartender slips a scoop of rocks in a Boston shaker, brittle edges on stainless steel sounded like a squeal without the music''s blur, more so when he drops a stirring rod in it.


    Nonetheless. A rush of spite isn''t the same as sneaking into a basement full of mercenaries just to put a hit on me. Still, those actions was before me and her got ....well. aquatinted sounds off. Cognize''d be more plausible.


    A hint of pressure nags my nape, it''s not of oppressive nature, more of a brush. I lean my body on the counter, squeezing my arms before cocking my head to the right as my eyes tilt at the same direction to see warden indolently taking a swig of the small bootle in comparison to his palm. He gives another nod when he founds my glance.


    "You look calm enough to stay sober." I turn around to lev''s dry remark as the strainer blocks the cubes from pouring out with the liquor. I smiles bitterly with a corner of mouth dropping. Knowing me well, (As infuriating as it is) he serves the drink without twist or cherry. Two fingers at the base of cocktail glass, he maneuver the glass over the outspread counter designed to be just out of reach for someone trying to grip the bartender''s neck or use a club or knife on him. It also lets him play tricks by pulling whatever the fuck he desires under the counter.


    "Let''s just say she''s not the most pressing matter." I turn the glass half a circle to see if the dribbles on its exterior''s on the same level under the edge before taking a sip. It tastes sweet without leaving emphasis on the strong booze and a chocolate finish reminds me the pack of black in my jacket. The drink, despite the soothing taste, ain''t no Sunday afternoon shit.


    Lev picks up the cigarette he castrated earlier and lit it up again. With his index and thumb on the filter, he looks at the a spot above the ceiling before darting down at me.


    "....I just remembered something after those videos."


    I crow a brow.


    "I''m listening."


    "The woman on camera, Xiao. She was across the street on almost every night in the past couple of weeks." I raise both brows.


    "Spying the entrance?"


    "Presumably. Two nights ago was her first attempt on anything else." I take a sip to digest the information which leads to the same conclusion, she really hates the idea of having me as a courier or associating with Qin Yen.


    "Didn''t knew you got c¨¢maras outside the market too." I joked through a


    "We don''t." He takes a quick drag that squeezes his thin lips to the side. "I just happen to notice her every single day when I''m leaving."


    ...Don''t know why but the idea of Lev living outside Stynx is so unnerving. But this piece leads to another insight. Why, as a bodyguard, could she spent so much time away from the employer?


    I''ve never seen Lev leaving the pub, his opening and closing hour fluctuates but usually sits around 4 to 6 am. Which means Xiao had spent most of her nights in the past weeks stalking the entrance. I doubt she was task to find me like Nan, those two are like water oil. Which means she did all this under her own choose. Accompany with the fact Xiao''s unaware of why dear Miss Qin chose me as the start of the show even though her position''s suppose to be the closest. The dynamic between those two is...bemusing from what little information I have and the few instances of their interaction two.


    And then there''s the grinning asshole seamlessly standing among all the mess so far....


    "Hey Lev! I got your biggest tip this week for a simple question." He dust off the pilling ash by the sink and motions forward with his left arm on his end of counter.


    "I thought the drink stuffed it back down your pipe." I smile and push the drink bit farther to rest my elbow.


    "Do you remember a man goes by Nan? Nan Shi Pei, bout as tall as me, sleek as shit, grins all the time. He works for the Qins as well although not too sure where he stands......Oh." I take a sip and gesture my left hand backwards without noticeable direction. "And he was at your nice little establishment couple days ago."


    Lev frowns lightly but oppose the same demeanor, he brings the cigarette back up for a quick puff before leaning back up with left hand in pocket. "I don''t gossip about my own patrons."


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    I almost chuckle at his response before a take a swig of the drink, the heaviness of those sweet are showing.


    "Then how''d you respond when he asked about me?" He roll his eyes to the corner as if recollecting.


    "Said I haven''t see you in while." He shrugs.


    "How''d he respond?" He takes a drag.


    "Some bullshit and a hefty tip."


    "How much was it?"


    Leaving the cigarette between lips, the bartender raises his spider like hand, spread out like a dome and wobbles like a bird between our eyes. The lamps on either sides casts shadows of scarecrows down. I slowly breathes out as his motionless eyes.


    I reach to the envelopes in my jacket as he retracts his hand under the counter. I pull out the last two in them, white sheets wrinkled up by ludicrous amount of cigarettes.


    Placing them side by side between us on the metal counter adds a layer of starkness on the warm lights.


    "Quid pro quo?" Lev acts taken back with brows that couldn''t move the eyelids. He tilt to the left supposedly to warden and a slip of winsomeness laughs with those eyes. I take another sip and that turned to a swig.


    "Certainly." He swipes those envelopes away like a dealer to a table of bust out. Hell, he even dress like one.


    ***


    "He came 2 months after you disappeared." Twirling whatever, Lev got both of his hands on under the empty space of metal counter. "Smiles like a dog, dress like a blue blood, acts like a jester....truthfully he kind of reminds of you." I give him a look, he returned a quick raise of brows before carrying on.


    "He wasted no time, by the end of first visit half of the patrons knew him and knew who he was looking for." He tilts his eyes to warden behind me for a silent second and resume focus back under the counter. "Told folks he had some rumors he thought you would be interested, next time he said he got something with your name on it, two days later he said he''d been admiring your ''work atheistic'' for a while and would like to meet you in person." Sounds like him alright.


    "They bought his nonsense?" Lev shrugs and takes a step left to open the faucet.


    "They love things like this, adds to the topic of your disappearance without a cost." He takes another glance at warden while I ponder the amount of bullshit about me they cooked over these time.


    "And you?"


    "Not interested." I take a quick sip.


    "Lev."


    "I was occupied." He states dryly and tilt his eyes up behind me again, but this time a squint of eye made him move two more steps to


    the left in an instance and draw his lengthy left arm in the air when a humming, round whoosh draws my attention too. As I turn around almost too late to witness the brown beer bottle flies horizontally across the bar, as it rotates to the second spin precipitously to lev''s open palm.


    Issuing a wet splash and a low ''tin'' from the empty bottle.


    Wordlessly, he kicks open a dumpster under and let the bottle slipped off his...still surprisingly pale palm. "And talking to him is same as running circles in a cage. Furthermore," Turning off the faucet, he brings the whisky glass I used earlier under the light, twirling the rim with a drop of mouth before placing it down by the lowest shelf behind him. "I already knew who he is the second he came in." I twitch a smile by the mouth and gulp the liquor with a tilt of head, a rush of light tinges crawls down my throat as a scent of herbal sweet climbs up.


    "It doesn''t bother you that an affiliated man''s sniffing around your bar?" I ask half heartedly, knowing how the rule of no gang members allowed was mostly legislated by the drinkers instead of him. Unsurprisingly, he let out a bitter smirk.


    "Why would I? He didn''t state it out loud or try to start trouble, the most he did was annoyed a couple of customers. They have a pretty good idea where he''s from." Lev did a short pause turn back to where I presume the sink is. "Just so you know, he goes by Dai in the Stynx." Lev gives me a foretelling look at the end, though I wasn''t paying enough tension to tell if it was a heads-up or a suggestion.


    "I''ll bear that in mind." Lev crook an eye up but doesn''t say anything. I take another sip of the cocktail and find myself looking at an empty glass. "Anything else. At all?"


    "Nothing more than what you knew," He shrugs. "Which I think is much, much more indicative." I let out a sign and slide the empty glass halfway across the table before he catches it. For the first time in a while, I''m out of ideas.


    "Lev. I''ve been up on him for two fucking days and I got jack shit. Come on, give me something more than rumors to work with." With my last plead uttered, the bartender rinsing the coupe glass smiles.


    "That''s the point I''m afraid." He speaks in a candid tone that objects his usual demeanor.


    "Some said, he was with the southern branches of Triad before escaping to Faust." Reaching a bit further to open the faucet, Lev''s line of sight stays lower than the counter. "Some said he was associated with the syndicate and when they cut all ties and bounced, he was left behind and the Qin''s took him in." A sharp squeak turned my head to meet warden''s incredulous look, with his giant palm supporting his head from falling to the table that would probably break. "Some said he was a boxing champion, winning fights he was supposed to lose. Now he''s repaying the debt owed to the old man." An audible exhalation escapes his closed lips. He turned off the faucet, raise the glass at the lights, and place it back on the shelf behind him.


    "See the problem here?" Brown eyes looking down. My eyes fall to the counter.


    "The rumors are all directed to his past."


    "Indeed. Unlike your previous request. Xiao, I honestly doubt her existence was fabricated before you lured her here. She''s a ghost without the flesh. Nan Shi Pei, is however real." Wet hands on the counter, his shoulder rises and fall. "He done all you could''ve imagined in Paio Jie, sending five Russians to hospital made him an impression. You could spot him walking down the street there any day, people know him and so does he. But there''s nothing else, no record in the police force, no reminiscing by alcohol, no supposed acquaintance. As if he was born only six years ago."


    I observe Lev carefully as he laid it on deliberately. The man isn''t as much a mute as warden but never was talkative neither, now with his hands on the edge of counter, knuckles hinting a dark purple under the pale skin, head slightly tilted forward. It''s hard to look past his obvious interest in the Man from Piao Jie as well. I suppose that''s why he allowed the jinx to wander around his pub. But for what reasons beyond me, maybe he''s trying to filled the cover the blind spot in on his web.


    "Astute assumptions." I smile feebly. Lev takes in a deep breath and let go of his hands, the momentary rush of blood on his face had worn off as the translucent white returns.


    "I''m afraid that''s all I can offer you."


    "Not much more than when I walk in, but I''d prefer spending my Sunday morning''s here than the church of parral." Few tabs on the metal counter and a spin, I''m off the chair feeling an unexplainable dizziness. Took a solid second standing straight to realize I''m just tired, more than I care to realize.


    "You know, there was a fuzz about him and you when he first came." Lev explains abruptly with a plain voice hiding a laugh. With my hand on the back of stool I shrug and lean in.


    "Humor me."


    "Some, few thinks he''s akin to you. Splitting image even." Lev says in a whimsical tone while eyeing the warden. I coughed out a primordial laughter as some very instinctive disdain inside my chest flows through my vain.


    "Care to give me a list of the people?" The owner of Stynx smiles and reach both hands under the counter again.


    "I''ll be on the top then." A pop came through the speakers suspended on the corner of ceiling, then statics came as if nails in a pot. "Truth been told, I thought it was you when he walk across the corridor." He raises his shoulders while keeping his sight under.


    Now that''s just blend slander.


    "Kind of hurtful calling one of your longest surviving patron a distasteful cunt." He shakes his head slowly as the statics grow louder.


    "Rest assure. The notion didn''t last." The pops turned more rhythmic through a layer of electronic over it. "As far as similarity goes, I''d say he''s a much more enthusiastic person than you without the puffs. You two are sides of a coin, identical but different. As one''s up the other''s hidden, when both''s up you''re spinning around to catch each other''s tail." He shrugs at his own metaphor. Among them I found an odd perspective.


    "Although there''s one thing differentiating you two." I raise my brow in accommodating anticipation. The pops finally turned into drums as the screeches in the back became growls of electronic guitar.


    "Which is?"


    "Pride." His eyes a cold glint as the eyelids open up a little more. "He''s an extremely prideful person underneath the jestering and fronting." I let out a quick laugh which sounded hollow and dry. "More than you let out..... prideful men are most dire. And you''re chasing an egotistical one."


    I let his words settle in mind as music''s volume steadily goes up to you can physically feel the waves of riff on the back of your ear. Some notes of the intro solo sounds familiar but my head refuses to produce an answer, any answer really. Leading the willing, derailing the reluctant.


    "Thanks for the drinks." I''ve dwell their business long enough. I reach for coins in pocket only to find it short again. I curse under breath and go for the wallet to which Lev raises his palm.


    "You paid enough." Wrinkle climbs along my brow as I nod at his sober look in Milky Way deep blue, hard to read as usual. A squeak from behind, I turn around and warden''s already standing by his spot next to the reinforced entrance. A piece of paper filled with neat italics on the table he was at. "Good luck, kid."


    I wave a hand over my shoulder as I walk past the empty seats that''s about to be cramped with enough voices and whatever''s to bury even the blaring music.


    "<em style="font-family: georgia, palatino">Outside on the turnpike, they got this new hit tone.....thrills become as cheap as gas and gas as cheap as thrills......"

 Dead end calling

    Walking out the door of Stynx, I''m met with three pairs of bewildered, then annoyed eyes in the dark.


    "Ladies and gentlemen! We''ve got a hierarchy system in hand, us scum of the earth can''t even get a fucking drink without the pub being graced by il giullare eletto!" Aussie, the woman standing closest to the entrance, declares with a forcible sway behind her steps gaining straight at me, to which I let the itch at the back of my palm turn into a smirk on my face and get in character.


    "You wanna play three straight hours of poker with Lev for a tab old enough to be my son?" As I walk through the small gap Warden squeezed out for me, she stops practically inches away from the door slide. Pale breasts sagging every year are strangled in place by a black halter top under overdryed horse leather, resulting in a shimmer of sweat on her cleavage that shines an eerie lit of teal and green by the neon sign. And my shoulder got way too close to that wolf of a woman that my nose¡¯s filled with unbalanced hormones and cheap opium perfume.


    My eyes met her green ones dapper with sleeks of black. And they speak quite a contrast to her lousy demeanor before rolling up to warden behind me.


    "Pleasure?" The hunk asks.


    "Pleasure." Aussie responds with a tilt of chin. The tail of her ''r'' can roll a man to the sky.


    Two steps forward by the turn of stairs, Baboa''s leaning his back and left boot sole against the wall. His eyes circle around my wrist and neck from a foot above and gives a nod, walking off to the only man that''s as physically intimidating as him.


    The third pair of eyes are Ginger''s, the little shit seems to be in a bad mood today. Sitting on the stairs, staring straight at the graffiti on concrete wall. As I walk around him on the decrepit stairs, all he does is nudge his leg over the other. Didn''t even mention seeing me with the cop last night. And truth be told, I would''ve neglected it anyway.


    ***


    6:34 Lanes tonight felt bleak. Not as run-down, just inert on purposes. I crack a few tense joints from cramping up on Lev''s counter and head west, letting the notions in mind run their course to the other side.


    What I gather today are fragments and rumors, myths. Two of the best broker up north the results are a pile of sand mixed with sharp glasses and cat shit.


    I''m not surprised about Xiao, anyone who was brought up to light usually had a thorough background wipe, especially considering she''s afflicted. But Nan now bothers me more, with his fucking attitude and personality it''s hard to imagine how little folks know of him, add to that constant reminder to not seek who he was before the Qin''s came to power.


    A slither of light from above runs slothfully by, as the cab driver spits through the window before accelerating again. I watch it gun through the inside lane in a roar and a squeak at the red light as he pokes his head out, shouting famine pronoun for animals. And not a soul told him to shut the fuck up.


    The NDU raid at east got the lanes in its best behavior. Shame, that''s the end for me tonight. Not many reasons to stick around gossiping, folks would be fixated on the national reapers at their doorstep that they wouldn''t even realize their house''s on fire. Besides, I''m tired. Of all the little things, and the constant pressure from all sides, and the lasting, growing scratch in my head, telling me to puff it all off to liquor and random companies....


    Drifting thoughts spouting wiled at the expansion of my weariness and the running neons waiting at every turn and blink.


    Fuck me. It''s only been three days. I squint my eyes to the uninvited purples under my eyelids and found myself back on the same street this noon. Dean''s tacky sign devoid of any prominent feature hangs across the block and a clearing. One of the windows at the back of the kitchen shows a dim light.


    A strangely fitting idea materialized in mind. The idea of walking in with a bottle to trade dinner and a chance for another talk. An idea before my phone rings.


    I fish the blasted thing out of my pocket with a grunt and flip it open, at first glance I thought it was some fuck-knows-who but as my line of sight lowers a single inch below the numbers, it reads:


    Scrooge up north.


    I sign unconsciously and turn towards where I came from. Bringing the phone up, my heart a mix of directions leaking adrenaline and a yearning for easier nights.


    "Callejero, get over here." Not a forcing tone, more of an exhaustion.


    "Good evening old man, wasn''t expecting you to be this quick." A series of static in the form of broken potteries came through with a murmur. "Did you find anything?


    "Eh, well.....just get over here! It''s faster to see for yourself." With that ambiguous comment, he hangs up. Somehow at that moment I just knew, I ain''t going to get much sleep tonight.


    ***


    I hailed a cab with a broken meter, and got there as soon as possible. During the ride, a sense of tension keeps gripping sides of my chest like a cage, it''s purely intuition and prophecies from chemical reactions in my head as the voice in my head keeps warning me about something to come. Midway, out of boredom I roll all the way back to check the last time Uncle called me. By the time I found it, the driver had reached the narrow horizontal street leading to the loan shark''s neighborhood.


    "Here''s fine." The driver rolls his eyes back and pulls over. With much on my mind, I give the biggest tip I''ve ever given but that''s an afterthought.


    Vieja Tortola''s lights are off, and there''s no sign of Cal or his crew. Hell, there''s no sign of life on the entire street. The shops that are open look pretty eager to shut early as well, the pedestrians walk with hands in pockets and eyes rolling left and right.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Few lights, feeble blows of wind, the signs above are still on like fire exit light in an empty, perfectly smooth hallway. I can feel the gaze of almost every single passerby followed by quickening steps as I do too.


    About two shops away from Javier''s place, I turn and dive into the alleyway where I first met him. Standing next to a dead rat being chewed by other rats, I pull out the bulky 9mm and check for safety as well as the condition of the chamber. Lifting up my left sleeve, I pull the first centimeter of the dagger out to release the resistance from the detent bump. Covering it up again, I stretch my arm and pull all my focus to both my ears.


    20 paces from the alley. Standing in front of the bulletproof door. I knock in three quick successions and place both hands on waist, right on top with my thumb nudging the butt of knife.


    Listen. The pawn shop''s floor is cheap tiles plated, responding to the slightest clacking and there are no mats on the first floor. And now, a step forward tilting to the side. I can hear a pulsating but cadaverous set of plops, behind the thick bulge of steel the sounds are as if chains wrestling. And it''s growing louder.


    I draw my left foot back behind torso and change my left hand to position on abdomen as my line of sight slithers to the surrounding of mostly empty alleyways.


    The plops turn to thumps and to steps that contradict my growing heartbeat as it skips between one and two.


    On the seizing of steps, the slide opens at eye level for a single instance, halfway. During that blink of an eye I caught uncle''s tiresome glance of dim grey before it closes follow by a series of bolts against locks. The door swings open a seam on the left.


    His expression goes through multiple stages before uttering as boredom, alertness, and bewilderment come in line while his eyes move up and down my hand by jacket before letting out a breath tainted by the smell of that putrid Indian smoke. In fact, he reeks of it, more than usual. The hand on door frame, lips sucking in and out glistening, his soiled tank top.


    "If you''re not in a hurry to kill me, get in. I just finished." Leaving that two inch wide seam, Javier turned back inside barefooted.


    I let out a short smirk scorning my gradually worsening intuition and push the door open with my arm on the frame.


    ***


    The second I walk in, an extremely unpleasant stench engulfs you, from behind, under your shirt, your skin, as if hugging and dissecting you with its mix of rotten egg, chemical burning scent and actual burning of the fiftieth bidis in that cramped ashtray decorated like a crown by those half done cig butts.


    The only illumination is the one above the counter, in the middle of the light is the plastic bag from last night. Only now the blades of lid are open with the blade still shimmering with dots of silver and blue.


    Javier didn''t even bother crossing the barricade around the counter. He picked up one of the still-burning fag and clench it between teeth in a ludicrous manner as if poking the tip of his tongue out. Left arm on the counter, he takes an inhale then nib it with two fingers in the air, he opens his mouth but nothing comes out as he shuts it in the next instance. He looks much older in a day.


    "Did you find out what kind of layer is on the piece?" I encourage him in a nod at the blade looking....identical toyesterday. And it sure as shit got him talking.


    "No I didn''t find out what the layer''s made of, I couldn''t even chip a pinkie''s worth of metal off the fucking thing!" With an aggressive slap of hand towards nowhere, the tip of ash on the cig flies off to lord knows where though he doesn''t seem to notice, and takes another drag. The spark brightens on impact on his thumb as he drops and stomps it on the ground.


    "Last night," He mops the remaining ashes off on his tank top. "I left it in the box for an hour or so for a grab. And when I came back, founding this hijo de puta unchanged I switch a recipe, then another, and another...until I give up and use something stronger." His voice''s coarse and a thorn, at the end of the explanation Javier made a suggestive gesture to the space between us and the box in question. "And it did jack shit. So I used acid."


    So that''s where the smell....


    "Wait. What kind of acid?"


    "...Mutriac acid...."


    So it''s not oxide hybrid ....now I''m convinced this man''s luck will carry him to immortality.


    "Wouldn''t that kill you if you got it wrong?" Javier laughs with a nasal grunt.


    "By the time I was certain the coating couldn''t be dissolved through chemicals. So I moved on to physical approaches." I hum silently, thinking about just how much torture this thing endured.


    "I suppose it didn''t work either?"


    "Oh. What gave you the idea?"


    "Your eye bags." Uncle rolls them back.


    "En Santa Maria little.... In conclusion, I''m done." With that, he pulls the unblemished piece out of the box and reaches all that way back under the counter to get the sheath as well. "I won''t bother with commission this time just get it off my face." Irritation and exhaustion made the words coming out of his mouth winded and low. He forcefully aligns the blade in sheath and pushes it to me in a fist.


    The ebony wood and gold-plated locket remain quiet under the light. I grip it in my left hand. The metal¡¯s cold against my palm and all the carves and turns on it hold the textual of a fingerprint.


    "And what if I''d like to sell it?" He simply shakes his head and the corner of mouth lengthens to the cheeks.


    "Not to me. And I wouldn''t suggest trying your luck." Few breaths hang in the air of pungent whiff. "Remember that old auction menu? Well, I made a few calls in between tests. Turns out some of my colleagues''s acquaintances were invited to the party." I raise a side of brow.


    "What? I get curious too." The bony old man''s eyes temporarily find mine before wandering off in recollecting. "It was quite a spectacle in their lane. The house had never released so many items and invitations in one auction before." I hum in encouragement and pull out a pack of black to distract myself from the unpleasant toxin with one more kind to my lungs.


    "Now, those cocksuckers weren¡¯t too keen on details. I''ve found three participants and none of them are willing to discuss the results of the auction, but....." Soon as he draws his eyes back on the vile mountain of cigarette butts, I reach out with the pack of black to stop him from turning this place into a concentration camp shower. He blinks twice in a sulking expression but eventually nib one between his dry lips. I pass him my lighter as well before he pulls another grill torcher out of nowhere.


    "Gracias." He mumbles.


    "Si...estabas diciendo?"


    "Aye, so, the rich cocksuckers. They talk circles around topics but there''s one thing that all of their statements aligned. The Zhang Dao didn''t show up at auction....." He hands me back the lighter after the sparks passed on to the tip of fag. He takes a long drag, and the lines on his face deepened as well as brows fixated. "It tastes like a bad Valentine picture."


    "Appreciated input. Can we get back to the three cocksuckers and the auction?" Uncle takes another puff and frowns as if proofing his own statement.


    "They said, it was canceled out of the blue during the break before the show starts which made a pretty big fuzz among the participants. And one of them rumored it was stolen." Javier opens his empty palm and brown-washed filter with a condescending look.


    "Sounds about right for a rumor."


    "It did. Until I squeeze out the location of the auction from my...previous colleague." Now''s my turn to take a puff. And Javier seems quite enjoying himself retelling all of this.


    "I''m listening."


    The cigarette between his index and middle finger tilts upward as he holds a fist. "Here. It was held at Faust two years ago. At European shoebox." Javier lowered his chin, pupils and brows a twitch. I wave him off as well as a sign to continue.


    "The Grand Hotel. I know the place well." Two or four streets south of Club 57, closer to Piao Jie than anything I could think of. It''s a block of trees and white pillars, balconies and jazz club, cigar under canopy. Also the shortest building mass downtown, sitting amidst high rises and Embassy Road. Extravagant smell and conservatism look. "Though I fail to see where this is going." I put the cigarette back in mouth and lift my left sleeve. And uncle, as if didn''t hear me, continues.


    "Any traces of the lot ended at the hotel, the catalog I showed you was its last record...until this morning." A glint by the round edges of grayish white in his eye, we both took a smoke in sync as the quiet simmering sound of tobacco ignited fills the blank between us.


    "Querido t¨ªo, what did you do?" I ask in a bitter smirk. The old crook grins with teeth out.

 Suo periculo egit

    "I paid some visits down south this morning. Figured it''s my best shot if I wanna found anything." His smirks stay as the run of passion in his voice differentiates greatly from his usual self and the tones when I first arrived.


    "Didn''t know you have friends in Piao Jie."


    "Hmph, well I doubt half of them will ever talk to me again." A twitch and a drop of mouth were quickly covered by a shrug. "The first few suckers at the outer rims and ¡®carriage track¡¯ either knew none or tried to swindle me, me!" Uncle pats on his prominent rib cage and repeats it in an offended tone as if I didn''t catch the absurdity.


    "Besides them, the rest just lock their mouth tighter than a Cambodian smuggler in questioning. Showing the page in the catalog seems to trigger some gene code in y''all pendejo''s blood...." He takes a drag to quench his growing fret and rests his skeleton arm back on the counter. During which, I already had a clear idea of how his little trip ended.


    Most likely he figured out why I came to him for the blade instead of Piao Jie.


    "So I went a couple miles further down that nasty place. There''s a guy named Lou....whatever I call him Lou. He¡¯s been running in my field of for a long time, known him for even longer. And he''s much, much more flexible to his own principles." A pause by the uncle as he brings the cig back in his mouth unconsciously. When he''s breathing out the flavored white loaf, his eyes reluctantly roll to the edge of the filter where they print the logo and name.


    "I get a feeling you had fun playing detective." Uncle snores, sucking in a veil of smoke enchanting near him.


    "Keep up the bullshit and I''m going to revise my commission." Javier spares a finger to scratch his left eye bag. "Lou''s not just in the pawn business. He got a place in the Cantonese neighborhood and dozens of warehouses across the city but most importantly, he''s got connections to the chinks." And here we go. "Unlike the others, he didn''t react much when I showed him the page, not on the surface." He lets out a short chuckle with acerbic tone hidden in the soundless end.


    "No. He''s a professional. Ese bicho raro... He took a good look at the page and brought a thick as all hell Chinese dictionary, and starts yapping about that jade pendent hanging on the pommel, remember?" He swirls a lil circle in the air with the almost extinguished bud. Funny enough, I can tell his painting the shape of that piece.


    "The one with ''Qin'' on it?" The circle turns to an open palm and just as quickly, he snuffs the last bit of cig to the pile on the ashtray, the straight brown filter makes it stand taller than the other.


    "Aye. Now he said, the one on auction book was exaggerated." With his right hand back on his waist, the tone of his voice turned around subtly. "The history was at least....you know a bit of Mandarin don''t ya?" He asks, with lips slightly agape after the sentence. I straighten my posture a bit and reach past the dagger and uncle to dust off the ashes gathered on tip.


    "You know damn well of that." A hum.


    "The word ''Qin'' looks about as identical as a thousand years ago to today. But there are still nuisances according to him." Javier shrugs off these words. "The way of writing it, he said. The lower part is slightly different whatever the fuck does that mean... and you wouldn''t happen to know anything about it?" A raise of brown and corner of mouth without much cordial behind. I return him with a real one.


    "Do I look like a goddamn calligrapher or historian?" The remark brings the stretch of smirk wider and he waves it off like a stench.


    "He was convinced of two things. First, the piece is a modern remake, not an actual antique, because of the pendant and the condition of the metal from picture." A slow inhale is auditable when standing a knife''s reach from him. "Second, it could very well belong to the emperor''s family."


    "Can''t say the resemblance doesn''t manifest. The sharks do have a habit of collecting Chinese antiques, heard the family got a private museum of sorts." I play it off as much as my enthusiasm carries. Javier simply nods. "But why would they sell a piece just to nag it from auction? Assuming Lou''s intuition is valid."


    "He has pictures."


    "Of?"


    "Private rituals and initiations in the inner circles of the Qin." Two fingers run a circle in the air, he explains half-heartedly. I laugh a short chuckle.


    "Those information sounds ambiguous coming from a pawn shop owner. And he put a lot of trust in you to give these information." Uncle shakes his head with pursed lips.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "I''ve told you. He runs much more than shops and collaterals, him and I go a long way back. Look," Javier takes a step forward to my shoulder''s reach, standing upright with both hands out and unsure of where to reside. His gray eyes are certain, the color dims flat, but all the other little signs lie. "I know it''s sketchy. This whole thing about the piece. Mierda, I''d agree with you. Which is why you should drop it, don''t try to nag from this..." He cocks his line of sight at the knife in sheath sitting quietly on table. "Or anything from this cursed tribulation. The water''s way too deep, even I can''t see the bottom of it. And I''d dump it in the canal if I were you. It speaks nothing but trouble."


    "I''m not trying to make a buck from it Javier¡­Tell you what," One more time, I put on the mask of sincerity. Small frowning, nostril opens a little with long inhales, muscles around mouth tenses. Eyes wide open. "Tell me everything Lou told you and I''ll drop it, completely. So both of us can forget about it." Javier nudges the corner of mouth into a strange angle with head crooked, look more like a compromise than a confirmation.


    He fixes himself and walks past me, through the batwing and back behind the counter. The focused light paints a veil of shadow on his expression.


    "He wasn''t too thrilled to see me at first. After all, I couldn''t even remember the last time I reached the bastard. Nothing a couple of trip down old times can''t fix. We talk about how the world was shit and is heading towards a deeper shit with worse market prospects in all lines of work including ours. Then he told me he''s semi-retired and nowadays it''s either tending the shops or occasionally working as an appraiser for the family." I whistle a low tone. And make a mental note of this man.


    "He caught a glimpse of a variation of the dagger years ago while on commission. It was just sitting there, on the table next to a ball of oranges." Javier¡¯s laugh was crude and coarse. "Not exactly this one or the one in the catalog. But no mistaking its origin. The photo was an accident, he caught a glimpse in frame while documenting his work at the Qin estate. Then he got curious." Uncle clears off the acid-proof box and rests both elbows in front, leaning in like any other day. "When I asked him about its origin he started jumping circles like a circus lion, but something he''s generous or uncaring enough to disclose is that ''Zhang Dao'' aren''t actual antiques. But the blades are true works of old art. Sharper than all and more enduring than I have it credit for." He lets out a faint smirk at the end of his own eyes.


    "Did he tell you anything about the auction?" I exhale a sign unintentionally for now I''m sure this is another dead end.


    "He skimmed through it and denied knowing anything. I''m not as much as keen as you are with glim I admit. But he was surprised underneath when he saw the dagger in the catalog. Said it''s impossible, said the family would never hand it to outsiders let alone sell it to an auction house." I hum a groan. It¡¯s¡­.thought provoking that the dagger would appear in an auction. Honestly, It never crossed my mind that there''s more than one.


    "In the end, he gave the same advice as I''m giving you. ''Drop it. Forget about it. Don''t even touch it if it falls by your feet.''¡­..Over seven years with those chinks changed him." Old man states without contempt or scornfulness. Whimsical maybe. "He used to be the greediest cabr¨®n I know, now he''s holding onto a steady retired lifestyle like a mother to her infant son." Shaking his head lightly behind the light makes him seem as if a phantom. "Bad business. All of it." He says.


    "T¨ªo. I won''t question your decision, but I have to ask. Do you believe everything he said?" A laugh turns into a sign.


    "I doubt the photo''s legit. But I don''t doubt his words, not a single one. I know his lies well, therefore I know his truth as well." I can only answer with a dull nod. An irritation at the end of numbing void grips me slowly.


    "Then I suppose that''s it." I get off the counter and pick the dagger up in a grip to put it in my inner pocket, the thing fits just about where the handle reaches my chest. And I pull out a carton of black special from the same pouch. "Your commission."


    Uncle was about to roll his eyes back but didn''t for some reason. Standing there, I leave my vision on the floor and check all the little unimportant nuisance but he doesn''t utter. So I do it for him.


    "Ask away before it kills you.¡± He sucks them lips in for moister and gently takes the carton of cigarettes behind the counter, and comes back up with those moving grayish white swarming towards me like the end of a tube.


    "....I don''t care where you stole it. Only if you meant it about tossing it off the river." I grin. 23 hours overdue but he finally speaks his initial thoughts on the piece. The man has a much more precise intuition than mine, and that dagger must spell it all wrong in his eyes.


    "Of course." I straighten the wrinkles on my jacket from stuffed inner pockets. "When have I go back on promises?" I squeeze out a smile with corners curling down. He nods. Not much in confirmation, more as compromises.


    The cold pommel nags my chest on each step, somewhere above my heart. A pressure thus spread like a steady drum.


    ***


    Wandering in the Lane''s backstreet at 7 or so never felt so surreal. I can see the brick-paved, concrete-filled road bare and naked without much else to pay my mind to. Animals are behind open cages, loiters and freelancers are mostly gathering what happened at West today. Some doors shut, some folks are coming out in large groups, hugging shoulders and turning heads. The air inhabited our behaviors with a smell of rustling salt by sea and a voice in my head getting louder with howls and scorns.


    It''s not just the atmosphere. As I walk my way back to the closest metro station at Via Martinase. The mood and the breaths, the steps changed from tensely casual to oblivious strides and strolls. You can tell the number of pedestrians on sidewalks dwelled, but that''s news away from downtown and its surrounding terrain. Just like the Asian in rugged clothes hanging his head by the notch under his throat is nowhere near your concern.


    It''s not just the atmosphere. It''s the slow loss of my patience. A day of crawling around, sniffing around like a dog behind someone''s. And I got none but gossip and myths.


    Xiao tried to kill me two nights ago. This is the only thing evidential. But it gets me nowhere further than where I was except more implications about her and Nan''s troubling past. A laugh almost comes out while I''m riding the circular line. Wonder if they had the same experience digging up my dirt? A smirk hangs in front of my tired and sardonic mind, the rest of the ride went uneventful due to me not paying much attention.

 Extra story: Sherlin wake up !

    "Sherlin wake up." He states with them hollowed cane banging the railing of balcony, all of a sudden the honking from the midday traffic introduced itself back to life.


    "Sherlin wake up!" The woman in rocking chair had blood on half of her face but it couldn''t change the fact that the contour of the slide, from the end of her blood-stained and hair-tagged forehead to the bump of her nose at the halfway point of the bridge. A fine work of man and woman hating each other''s guts, only an urge to get away could dim the sculptural features of hers the melancholy they all carry by the cave of shoulder.


    "Sherlin!" The cane struck from left to right and cracked a lump on the tile behind the rocking chair. She lumps over unmoved but fairly conscious, just as the way a character in a painting. The only measly difference is that she''s half naked with a blazer''s torn off sleeve still on her arm like a tacky glove, her bra unbuttoned and a side of her breast out with thin blue veins pulsing her back to life but so far, no chance.


    "Wake the fuck up!" Despite the fact she''s as faint as a corpse''s breath. It''s amazing how little could someone care, little things, little attention. It''s staggering how she''s good as a victim in monstrous details yet holds the presence of a fine woman in her mid-20s. Slender waist carved by scriptures of foreign languages you''ll never learn. Bruises of stilled blood, chunks of them purple and black made her look more like a dirtied linen doll than a broken human being.


    The cane struck true, right on her heel. The old wounds of torn muscle and bruised, smithed skin tissue rasante the girl. Like a blunt figure standing at the edge of a landslide of a dream, with their arms open as wide as the jet-black sky.


    She jumps up with hands reaching for the handle of the rocking chair, the raven hair looks as dark as her bruises but a faint of solar noon sunlight glazing from the left begs to differ. Thousand dollar crocodile purse, Damascus weaved sandals with smooth white soles, the blazer was from some Italian stuck up in Via Martinase now it''s a rag that covers half of her body, not even in a seductive way. Ain''t nothing seductive about a loosely dressed woman, just....forlorn I suppose.


    She looks up, hair sticking to the edge of her mouth like a feeding tube.


    "How much?"


    The woman asks, her voice coming from her mouth instead of her lungs. The man surveys the disarray on the 59th floor, thinking about others'' opinions before he hears the woman asking.


    "You couldn''t afford it. What you lots done last night." The man counts while looking at another unconscious girl on the floor.


    "They were going to cut off Nico''s....."


    "Fingers?" The man turns around at the girl in rocking chair with no fury in his eyes, but the pale of the black stretches, eating away his eyelids. "Toes? Nose? Ears? Tits? Tongue? Link her cunt to her anus?" The man keeps his gaze about five inches from the woman.


    She blinks to herself and lower them shut and turn to the back of the chair. Inside is more of a mess than what little she remembers, even those preserved seem dubious for how violent they are.


    "How much......" The cane thumps down on the wooden ground, a platter happens like a cork off a bottle.


    "You can not afford it! Neither can I! But forget about it, that''s the least of your worries since three hours ago." Now the woman finally turns at the man''s narrowing gaze and the man and the woman and the broken bottles on the ground.


    She counted four. And count again.


    Four. Three. Two. One.


    "Where''s Nico?" That shed the first light in her numbed senses. A pale, bleak light straight down the bottomless ocean. A bird fell through that light as if flying wasn''t its way.


    "...Fingers. Toes. Nose."


    The woman covered her mouth with acid and champagne from last night she tries to get up as well as run but her legs failed to do both. She swallowed the burning liquid down her pipe but the taste stuck to the taste bud as she kneel on the ground.


    The bird fell into the deep ocean, on impact all her feathers scattered like a buckshot at brick wall. Her bones, though still sticking out like withered olive branch, are of no use.


    A bird can''t swim.


    "What do you expect?" The man hangs the head of his cane on his shoulder like a guard on duty and crouches next to her. "Someone''s got to pay. It''d be me and her, otherwise all of y''all will be skinned and packed in a vacuum bag next to the fishes."


    The woman, with a drop of translucent saliva hesitating to fall on the marble balcony, grips her fists and slams them down on the floor to get her head up, get her eyes up.


    "But you''re still here"


    The woman spits, the man hums.


    "Of course I''m still here. Businessmen. They''d want compensations for the mishaps, the bloodshed is principle, the money is mandatory, I paid one, she gladly paid the other after sobering up to comprehend what the fuck she done last night." The woman wants to scream at the man''s words, she wants to chew her fingers off, to gauge her eyes out and keep digging till her eye socket drips all the blood out. That or jump off the balcony.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    The man picked up a rolling bottle by the wind, it lay horizontally with half a ring of dried stein across the wooden placate. He choke its neck and take a swig of what''s left in it, little by little, tab by tab. With the white in his eyes reflecting nothing, and the pupils unmoved.


    He places the bottle upright next to the hand of the unconscious woman on the balcony.


    He checks the watch and the sun before making up his mind and his way back in front of the woman whose name isn''t Sherlin.


    "You''re off." She struggles to sit back on the floor from a kneeling pose but with her back on the rocking chair''s leg and her head by its handle. She manages to utter.


    "What is this?"


    "This is a liability. All of you had become liabilities. And by the time I''m leaving this cesspool you better get your legs working and pray you can make it out of this room." He speaks as if counting.


    The woman''s mind was gone from gazing upon the pond of clear water, not daring to dip her toes in or leaping off into the black.


    "You''re cutting us off?" She asks. The silent pronunciation at the end is open to imagination.


    Her head pokes out the surface to breathe, and a monster surfaces as well, bout two feet away from her wet flowing hair. But unlike her, the monster doesn''t have a face and seems desiccated.


    "Consider it with your best interpretation or worst. Either way, the four of you besides Nico are out of my hands. Call it an¡­.emancipation." The woman takes a deep breath through the burning windpipe. Then she takes another one.


    "What about the debt?" The man laughs for the first time, as far as the woman''s memory goes. It sounded like a question mark. His eyes went feral for a single instant.


    "Let''s just say the prospect of letting you whores stay under my name had neutralize them." The woman felt a sweetness in her throat as if the acids are rushing back because the monster now had a face, and it smiling while reaching out a calloused handshake. The woman shakes her head. And climb back on the chair.


    "What about my fund? There''s gotta be a quarter million by now."


    By that time she didn''t notice, but as life eventually goes on and reshapes her more times than counted, she''ll realize this was her bravest moment.


    Her hand reached to the monster''s with a smile of her own.


    "Nico woke up couple of hours before you did. " He takes a step back and lean on the balcony railing, the cane spins between his wrist and back palm.


    "It took a lot of composure to lay it out on her, but she''s a quick learner as always." The man''s eyelids fall halfway down, took a second before the woman noticed he''s staring at her. "She proposed a poor offer. But it''s that or sucking those oriental cocks for the rest of her life in a basement."


    With the last word kick him off the balcony wall and stride two steps back in front of the woman. A thumb reaches out at her left eye as the woman backs her head onto the chair, trapping herself. But the thumb stopped at her eyelids.


    The man visibly swallows down something that pulls him back from taking the woman''s eye.


    "You''re still talking to me instead of sitting on a limo to the next hostess because she threw herself in the pit....and threw me the locations of three separate waterproof bags across the city." The woman''s lower lip slightly dropped just as her pupils widened.


    The monster took her face like taking off a glove after the handshake.


    "What y''all had at the share deposit plus the bags for your lives and your wombs." The man breathes in a long breath through his nostrils. "What a scam."


    He checks his watch one last time before turning around to the door in the end of the racked room that smells of melted salt and frightened animals.


    "Goodbye sherlin."


    With that, two feet and a clocking cane step between the fallen furniture, unconscious man and woman, a long strip of chain, broken bottles, masks, bloodstains and so on until the doorknob.


    He didn''t turn around, but he did waited a second.


    And when he''s gone. The woman on the rocking chair, whose name is not Sherlin.


    She screams.


    ***


    "You better go someplace far where houses ain''t higher than the tress, where walls don''t surround the sea, white houses slide down the hill with more coming up from its foot."


    Someone told her before she left.


    Instead, she came to Faust. And now on the downtown of the midday, well dressed leches in arm with her previous line of work. They gave her hell upon with those eyes, hell to a woman who just got her world broken and her way out blocked. She stole a jacket on her way out, and it could barely cover her smooth and bruised skin.


    A Greek statue could not walk upon the street,


    Aphrodite would be a skank. Much like the woman in their eyes now.


    She look around confused, couldn''t recognize these walks she strides before. The city towers over her like an angel, like a platoon of them. She thinks they''re angry.


    She could see some man''s tongue, some woman''s frown. She drags the white blazer closer to her shoulder to prevent the long sleeves from dragging it down.


    She''s free. From all that defined her. As abruptly and absolutely as last night, from her twined and wrinkled memories she recalled Nico wasn''t the instigator, she was the savior of the woman whose name....well, she don''t have one now.


    She wasn''t Sherlin, and she would bear her fate now before she reminded herself of the name before she came to Faust.


    The sun''s up and terrorizing the pedestrians as yesterday and last week, she hook the lapels in one hand and blocks the reflection of light from traffic signs.


    She''s free from the collars and the self-made prison and gilded torments. The pleasure and the clothes and the Sunday strokes through deeper rings of Via Martinase, some fell in love with it, some of the more ignorant ones act empowered. The woman in a white blazer got bored quickly, the downsides are a testament. The c notes in a dog cage, the scent of children and old man. The sweat of a hundred men and women in one room.


    She gradually let her hand slips off her face and feel the sunshine.


    She couldn''t explain it. She''s the only one in this world now, without strings. It''s a terrifying rush of weary adrenaline. It''s not liberating, that would be too romantic for a woman on the street without a dime or a proper outfit.


    It''s the mixture of fear of unknown, whimsical pessimism, undiluted promises made to self as the world stretches in front of her even though the road had narrowed down by her sides. A newborn couldn''t be more vulnerable than she is, but it''s futile to care when there''s nothing to hold.....


    A completely unrelated matter. A boy just walksd out of a crashed crater on the shore where the sewer runs to the ocean. Their states almost a mirror. But of course, a child is more accepting of the new reality.


    ***


    At the last corner of the narrowing road, there''s a tarot card nailed on a brick wall.


    Judgement reversed.


    The woman takes but a single glance before she turns into the crooked alley. Ignoring the construction signs and red bricks and dusts.


    As the flop of her jacket brushes the brick wall. The nail and the card cease existing in the present and the past.


    But who knows what the future holds. If anyone, it ain''t the woman in the alley, or the boy trotting through flowing debris, excrement, broken mast.


    They''re living, breathing, walking contradictions.

 Suo periculo fecit

    Couple of notches before the clock strikes 8, I follow the unwanted and the wanton off the Central Park station. Thoughts lingering in mind as if thorns twining into a knot for a son of bitch to kick and dribble in my skull. It''s not the sense of loss or wavering, not even anger, more of an agonizing deja vu. The feeling of obliviousness. And it doubles down when I''m roaming Nochnaya.


    Pacing through lights and neons of royal blue, hunching across empty alleyways, striding by colorful suckers. Cutting south through the tail of Lesnaya, is a run through a marquee of canvas framing things you fail to reach or let go before death grips you by the silent exit at Kirov.


    Kirov St. never ceases to amaze me with how fast it could turn the carnival up north into a remark of ignorance of what lies behind. The better part of Noch residential still lurks the desolation and the failure destined from its motherland. What''s the point of neon strips without an audience?


    Few limos coming down from Lesnaya in supercilious miles. From the rebounds of music blaring inside and the laughter, but mostly the fact they''re driving south, indicate they could not afford a room in a hotel. I stroll through the now empty crossroad and hug the wall of Central Park for two blocks before running through the empty traffic again, half of the lights on the street are off as if in agreement making the sound of my own steps against asphalt louder with......


    Wait.


    A tinge of pressure at the back of my head accompanied by the realization my footsteps wouldn''t ring a bloody after-sound of crushed debris. My mind was in clarity.


    Why don''t you cunts tail me to bed and bring your girl along too?


    I slowed my pace as if by a whim through the proximity of a closed beauty shop, its bay window and offed light serves as a mirror but I caught nothing in its reflection, not even my own shadow. Swallowing a curse and letting it out in my head, I can feel a lump pushing itself up my throat, boiling my blood.


    When will you learn? You are in noch.


    I keep the pace until the first alleyway as I dive into it like a photophobia animal. Along the dim lights and bleak street, there''s a pair of offed headlights just out of the corner with the driver seat occupied.


    Now, that''s much more doable than a personnel on foot.


    I navigate the maze among blocks of humming residents and closing shops, drawing a moonlit path as it shimmers above the roof outlines. The long way home felt second nature to me. I recognize all the little details behind tubes and aluminum back doors, always shut dumpsters. I found myself pacing faster through the turns and corners until I reached the one across the southern entrance to the park leading back to the Kirov main road, I can see the grocery stores blinds from here.


    The only problem is, four men in baggy tracksuits and fitting hoodies are leaning against the crude brick wall. Two of them fidgeting subtly, the tallest fella in a black cotton shirt being a nuisance murmuring gibberishes that I''m too far to catch. And the fourth one''s leaning closest to the corner, he''s got steady eyes on the street and the rest of his face hidden in this angle, palm massaging behind his neck, four pieces of silver on his bracelet clings by his motion.


    That''s some luck straight from the other end of Satan himself. The moment such thoughts were composed in mind, the tall bloke in black cotton shirt bumps his friend''s arm with elbow, strung eyes locked onto me. The guy next to him tilts his head over my end. His mouth opens an inch wider than needed for a human being to talk and suddenly my poor memory connects. Those three closer to me are the ones from this morning.


    The gazes quickly spread like a flu from one to another, elbows to shoulders then mouth to ears, glee and a wriggle for relief appear in them.


    The tall one stands side by side the loudmouth with brows subtly pointing above his right eye, mouth closed firmly. The tenth street and the third one''s barely visible in the narrow angle, but the smell of restlessness and a need for focus disperses in the air, lingering around the corner.


    "Friend. You lost?" The loudmouth in a gray featureless hoodie hollers with an obvious shiver behind his voice by slowly boiling adrenaline, substance and unreasonable excite.


    "Just passing by." I tilt my palms up gesturing compliant and meekness without moving my arm. I take two steps forward and the third guy pokes his head out between the two with teeth biting down. He''s bout a notch shorter than the rest, got a flat fucking face as if God slap that fetus himself. Eyes bloodshot red.


    Long shot talking my way out of crackheads.


    "Passing by now? What, you had a go at Lesnaya? No wait, then you wouldn''t be here now...or is it that all the pubs, clubs, swine, skank told you to fuck off?"


    The loudmouth grins without sound, the tall one cracks a smile on his tense expression which somehow makes him look more confused. I close in another step with a drag of a smile, squinting my eyes as if closing them.


    Three steps and a skip. The fourth guy''s completely off sight in this angle, so I''m assuming he''s bout my height.


    "Not much chance to begin with. Tuesday. Jose and Vin swapped shifts at the back of Resonance, Cammy''s probably calling in sick again. Wouldn''t bother with ice breaker, the place is swarmed with dogs and half of the girls would have you pay first." There''s your final chance.


    The tall one draws away his smirk, and the loudmouth tilts his head to the side as


    the flat face pulls his shoulder with a hinting grip. The back of my hand grasp the prickly, uneven brick wall as I evaluate the pros and cons and if the grocery store across the street still has ice left.


    "...You think this is how it works? You throw a couple of names," The flat face now standing at the front of the group, thumb tabbing middle finger on loudmouth''s shoulder. "You think you can stroll around Noch at night cause you know a few fucking names?"


    Now about three steps away, the lighting''s still feeble behind them on the street. I can tell he''s under influence, all three of them are on some level. Nonetheless he¡¯s making a viable point.


    "I''m just trying to get back home. I live across the street." I hinge my arm back, cracking a joint and two. No need for knuckle brass. It won''t work on a group of more than two and now I''m looking at four presumably packing junkies, white teeth under venting breaths, pupils swollen on skate. I need all the little sways.


    Thicket''s 1 meter or so in width therefore¡­Two of them at once, at most.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The flat face''s waiting for the end of the moment, the loudmouth pressing down a grin, the tall one seems quite fucking determine after hearing the statement for some reason, he''s got both hands in pockets. The tenth street''s I''m most worried about, out of sight and out of reach, and hell knows what Arseny would do when he finds the leftover of tonight, whatever the result.


    "§¢§í§ã§ä§â§Ñ§ñ §Õ§â§à§é§Ü§Ñ §á§Ö§â§Ö§Õ §Õ§à§Ý§Ô§Ú§Þ §ä§â§Ñ§ç§à§Þ?" The flat face rolls his eyes to his pals behind him, the others don''t say a word. They drag their upper lips down.


    As he makes the first step forward, breaking the distance in between, a rush of adrenaline and pressure on my nose bridge sends me into a blissful frenzy. The faces in the dark don''t matter, the heavy clothes on me weight none. I could''ve died here if any of them strapped a piece, and it won''t matter more than any other inconvenience in my life.


    Time doesn''t slow down at the brink of dawn or the break of man. It''s an illusion from having too much shit on your mind. Just like how Dean''s words sounded elusively holy as it nagged a spot in my head.


    "You, my friend. Fellas like you are meant for this city...." If there hangs a mirror or eye above us, I might just find myself no different than them, no better than myself 7 years ago. Grinning out a horizontal smirk, reveling the rush, the smell.


    ***


    Left foot a step forward, right hand slips to the back of his belt. The flat face takes initiative and a small gap, about a stretch of arm was created between him and loudmouth.


    Two steps away and a gambler I remain. My right foot almost leaps forward as it drags my left foot leaving the ground, and I bet on it swinging faster than whatever the fuck he''s reaching. I aimed between the rib and pubic


    that caught him by surprise, not sure if it''s because he pulled himself back or I missed, the kick ended up barely grazing his armpit. But it matters not, I can hear a crisp ''clack'' of metal and plastic hitting asphalt road. He dropped it.


    Before I can retract my foot, the loudmouth''s already gained forward past the flat face. Solid footwork. Sloppy defense.


    The bloke comes in like a proper cannon folder under Igor''s instructions, head forward and back and all around with both fists by his ears. Stepping in the gap between me and the flat face who''s crouching down on the ground. When the tall one squeezes passes him, he accidentally bumps the flat face''s shoulder.


    I draw back a few steps and the loudmouth follows with steps as if sliding across the bumpy alley at impressive speed for his size. And back under moonlight between cables, his right jab came gushing through the dark. Aiming at the general direction of my head.


    I clutch my teeth and dive into it with a tilt of my head, neutralizing the available distance for his left upper, chambered like a 45 under his chin, ready to follow up. The right fist impacts and numbs half of my face like chewing an iron screw with all your might. I can feel something chipping a wound in or outside my mouth.


    And with my head almost next to his, I see a flash of fright in them small eyes before he starts furiously punching my ribs with short jabs of his left fist and twitching his right arm above my shoulder. I would¡¯ve laugh if half of my teeth ain''t shivering.


    Both hands hugging under his armpit and over his shoulder, I lock it back behind his neck and the next two faces appear under the moonlight with the tall one rushing in without much plan in his head, lips bitting on each other flat and eyes full of doubt.


    I step my right foot forward, bypass the loudmouth''s right thigh, and circle around his feet. The guy''s truly got great footwork for he immediately knew I''m trying to tackle him and pulls his right leg up.


    In response. I crouch down. Locking his calf in a clamp and pulling his entire body down by crouching down myself, with both my arm''s efforts on his torso. He falls as do I. Now he''s in an awkward position, kneeing and lying down at the same time, the loudmouth''s defenseless but before I can slam my fist down, the sole of the tall lad comes straight at my face.


    Can''t dodge it, reflexes made me close my eyes as it blares red and purple on my eyelids with a shock of my head. In the mellow of my senses, my arms find the back of his calf and I drag with all the irritation building up since it started. And I saw him falling onto me soon as my eyes regained sight.


    Not willing to let this chance go to waste, I stretch my right arm forward in open palm, fingers bending back like the handle of a cane. And the end of my wrist caught his chin. With the acceleration of him falling plus my entire forearm lost its senses for an instance, the son of a bitch''s getting a concussion and his mandible torn.


    But I was wrong about this one. After a roll of eye, his face tilts back forward instead of falling down, if only barely on his feet.


    The second wave of adrenaline kicks in along with the first wave of pain washes over me. I can feel a burn on my left cheek as if salt on ulcer. With the new encouragement and the sight of a switchblade back in the flat face''s hand, frenzy smirk on his face. I pull myself up and off the loudmouth who immediately turns around and tries to pull my right foot to no prevail.


    Between and before both the tall lad and flat face reach me, in half a second of response time as the tall guy trying to stand straight.


    I raise my right hand above my head and swing it back, with a small boost of momentum into the straight kick right on the tall lad¡¯s chest. It was utterly muscle reflexes, but it was the best call in that situation. The poor fella''s still half conscious and falls like a mannequin on his friend, who struggles to catch him with a knife in hand.


    And just when I''m about to turn to deal with the loudmouth, I feel an arm slip under my left armpit and another over my neck. And they squeeze in like a collar on hound. He got me first.


    A lock is the worst that could happen in any fight. The pain is not present, just the pressure and a panic of no air coming into your system. By the speed of my venting, I''m less than ten count before losing conscious.


    My body was less patient than my mind as it moves on its own relying purely on gut instincts and reflexes. As if I''m many years younger back in that fucking dig of sweat and shouts. My right hand found his face hiding behind my strained left arm, and my fingers found a strand of hair.


    Never underestimate the last will of a person. It can help a father lifts a rebar twice his weight, a child to climb back from the edge of a waterfall, a god fearing man to commit double homicide in his own bedroom. And in this instance, dragging his head all the way downward to the point even in my state I can hear a barebone scream of agony and it gives my left arm just enough space to twist a turn and press his head even lower as I drag my entire weight to the left, leading his skull to the uneven brick wall.


    There wasn¡¯t a sound, but there''s a clear shake of his arm before both lose most of their strength for me to escape the clutch.


    My body on autopilot. Before I can take a much needed breath, I push my right forearm onto his throat and press the motherfuck with a chipped head and a huge lock of hair gone on the wall. And in those eyes, I see my euphoria.


    I pull my right arm back just to send my elbow into his forehead with all my strength, his head was slightly off the wall, and it bounced back off it with a dull bang, like a rim click.


    I did it again. This time with my left arm on his throat to lock his head in place between my bone and solid bricks. The moment it hit feels strange, as if punching an unmovable object made of hard rubber and you could feel a hazy sensation of it moving back despite it being impossible. The loudmouth finally falls down, with the back of his scalp still scrapping the wall as he lumps.


    I turn around and first see the tall one lying on the ground then the flat face with knife in his hand, bloodstained. Not much fight in him. Shame, I haven''t felt this fine in a long time.


    I walk in strides and feel both ends of my mouth stretching wider and wider till it catches the blood dripping down my cheek. Of all the ways to use a 6-inch blade. He decided to come with a hammer grip thrust at my belly, like his first intent. And it came slower than I''d hope. I half a step back as it misses me entirely, and my fingers clutch my jacket sleeve over my palm as a glove. At the end of his reach, when he rotates the wrist for a slash, is the best timing you could find.


    My right palm reaches forward as the edge of the blade presses against the thick cuff and I had his wrist in a grip. Right foot forward horizontally, and the rest of my body spins in said motion crushing my left elbow straight into his eye.


    With the freedom of a breath as his head shocks backward I dive under his stretched arm with my right hand still gripping his wrist. Now both hands locking onto it like a hunting riffle on shelf, my left elbow lunges with a push of my shoulder, aiming at the joint between his forearm and Humerus. Once, twice, thrice.....like a pop of a balloon, he drops the knife followed by a whimper broken before uttered as my left leg stomps on his knee socket, making him fall on the other.


    Before he comprehends the sudden shift of view and vision, I clutch the side of his head and slam it into the brick wall while my hands are still pressuring upon that flat face. Ordinary features, ordinary eyes, ordinary bewildering... I take another step forward and drag the other side of his face across the brick wall full of bumps and pokes. His skin trailing on the wall made the sound to a busted wheel on a privacy curtain in hospital. It rips.


    Drawing a line of darker shade across, on again and off again leaving scraps of his face on the red marks.


    He finally found the strength to scream, curling, covering the gone half of his cheek and it turned into a cry through the otherwise quiet night, amplified by the narrow alley.


    I take a deep breath in, and trace my line of sight across the tall one lying on the ground with doses of blood sulking the back of his black cotton shirt as it wrinkles and his body wriggles lightly. Up along the dotted trail, to where the tenth street''s standing at the end of this mess, left hand in pocket.

 Orphan

    I tread towards him with little care. His face is behind the faint street light, gleaming bleak yellow as before, they shine the edges of his butch cut brown. But I can still see him clenching his teeth behind tensing expressions, especially so around the corner of his lip.


    The small percentage of my senses not occupied in sucking in every last drop of adrenaline or issuing imaginations of the pain tomorrow morning.


    The little part of it is telling me to drop it. The kid didn''t do shit, didn''t instigate any, didn''t participate, and it won''t be easy explaining why I struck a tenth street to the old bastards at Glasgow. But another side of the twisted logic hits me. And the wicked track this train of thoughts goes sends a shiver to both sides of my jaw.


    "Come on....They almost got me, didn''t they?" The scream is still continuing behind me as if the squeal of tires before a car crashes while mine sounded just like its futile breaks.


    The kid steps his left foot off the street, now blocking half of the streetlight and exit. The shadow lengthens an even more pathetic threat in my next step.


    How would he explain to the rest of his world that he was the only one untouched in a skirmish his friend started? I thought to myself, and stepped aloofly into the excuse as much as it is a lie to my knowing.


    "What''s your excuse? Prettier face? Tenderer skin? Got school tomorrow?" Only after the remark left my mouth and four and a half steps away do I realize how true it is. He''s much younger than the rest. At most about 17, and his eyes are more than telltale. Those aren''t of frighten. More on hesitation, a special kind of ambivalent. And it grips me by the throat and forces me off the rage I was in like a cold shower.


    I know the look. It''s a well in the middle of the ocean, a swallow, the center of numb is a deep and bottomless pit of self-conflicting emotions like a swell of all the doubtfulness and vile thoughts in the same pot. He''s never taken a life, and is in the process of convincing himself. Most importantly, there''s a devoid of fear. It''s a matter of choice not opposition. My line of sight rolls down to the hand in pocket.


    It''s easy to look at the end of a muzzle when there''s nothing you can do. But trying not to blink is impossible, and the fear in mind manifests under such scenario. He''s about four steps away, possibly with a finger inside the trigger guard.


    Think, think for fuck''s sake!


    Is it possible to be faster than the pulp? With my hands still on guard, which one''s faster? Left or right?


    Neither.


    He''d be faster if it''s really a gun, the only chance being some kind of miracle the first shot does not put me off commission.


    Fat motherfucking chance.


    If he decides to shoot me while the piece''s still in pocket I would drop dead before reaching a meter radius.


    Well, get him to pull the tool out then.


    And I ain''t got better choices, I need to assume...shit, I''m already assuming whatever he''s holding would off me. I need him to give initiative first.


    I let go of my hands, let them fall naturally by the waistband of my jacket.


    "Where you get those silvers from boy?" I keep the shiver under my skin and tone as subsided as possible but his reactions are almost nonexistent. "Eugene?" No reaction. "Arseny?" A shock grazes his eyes but he forces off all the reactions on his face as it grows colder.


    Nicely done lad.


    "That dull fuck Igor who can''t even make a parrot laugh?" I move my left foot forward slightly. Now he''s wavering with a tilt of brow and a very well hidden squint as if trying to recognize me. But that ain''t entirely good news since I spot a twitch by his left pocket as something pokes near his jacket''s zipper. I let out a meek smile in tiredness all over my face.


    "Igor, Igor... did you stay under his wing after initiation?" As composed as he''s been for this long, those dark brown pupils behind shadow tilt to my left for a blink then a stiffness by the outline of his chin stretches. "Shit, what am I talking about." I let out a wide grin and moved my right foot forward past my left. Now three steps away, barely good enough for a kick''s reach.


    "You haven''t got your cherry pop, have you? No X on none of the pieces." Cling on the hemp rope string on his wrist accompanied by the quick open and close lips indicates he''s nearing the breaking point.


    X as in Roman number. On the silver pieces of Tenth Street''s, numbers above 10 are usually some very nasty accomplishment. The kid''s got his shit together after watching his mates getting their heads chipped in, but still way too fucking young and oblivious.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    "And if you were one of his strays, doesn''t that mean," Now for the final push. "You ain''t even tenth street. Just another mongrel fucking orphan." I know how those words cut you. I know very well if it hits, it will string you up by the neck and brand you with fire and burning iron for the rest of your paranoid life.


    And it landed perfectly.


    Eyes on fire he shouts something indecipherable with his left hand pulling a stick of iron out of the pocket. By the size, I''d say it''s a 38 I thought to myself as I pull the same trick off the bag. Left foot a leap forward right leg swift forward like an axe aiming at the back of his palm approaching where I imagine it''d be holding the pistol. I lean my whole body into the kick to narrow myself and if the bullet does ignite...Well, I''d have hopes for better results.


    My right leg''s tibia impacts first at the back of his hand drawing forward, I can nearly see the turn of its cylinder before it got knocked off his hand, hit the wall before bouncing off to the ground. A drop of his mouth with a blink of his eyes gave me the encouragement to slide my left foot through the asphalt alley with my hands on guard next to my brows. But seeing the last finger of his left hand curling in an awkward position, I clutch my hands into fists and shift my torso along with my mass forward and back and skip forward to his arm''s reach.


    Now, now...let''s see how well the city handled you.


    Right jab as the front, aiming at the air next to his left ear but he still tilts his head back and subconsciously raises his injured left arm, the punch lands on his upper arm close to his wrist. He takes a step to the right, trying to use the small distance for an upper but my left fist''s already at his throat with it being chambered back as soon as the jab was out. And with a push from my right foot tiptoeing my body forward, I perform a run-through. At the last split of second, the tenth street hinges down his chin with teeth clenching. The weight of half of my body transpired into my second knuckle, and the kid reacted with nothing but a shake of head.


    Huh...kid''s a touch taller.


    With him still at such reach, I extend my right hand forward for a grab at his shoulder with another step forward trying to swipe him off his feet. That''s when I saw the grin at close range, and something burning incredibly vivid inside those russet eyes.


    It''s almost poetic, seeing him regarding me as the problem of all''s suffering, as his brain''s survival instinct connects with his want to be off of his position. And I was, petrified to the point I almost didn''t realize he''s got his left hand under his jacket, probably on his belt.


    Before my right leg could circle behind


    he already stepped back leaving my waist exposed. Almost simultaneously, his injured left-hand locks my right arm in a tight clutch, pinning me for the slaughter.


    A flip of his jacket and he''s holding a 4-inch tool steel in hand. Hammer grip, leaning the blade back for a slash across my abdomen. I inhale all I can and force my body to falter back. If it did slash a wound it must''ve been shallow for I don''t feel a thing.


    But he''s not stopping, the hand extends to the far reach of his arm, but the right corner of my vision. With a blink from the recurve outline of the knife''s tip, he hinges the forearm forward like a piolet and drags my left arm into the stab. At the last second, I retract my right arm to block it with the price of a burning sensation at the bottom of my pinkie.


    With my right palm just barely locking his wrist, we''re locked in the longest seconds in my mind. I noticed his small breaths hyperventilating with those chipped lips red as hell under sufficient light, drips of sweat crossing on his rather puerile face with unmatched eyes of a brute on last breath.


    The kid notices he can''t overpower me with the knife in such an unpractical position so he tries to knee my kidney. To which he could barely reach, with both of our arms stretched out creating a space too far for......


    I take my right foot back behind my left stand and the kid immediately responds by raising his left knee in the air to block the kick.


    I hope. Sincerely, that you can still be a man after this.


    I was planning for a kick, just not at his rib. With every muscle in my calf and thigh tense to the point of numbing, I send the kick directly upwards and straight. The tip of sneaker hits his groin, I feel something getting pushed in as he whimpers a broken scream before he loses the strength and voice to do so. I unclench my left fist and rotate my wrist as much as possible to the opposite side of his grab. Didn''t take pounds of pressure before he releases it. Funny enough, the tenth street''s first reaction was to grab between his trousers where the kick landed. And I finish my initial approach, stretch it back, and send it back with all I have.


    A left hook right on his lip.


    The lock is broken as he''s now pulling his knife hand back out of reflexes. But my right hand''s on it. A shift to the left facing exclusively his right hand, I bring my left palm on his wrist too as I rotate my right arm, flipping it upward making the knife''s tip stand and his joint facing up as well.


    My right elbow came vertically down on it, bending his arm while putting more pressure to both ends dragging his entire torso down with my weight leaning on it until the knife falls between his fingertips, clings a crisp ring on the asphalt surface as his hand remains wide open....and rotating outwards to escape my grasp with what I did a second ago.


    I''m getting sick of this. Letting go of my right hand to slither it inside jacket, of all the things, my palm grips the ebony handle of the Zhnag dao as if it''s the only thing I''m looking for. The knife''s out through my jacket without resistance from the sheath or zippers.


    Reverse grip slashes upward leaving a vertical slit on his running jacket and a visible cut on his forearm. Again, no resistance whatsoever, not even a drop of blood stained. I hinge the back of the blade against my forearm as if it''s an extension of my body. And elbow it forward aiming at his throat. Of all resolves, the kid decides to catch it in bare palms . You dumb little shit....


    By the foolhardy, the space isn''t enough for a clean cut as he''s practically gripping the sharp edge to stop the advance. Runs of blood from his fingertips and open cuts wash over a part of the narrow blade dribbling like a full bucket.


    Irritation drills like a motherfucker, I push my left arm upon my knife grip as if choking someone. With the new pounds of force behind the blade, the running wounds on his palm shanks deeper till I can hear the sounds of seeping blood, paddling down the ground. And he does the only thing viable, back off to release the pressure but each step he takes I follow until he hits the wall with both hands gripping the blade.


    The space between two faces is filled with the rusty smell of blood making me swallow the dryness in throat. The silver pieces on the hemp rope drowns a splatter of blood from its path down the wrist, they dangles between what little space left by his artery and sharp steel.


    His lips agape, eyes drop, a smirk of blood smothers across his face in a parabola. But under the brink of his life, his breath, his blood loosing faster by the second. There are still fights in those dark brown eyes. Some struggle, some stubbornness of no origin.


    He doesn''t believe it neither.


    That the end would come unannounced, and so meaninglessly. Nothing good came to you before, and so nothing bad should come before the good things start happening in your life. The mentality I''m too familiar with.


    Let it be the realization or the shiver down my spine telling me I''m being watched by a third. I pull back the force on the knife, and a stable warm headlight from a black van stops two meters away, on the road, outside the alley reeking rust and soiled cloth. The driver seat window''s down, a man''s got his right hand on the steering wheel, left hand hanging out the window with a hammer-downed pistol. He looks bored as hell.

 Igor of nowhere

    Damn myself to hell.


    I give the kid one last look wondering glee or anger is in those eyes. But surprisingly, I found a sense of shame. As I release the pressure on the edge of knife. The chip pulls, his palms burst a squeak of someone''s mouth clicks. Both his hands a bloody mess, the deep cut painted three colors. The finger''s relatively pale, and the gush under the inner side of the knuckles is braided deep red closer to black scale for the skin around it started killing itself, the blood sinks under the mess along the lines of his hand towards the wrist in chunks of tenderer color of flesh.


    The kid lumps his chin forward as his legs try to give in but he finds support in whatever he reaches back for on the wall and prevents himself from slumping. His gaze sticks to me for a couple more breaths before turning to the driver as well.


    Familiar ain''t he?


    I take a step back, mopping the blood off the blade on black cargo pants before stashing it back as well as raising my hands up. On all accounts, seeing a brigadier with a knife in hand ain''t a good idea.


    The driver cock the pistol back and pommels two knocks on the door before hinging his arm back, rolling the window up as the barn door on the back opens simultaneously with the rolling wheels squeaking drums. Facing directly to the alley. Igor steps out with a stomp.


    ***


    Igor is an odd one. Not surely a brigadier but holds about equal voice as one. In the already confusing hierarchy and division of responsibility of the Slavic company, almost everyone had once or twice met this sociopathic individual. But no one, for the love of all that is holy, can recognize just what his jurisdictions are.


    Recruiting and scouring the street is one, corresponding and planning offenses are somewhere between his orchestra and hobby. There''s a shadow of him at all fronts and ends of mob business. ''Igor was here two days ago.'' ''The fuckface''s up for another racket down south again.'' ''Last night? Yeah, he did it.''¡­. Bullshit like these fly in the open and adds to his mystery. A living, breathing, talking urban myth who shows up at Ice Breaker on Monday nights like clockwork.


    That''s what he''s good at. Everyone knew him, but not a living soul was sure what the fuck is he up to or what the fuck is he suppose to be up to. Each time one asks about his former rank in the army, his last name, his former life before Faust, or if he ever sleeps. The answer''s always the same silent smirk along three shots of hot liquor with a palm on your shoulder.


    Some see similarities between me and him, as unpleasant as it is I can tell where they get the notions.


    Him and I both work under very similar marks, and we both enjoy the most freedom in our respectful fields with the hindrance being having to live with abundance of made stories. Funny enough, to this day the rumor that I''m an outsourced Russian in the open market still exists.


    Those were bout as much as the city knew him for. Ex-military, dishonorable discharge, headhunter, very seldom seen in action, he relinquishes on violence but enjoys the execution. Orchestrates bloodshed under the point of whoever''s index. Dig and train dumb kids in suburban, trap houses, government housings, backstreet gutters. Give them guns and point them at west today, east tomorrow, your home next week.


    I''ve known him for almost eight years. The bastard taught me some of the most useful things I''ve relied on throughout my lot, being a freelancer or anything else.


    To this day, after years my past with him can be summed up by 3 understandings between us.


    First, I know he still holds grudges against me for valid reasons. Second, I''ll gladly admit that I still owe him a well-aged favor. Last, we both know damn well. I''d never join his wing.


    ***


    Hard leather boots on the weed sprout in cracks of pavement. Igor stretches his arm back, slothfully keen eyes scouting through the surroundings.


    190 centimeters in height give or take, induction cut of gray and black sticks generally at wherever the fuck they please and I''ve never seen them grow an inch longer or cut an inch shorter in ever.


    Nose sharp and upward like a Greek but dented in the middle so severely it''s as if the upper bridge and his nostril are not connected features. Eye sockets sucked in like two bloody craters, making his deep taupe color eyes often mistaken as full black. Mouth flat, lips moist, curling on decisiveness and dissatisfied. The man''s pushing his fifth decade, but the only signs were the slight wrinkle bout his stifle forehead when in thoughts or anger.


    If you take all but bare statue out of account he''s not a big guy. Taller than most but not the tallest and sure as hell ain''t the fittest, anyone who''s ever caught him with his sleeves up would describe him as gray and bony. Gray from the old tattoos without touch-up, bony as in the lines on his bicep is carved deep enough you can see the bones under the stripes.


    Beard clean shaven in sage grey running down his cleft chin, thick neck happens to match the olive green rainproof jacket he''s on, with an obvious strap of vest underneath. The belt, the waterproof trousers with more pockets, the silver ring on his right middle and pinkie finger, the extra pairs of eyes sticking out from the dark of the backseat behind him and most importantly, how fitting he looks in the whole picture.


    Put a soldier in a group of scoundrels, thief-in-laws, gangsters. At first glance he''d look apart, but there are certain nuisances. Like a man in suit amongst priests. His back''s too straight, his brow''s always knitted, his eyes are too calm and visceral, never wears a Saint Peter''s cross, doesn''t seem too interested in woman or man (Someone joked about pedophilia since he''d be on the front seat of a van all day scouting young recruits.


    It was a good joke, it was a long-lived joke, it was a joke no one remembers who started it.)


    He doesn''t seem elated for a kitchen table brimmed with freshly delivered loose diamonds either. As if this life is but another choke instead of liberation.


    But there are few moments between awful army humor and matters of business. Those instances when his mask and mentality crack. In those blinks of a vision, he''s perfectly fine living in this shit hole, playing the character of his birthright. When he could be committed to a single matter of his familiarity, doing what he does best.


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    And now, Igor''s standing straight as the barrel of a gun never fired, from the ground to the roof in my line of sight, blocking anything outside this alley stinking of iron and whimpering. In form-fitting czar green, hard sole black boots, choleric expression, blazing eyes. Standing as if the only rule between the bleak black veil above and concrete soil under, is written on the end of his tongue.


    ***


    He takes a firm step forward. Between myself and the 10th Street on the wall. He cocks his neck in such a subtle manor it''d look casual.


    No need to turn around to see his pupils scrolling across carcass white. The tall one got shanked in the back, and the loudmouth probably got a concussion and lost a tab of his scalp which in my opinion is far better than losing half of your face on a wall and forearm dislocated.


    They''ll live.


    Painfully for a few months, but they''ll live.


    I presume he came to the same conclusion as I did in context I''m still breathing. Igor doesn''t care too much about rookies who failed to mature, but killing his man on their own ground is stepping over. It''s a matter of reputation. And so is beating them half dead.


    He takes a deep breath and a second of pause before ever so faintly nodding and shaking his head.


    Another step, to the 10th Street kid on my left. Igor trails his gaze down to his bloody palms and a splatter of it by his cheek, the former''s dripping quietly to the fingertips but the kid remains standing with head held despite his back leaning against the wall''s the sole reason he''s not on the ground. He looks straight at Igor with small breaths. Igor shakes his head.


    "6 minutes later there will be another ride. Load them up, driver will take you to a doc." He speaks slowly in a firmer voice than most I''ve ever heard, words tag to the next but each being completely lucid and clear. In a tone unquestionable.


    "I''m....." The boy reacts with a twitch of his rigid body before he moves his tongue, it''s the first time I heard him speak about how I imagined. Youthful loudness, somehow cramped, somewhat taints an accent, cut off by a fist placed on his chest. Igor effortlessly pushes him back against the wall with a stretch of his arm.


    The kid leans back and immediately tries to move forward again but Igor takes a step forward Lowering his voice to a whispering gnaw. Slower, quicker, with the fist back on the middle of the kid¡¯s chest.


    "You''re still nothing." A second longer with his face fixed inches away from the kid, can''t see it from here but I''d say it wasn''t pretty. "Don''t forget to pick the tools off the ground."


    And with it done, the man turns to me. His thick brows knit and raise to the middle. Eyes about to jump out of deep sockets as his skin drags them upward while his mouth drops. A step and a half, he towers over me at least half a head. On the left is an alley of his groaning man while on the right, a black van.


    "Lee." He utters after a long exhale and a twitch of the nose.


    "Igor." He laughs swallowing a breath and turns to the driver and the others waiting in the back seat.


    "§¿§ä§à§ä §Þ§Ñ§Ý§Ö§ß§î§Ü§Ú§Û §Ù§Ñ§ã§â§Ñ§ß§Ö§è §Ö§Õ§Ú§ß§ã§ä§Ó§Ö§ß§ß§í§Û, §Ü§ä§à §Ó§ã§Ö §Ö§ë§Ö §ß§Ñ§Ù§í§Ó§Ñ§Ö§ä §Þ§Ö§ß§ñ §ä§Ñ§Ü!" Teeth and grin like a bear, eyes blazing a simple glee. "How long has it been?"


    "Six months." He nods as if his neck ain''t part of his body. Crow''s feet cut deep by eyelids through a single instance of exuberance shine three flimsy shades horizontally.


    "Personal matter?"


    "Busy being dead on eight hundred different versions."


    "Why not stay dead?" I chuckle and open my hands of blackened stripes of bruise and spiky debris. Raising them to my shoulder height.


    "Living ain''t that unbearable. And I''m not done with the city yet." The old soldier smiles and in a slide of motion, pulls the silver rings on his left hand off with his right and slips them in the pocket on his chest and reaches over my shoulder. Gesturing me forward with a fingers digging into the pad of jacket.


    "It''s good you''re back at this hour." In a place I didn''t know existed, I let go a breath knowing it won''t be tonight. Two steps away from the van he lowers his head down like a chicken, like how he did to the 10th Street kid on the wall, kid¡¯s still standing. Igor''s eyes tell a command through a question.


    You know what''s going to happen.


    I hum and muffle a breath inward to press it against my abdomen.


    "But nonetheless. You struck my man." Like clockwork ticks by the last syllable. His right palm clutches my shoulder back a little for the momentum, left knee twirls, foot slightly inward, waist, shoulder, gut punch through like a door ram. I didn''t have to act for he didn''t hold back.


    The breath I took got squeezed out as if they didn''t exist, the feeling of an inhalation being stuck by the oxygen leaving through the same pipe drives a further pain to your vocal cord while your intestines crawl.


    I hunch forward uncontrollably squeezing the muscles together as my body tries to absorb the pain just for Igor to take another step forward, his right hand moves from my shoulder to the back of my jacket collar, left palm gripping my left arm as he throws me off balance and trembles forward into the black van''s open door.


    ***


    "§¥§Ñ§Ó§Ñ§Û §Ò§í§ã§ä§â§Ö§Ö, §Þ§í §à§á§Ñ§Ù§Õ§í§Ó§Ñ§Ö§Þ!" My back hits the walls of the cargo bay as I hinge my head downward to prevent trauma. Igor jumps in the next second, dragging the sliding door shut and returning my vision to purple blocks of cloud in the dark.


    I reach along the suede mat to the aluminum wall till I find a notch on the panels and bring myself to a more comfortable position that wouldn''t break my neck. And another shock came as the driver gets a move on this old piece of crap, not shy on the peddle either.


    My eyes get more used to the dark of the van. The sporadic street lights on Kirov cast a pathetic illumination through the two tinted windows at the back door.


    My senses resurrect despite my best wish is to lay till the next morning, maybe the morning after too. But the smell came.


    Stiffed and tainted leather, wool stained with the stink of sweat, iron and a whiff of chlorine hard to pinpoint. Plus the adrenaline that''s supposed to be scentless, now resonates through every inch and seam between us all.


    Almost forgot about them.


    The other three passengers sit still on the makeshift bench on the left. Each of them is in the dim black or deep blue, hands on knees or rubbing each other. Igor sits along them, watching me with those dirtied brown eyes brimming with life captured by the little light at the end of this moving hearse.


    "Could have them do me in the alley no?" I lean my head on the inner wall, pointing at those three faceless figures. "Save me the time walking back home." The man shakes his head in slower motions as if bobbing it. A tinge of pain resurfaces on my right palm as I retract it.


    "We''re already late on schedule. They''re not going to waste time on you." I hum as a response and start probing the bottom of my right palm slowly in the dark until I find the source of the sting, a shortcut under the pinkie finger presumably from the kid in the alley. I mop it with a thumb and feel the stiffness of some blood already setting in on my skin. Some still lingering at the opening.


    "Where were you heading?" Igor waits a second and runs his gaze across the others next to him. When it rounds back to me, I see the man before was born again.


    "Piao Jie. For a neighboring greeting."


    A claw scratches my ribs from the inside as I narrow my eyes on him and the other three.


    I crawl onto the empty bench on the right to bring me closer to the light of the window and figures in black. I squint my eyes harder to make out the outlines of them. And find them just about the age of those three in the alley, if not as young as the 10th Street.


    "It''s their night Lee." Igor leans forward to pull out a boxing wrap from the storage box under bench and hands it to me. I stare at it for a second longer than needed before taking it in rigid movements. "And you stripped it from them. Now you''re in debt for putting four of my men off commission and jeopardizing my work."


    I stare at the white tape in my hand. It must be cleanest I''ve seen from Igor. The thought runs across my numbing mind, I raise my head to look through their faces once again. Hell one of them even looked familiar, the one from Eugene.....what was his name.....


    A clink, a snare, then a flare. Igor holds an old silver zippo against the cig in his mouth. The flame came, ignited the tobacco and immediately cut by the lid. He takes a quick whiff and passes it to the one under Eugene''s wing. The kid takes a hard drag, the brimming flicker draws the contour of him more angular than true, making him look older by the long lines of shadow behind each fold. His blonde hair looks brown and stiff.


    Blonde kid passes the cig to the next, and he next passes it down again, and back around until Igor takes a second puff, flicking the ashes to the suede mat nowhere visible.


    "Let''s hear it." He presses the thumb and tilt the filter end to me as he extends it. The scenery at the back window changes like a slide show or a bulky old TV, from the suburban to the rector street with Lesnaya becoming dots in between lanterns. "How do you plan on compensating?"

 Hearse

    "You''re out of your mind." I snap the cigarette off him and inhale as hard as my lung can take before repulsing and slamming the butt of the smoke down by my feet as sparks jump like buckshot across the moving van. Igor acts as nonchalant as amused and leans back on the bench. "With all due respect somewhere next to my bed. I will pay this back in my own way, you know more than anyone else I''m good for it...."


    "§Ú§Þ§Ö§ß§ß§à §Ú§Ù-§Ù§Ñ §ï§ä§à§Ô§à. You''re the reasonable one, you talk, you bargain, you make promises, and you hears the weight of favors and debts.


    But you''re also the unluckiest bastard in the world." He crooks his left combat boot up and rests it by the right knee. "This ain''t a negotiation, they were going to piao Jie, you broken their bones, now you''re going instead of them. Consider it....however you want."


    I stare at his eyes in the dark while he''s as confident as always about my decision. Igor didn''t have to tell me what would happen if I refused. Long as there''s a reason, everything is possible in Faust no matter how ludicrous...


    I can feel the corner of my left eye twitch in the slightest discomfort as my heart raises even faster than the van deliberately picking up speed as we enter the outer rim of Chinatown.


    Calm down¡­.


    Think.


    I take my eyes off the old cocksucker and turn to the younger cannon folders. Clinging teeth, blood and endorphin and deliriousness shooting through their eyes. Barely focused on the task, hands hugging and releasing the gloves, face about the same color as the seldom escaping street light through the window.


    Bunch of lost causes.


    Igor''s out for blood tonight for those two scouts just days ago. A perpetual fucking gristmill of corpses. These kids are instruments for a message, revenging someone they''ve never met.


    And there''s the dirty rag hanging in the air in the name of peace like plank between stalls. What a joke. I smile out to myself and Igor draws a white dotted brow upward which I pay him no mind.


    Adding up to the irony. I''m supposed to keep the rag on between these animals.


    I lean back and start wrapping the band on my grazed hand. Shedding every ounce of my tension off my body by dropping down my cares completely. I pull off the fastener and let one end roll off to the ground before my feet stomp on it, pulling it up tight and start the first ring by my thumb four times before taking it off and press the folds on my knuckles. Moving to my wrists as I pull it as hard as the brink of blood in my vain flowing abide. A turn, a raise of my foot off the band. First wrap on the cut absorbs whatever''s coming out, the second renders the pain back with its strangling palm, and the third and fourth made my entire right hand feel like a clutched fist even when it''s flat on the bench and not a tinge of sting remains.


    "In that case," Pulling the fastener back on, I give it a couple of squeezes. "I''ll consider a discount." There never was a choice for me. Refusing heeds too much uncertainty, the truth is everyone in the car is on edge. (Except for the bloody driver obviously, the cunt''s tabbing a rhythm on wheel)


    By agreeing, I''d be throwing myself in a pit of scorch. But it''s also the only way to control the events waiting to unfold. At least it''s the only reason I can justify this.


    Half of my face''s still numb and my eyes bags surely covered in black and blue, first two knuckles of my left palm poke and sting on every turn as do my wrist, the cuts under cheap boxing wrap pulses like a drum as if my heart was relocated. And my jacket''s a bloody mess full of spilled tobacco so I shed it off too.


    Naked and itching with pain laced on my bones, on my skin, and a headache in waiting.


    Fist clenched and unclenched. It was about this dark too. The van passes the branches of the heart of Piao Jie, outside there was as lousy as ever.


    Bitter iron, pungent sweat, mold-embedded brittleness in the air. My eyes wander not, what will be done will be carried out. Some will die tonight, few, a few, a many, one of many.


    "What''s the work?" Folding the jacket twice, I toss it on the ground.


    ***


    "An opium dig south of Via Martinase


    far north crossroad between the Qins and wops." I nod dully as I strap the holster tightly hugging my back and straining my arm.


    No man''s land, not too far off the target audience, not too close to the sensible bits of the beast. The perfect place to leave a mark, and hitting this far off also shows the Russian''s control over the south.


    "Opium and?"


    "Laundromat."


    More of a jab than a slap.


    "How far?"


    "16 minutes..." Driver crooks his head.


    "To the ground," Igor states, the driver rolls his eye through the rear mirror. "Down to debris."


    Maybe a bash in the head.


    "You got a light? Didn''t bring mine." Igor hinges his foot back, the sole bumping into some sort of crate under the bench and the noise of rivets trembling sends a quicken of heart to everyone in the van.


    "The place''s structure is as flimsy as any roof in Disalos. The basement''s where they do the dirty laundry. Set it in flames and the rest will go down." I give the other three fellas a glimpse before drawing the 9 mil. The two by the back door lean forward with arms on knees and Eugene''s latest favorite Damali... Damogh?¡­ Dimitri...Budimir! I think.


    Budimir''s relatively calm with his postures still upright but his stare never stops near me.


    "How big is that junkyard?"


    "Two floors, a basement. The first floor''s the lobby, mats, pillows lying around and two maybe three suits by the kitchen door behind the counter. Behind it is the staff-only, the path to the basement is said to be straightforward. The stairs down are located at the southwest corner of the first floor. Second floor is the booths, stairs are hung by the north wall behind the lobby." I hum a reply and turn on the safety before extracting the mag and tab it against the grip before inserting back. Pulling and halting the slide to check if the one in the chamber is still sitting soundly.


    "Is the joint exclusive or are we in for a party scene?"


    "From the scouts and some...less volunteering spirits, the place has seen better days but no it doesn¡¯t look exclusive by the bums that goes in and out daily. Therefore, yes.


    You might find a lovely family celebrating their firstborn''s or just a couple of brain-dead fucks lying in ruins like body bags." Igor shoulders a shrug and stares plainly at a spot left to my head but the pulsing taupe in his eyes speaks a longer monologue of his condescending indifference.


    Another bewildering fact about Igor is that his hatred for drugs more than anyone had any reasons to.


    "Igor. I''ll ask again, how far are you taking..." The one sitting at the far end of the bench snaps like a short-leashed bull. His head tilting at a split and through the action, exposed his bloodshot eyes, muddy pupils under the light through the back door.


    "Yer fucking deaf or what?" He scorns, almost illegible by how fast that was. I calmly turn to him, give a hum, and back to Igor.


    "I hope you got cops on three different districts by the end of your stick, otherwise there will be turmoil if civilians are involved."


    "And who exactly are you to be giving lecturers..." He takes each syllable like singing a bloody tone and before neither me nor Igor get the chance, Budimir shuts him up.


    "Har, would you zip that shithole please?" By a crook of his head, the blonde kid got off the wall barking with an irritation boiled long before Har started blabbering. "Sir," He turns to Igor with an open mouth before words are pronounced. "What if there are others inside? What then?"


    Igor''s sighted grey eyes embark a malicious in the form of disregarding and to its great contrast, Budimir, filled with a stern hold like an anchor suspended in the air. And the Russian shrugs as if it''s the dumbest question in his years.


    "Whatever the fuck you want." He states with a bewilderment deeply rooted in the concept. Budimir nods, and I can see what he has in mind now. I jerk with a shake of my head, part in disbelief this is happening again, part to rid of the deja vu.


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    "And the cops?"


    "Three minutes. The Italians are turning a blind eye, the crooks downtown would take their sweet savory time coming down south if they even bothered. The local mannequins of Chinatown are the main issue, but even they have to take this long before reaching this bone fuck nowhere. As long as ya''ll squeeze it in three minutes we''ll be off before they get here."


    The Russian takes a peak at the front over the blackened windshield, the stretching of the street grows desolate as turns become more often. The lights and sidewalks narrow and wither next to us. He stretches and strengthens his neck up before pulling the wooden crate out under the bench.


    "§£§í§Ò§Ö§â§Ú §á§Ý§Ñ§ä§î§Ö, §Þ§Ñ§Ý§î§é§Ú§Ü§Ú." Igor plows the lockets on both corners and the hinges squeak the last sound of a funeral. The combination of flimsy reflection of moonlight and the dying streetlights shed its gourmet off like a nightgown on sheets. Plated on a crate full of botched rifles, carbines, some 9 mm, a pump action sawed off. Cuts on their barrels glint the iron lines of silver under the light, the smoothen wooden handles, slides of pistol wobbles on each bump on the road.


    My spending in the last two days worth more than these junks combined.


    Budimir was the first to dig in, in a literal sense as he pulled a pistol off from the pile, weights it in hand before dumping it back and pulling another out. Har picks the bulky carbine while Budimir''s still excluding his options, out of the crate resulting in a series of aluminum, steel, and iron colliding in trumpets of short heartbeats as the loose bullets and magazines at the bottom are in sight.


    Igor and I sit unmoved as the fellas get to work. The silent one sitting between Budimir and Har pickes the shotgun after a short while. He pulls the polyester fore-end back to check the chamber with the stock on his thigh, muzzle at the ceiling tilting it into the light. His thumb brushes the small white dots by the receiver and tarnished trigger guard. Wordlessly he starts picking loose shells in the crate with one hand while the other keeps the shotgun sturdy on his thigh. He was the first to finish. After pushing the safety on, he leans back on the moving van.


    Budimir eventually settled for a Russian knockoff of browning. Index on the safety, extract the mag, rack the slide twice before setting it back, he would raise the chamber by his ear and dry fire it with each gun. To tell the trigger spring''s condition as well as the general state of how fucked these batches are.


    Picking parabellum cartridges in insufficient light doesn''t bother Budimir the slightest. He leans forward, almost crouching on the bench as he probes and salvages under dissected carbine magazines, random spare slides, botched barrels. He would roll one up between his index and thumb and nib the tip to tell apart 9mm and 45s. Anyone with a leak of sense can tell by his efficiency in mundane tasks that he worked for Luthier.


    Yet still no silver bracelet on the wrist.


    Not in the icebreaker basement, not in a hearse riding to hell.


    "Budimir isn''t it?" I address the lad in a clean tone with eyes steadily on his. He pushes the last 9mm in squeaking magazine and gives me a nod with quick glances. Can''t tell from his eyes in the dark but it sure as imaginable ain''t nothing nice to say in those baby blue.


    "Do you know the kid in the alley?"


    "Which?" He rests the gun flat on his thigh before skidding the mag in, racks it, and pulls another cartridge out from his pocket.


    "The one from your neighborhood, standing in a bloody mess." Budimir frowns a little with the edge of his brown dipping the moonlight white and changes his posture to face me. Beside him, Har pulls away his hound-like ferociousness in eyes and turns subtly to the quiet one by the window.


    "I knew him, but never spoke to him." His thumb bends as his grip moves inwards to push the magazine out of the piece of scrap in his hand.


    "He got a name?" Topping off, clocks it against the handle before pushing the magazine back. Budimir''s face''s a conundrum.


    "They call him Visilii." Igor speaks mindfully slow with each word like smithing iron. "Don''t you Har?" He states without turning his glance instead he picks up the botched rifle with an L-shaped stock that looks like human bones glued together. Now all eyes (except Igor''s) are on Har who gives Budimir a look before shrugging.


    "I don''t know him either. Other sons of bitches call him Vislii, so do I."


    Ignorance at its finest.


    "Vislii the unlucky?"


    "The what?" I blink twice to urge off rolling my eyes and waving my hand to nothing in particular. By the motion I noticed Igor''s getting busy all of a sudden.


    He slopes the tool on his thigh and starts to push the cartridges in the curved mag round by round it squeaks a rusty rasp by either the string or the lips. The noise of cheap-as-shit polymer and flimsy iron pieces echoes through the short lived silence.


    "Do you have more business with him?" Budimir shoots the question out of the blue like a knife through the sheets. I trace my eyes back on his peering, and for the span of a thought those blue in the dark remind me of Ivan, the one planted on a leather armchair, not the one I knew a decade ago thank god. The pressing, invigorating self with mind firmly where he set his eyes upon. I snicker a scornful grin across my cheek that lets out more than intended.


    "Depends on how he greets me." I turn to the dying of the light through that grime-covered window at the end. "But I got to say, he''s good. Bit of a fucking hot head, but he knew what he was doing." My line of sight swims to Igor before turning back to the blonde lad. "Believe it or not I was but a scared¡­citizen trying to get home." Igor drags a flat smile with pursed lips but utters not.


    And surprisingly.


    "What about those dented skulls on the wall." It was the mute that spoke the piece on everyone''s mind. Still resting his head on the tittering interior of the van.


    "They wouldn''t let me." I sit back with palms up, shoulder rested, eyes glaring them all. "Simple as it sounds."


    I take a slow breath in as the voice comes from both the logical and impulsive parts of my mind. Should''ve brought the inhaler with me. Exhaling, I speak in the most unassuming manner I could bring myself to.


    "I''ve been...off, for some time. Some of you may not know me, take me as one of the cocksucking slanted eyes we''re about to send to the nether. I blame none for the idea, but also, instigated none of the matters," Igor''s left eye bag twitches as if a tear of cloth being pulled in sew. "Go ask around. I''ve been hopping Nochnaya before the Qins were more than a notion on the betting table of gossip and rumor and now it''s mine on those same tables. Believe this, you''ve heard of me." My gaze jumps from one to another, surveying the audience.


    "But don''t be mistaken, I''m no part of the company," To Budimir. "No stranger to what we''re about to do," To Har. "No intentions for retribution despite the transgressions of your compatriots or contrition for bashing their faces." The mute. "Ya''ll can call me Lee, nothing else.¡±


    To Igor. "I''m a freelancer. Not a cent short, nor a dime more."


    A silence hangs like a tangible abomination that escapes the eyes, it crawls and slithers by your ankle and pulls your shoulders higher than it''s supposed to set. Igor let it grow on him as if oblivious, Budimir stares quietly contemplating a million things through small sways of his pupils. Har''s more obvious, the lad turns his sight to Igor then his mates rinse and repeat, the mute nods to himself with chin hinging to the left as if chewing something tough.


    By the 30th press of standard 7.62 (Wishful thinking honestly) Igor clocks the mag in the rifle and gives it a quick wack to make sure it''s locked in place, turns it sideways and right thumb brushes the safety on with a plastic ''tick¡¯


    "Well put." He stands the stock on his left palm with the fore-end on his shoulder, barrel by his weathered cheeks. A pull and a drop of weighting later he folds the stock and somehow makes it seem twice as unreliable.


    "See boys?" Without a glance at me or the rest of the wannabes, he declares with a grin like a very contained madman. "Some people were born with a mouth, mercs, freelancers, lawyers, generals, two-bucks Suzzy-Mai''s at Lesnaya."


    Har lets off a quick smirk while the brows are still knitted. "Some were born for other purposes." Toying the rifle around leaving no piece of metal or a bolt of screw unchecked.


    "Some got the eyes for opportunities," He lunges forward and starts tossing and turning the pieces left in the long crate, punching off the tinkering sounds of steel colliding with lead. "Some know just when to put all in." Through the rackets and shit, he grips a particularly long cleaning rod and pulls the mag out, and aligns the pole on the retaining pin of the folding stock. "And some others such as me," A twist of palm, his closed fist hammers down, again and again the rifle shakes. "Did what''s best in the given situation and get what''s due. But this isn''t the army, there are no pensions or stipends, and unlike the fucking army there''s no one telling you not to take what''s yours." Throwing the rod back in, he pulls and twists the other end of the pin poking out. Finally, with it gone Igor removes the cheap stock altogether and places it back in the crate.


    "And that''s what we do. Born lucky, born unlucky, born rich, or the gutter by some clinic.... §¤§Ñ§Ó§ß§à! It all meant jackshit. In this city, folks like us have something in common with those above and the liabilities on streets. At the end of the day you will fight to keep yours or you fight to take from others, there is no in-between, in-betweens are for the vagrant and crackheads that didn''t do either. The land of chances is a moving place, you have to run and scream and yearn and grab with bloodied palms. That''s your permanent of exiting." His voice was a groan, like a feral animal with busted vocal cord. And the crowd listened, some more obvious than others but all swallowed it down the throat.


    Tis times plague, when madman leads the blind. I snicker an audible laugh and lean back on the bench. His prologue gets longer over the years.


    "§²§Ñ§ã§é§Ö§ä§ß§à§Ö §Ó§â§Ö§Þ§ñ §á§â§Ú§Ò§í§ä§Ú§ñ §á§ñ§ä§î §Þ§Ú§ß§å§ä." The driver gives the final notice haphazardly but with heed.


    "Alek, take your foot off the pedal." Igor bumps his right fist on the back of the driver seat before picking up the 7.62 magazine, pull the bolt to lock a round in. Finger swipe on the receiver.


    Hand on the fore-end, muzzle at the ground, he throws the rifle to me without a notice. My left palm hints an aching down the carpal bones as I just barely stop its flat trajectory at my face.


    "Your fee for the job, Lee." I stare at him for a very explicit sign of what the fuck


    "Crowd control?"


    "Big ones are always good for first impressions." He grins with an underlying sense of humor. I take a closer gander at the piece of scrap, a clear rip off of the Zastava lines since it looks about an M70 missing a stock but feels like an IED with screws falling off internally as I hold the uncomfortable grip.


    This better not have come from Eugene''s.... The memory of that ghost town came flashing back and consists mostly of how those things can operate and shoot properly at left, right, up, down, backward but never straight at the target.


    "You want me to send the rest of the receipt or pay in cash later? My standard fee for work like this is around 45 large and that''s me being more generous than I''ve ever." Igor''s grin turns into a smirk that protrudes the chin to the side. Budimir and Har furtively frown and scorn in bewilderment at the number.


    "While on the subject," He turns and half crouches to the left at those wannabes. "Bring the gears back. It doesn¡¯t need a statement when you''re burning the place down."


    "Three minutes!" The driver turns and shuts in English. Igor leans forward and peers through the windshield, a drop on both corners of his mouth before he presses them down.


    Wordlessly, he digs through the corner of the crate pulling out a puffed rag... then another from a different corner, and another under some sort of busted pistol slide... One by one he passes the dark green rag down the line while almost all of them are either rolling their eyes under lids or biting down their tongue looking at the window.


    It wasn''t until he pulls a spare one out under the bench and tossed it to me do I noticed there are two holes rigged with pilling on the rim. I grin silently with a bob of my head and it is as sardonic as it gets.


    Hanging the balaclava on the rifle''s muzzle and setting both by my feet, I bend forward and snake my hand in my jacket pocket for the lighter and a spilled-out cigarette. It''s twisted and crooked and the first centimeter''s tobacco''s already gone making the spark instantly melt its tip. The scent of coco temporarily occupies my mind until I notice the tar burning especially fast with the bitterness growing large.


    Cricket mixed old packs into the carton.


    Smiling to myself, I take two more hard drags that felt like each burnt one of my lungs before snuffing it in my fingertips, all in due moment did the pain flee but that''s about as much excitement I can prepare myself.


    A million thoughts can be shooting through my mind and they wouldn''t change what''s upon me and them. I spit out the cigarette end and put the balaclava over my head.

 Proxies

    Mask on, I can taste the sweat sliding down the nose bridge and the last wearers¡¯ too. Sweat and blood with its sickening taste of acid after weeks on cheap wool.


    "Don''t take too long boys. §±§à§Õ§ß§Ú§Þ§Ñ§Û §ê§å§Þ. §³§Ø§Ú§Ô§Ñ§Û §Ö§Ô§à. §µ§Ò§Ú§â§Ñ§Û§ã§ñ." Igor warns before getting off his seat and taking a knee behind the front seat.


    Lights and lanterns are flashing to the far distant end of this road slower and slower through the back window on the door, until Alek made a left turn.


    Fucking balaclava.....


    I scratch my chin that¡¯s already sticking to the hair ball at the mask¡¯s torn edge before I pull the handle back to the end, lock the bolt tight before sticking in my pinkie to check the one in the chamber''s resting right. Hell, it¡¯s probably cheaper than my 45 in holster.


    I wouldn''t be surprise if it doesn''t shoot straight. But like he said, big motherfucks are good for first impressions.


    Budimir passes a grenade to everyone including Igor. The canisters look suspiciously like the No.73 antiques Vel uses. If it''s anything alike, the place would be cinders within two minutes. I thought while  slipping it in my pocket.


    The 10th Street lad switch off the safety on his piece, Har locks the first round in the carbine, Igor squints his eyes as the driver slows the car down.


    I lean the rifle by the bench and put my hands behind the driver''s seat''s headrest. Har snorts as me and Igor inevitably block out their view. The sound of the first slug getting pushed in rings by my ear but as I look back, the mute''s still in a half-asleep posture hugging the sawed-off pump by his arm.


    Scouring the street on both sides of this narrow terrain with the combination of fire escape letters and concretes integrating with plastic canopy from trolleys resting in smaller branches of dead ends, used as garages by residents. And the second-floor windows are all barded and caged, even the tubes have padlocks on their lid. This place is the perfect presentation of the other side of Chinatown. Behind the stone lions climbing up the pillars of temples painted red like scabbed wounds and hundreds of them running circles around the inner rims. The unlucky ones hide in the alley, scrapping off what their grandparents survived on a different continent.


    Even then I bet they''re still under the monthly subscription of the Qin''s ''protection''. And on top of all, there''s a bloody Opium den in the neighborhood. That joint pumps out scrawny junkies at a speed never seen before. The addicts won''t be able to get their nerves up by anything else in this world. Ask me, I''d take an eight-part heroin hostel over a stroll in these places, least the residents are willing to have a conversation with you.


    Another left turn, a lane disappears by the sidewalks as the path crooks into two vaguely drawn red lines and four-seaters and scooters parked loosely across the view. Squeezing the already confined path till its barely accessible but also made the three-story high grey apartment building stand out as it''s the only place with lights still on, another reason is the black SUV in front of it is free of any obstacles within a three-meter radius. The lights were killed off, but the hand sticking out the driver''s seat with a lit cigarette is telltale that the engine''s still running.


    ***


    "Igor."


    "I''m not blind."


    Head hinging forward in anticipation like everyone else, the Opium joint is in sight. Sitting on the right side of an alley of no light, but it''s the autos which draw our attention.


    "Don''t kill the lights, we''re already out. Keep the pace, take a spin around the block." Alek hums and complies. Igor hinges his chin down for the span of a thought and turns to me.


    "Take position, your sight''s better." Igor retreats to the bench full of wondering eyes and the driver snakes his hand down to pull the lever of passenger seat which falls back like a folding bed.


    Roughly 20 meters away, I crawl to shotgun clumsily with the holster dangling under my armpit and the Colt poking my waist.


    Alek with hands on the lever, eyes on the road, foot putting just enough pressure on the brakes. He pulls the seat back up soon as I (Mostly) get to the front row.


    I quench my beating heart and shortening breaths. Pull the mask off, roll the window down, resting my right arm on the frame with my hand casually hanging behind the window and my head leaning palm, eyes as dull and bored out of late night shift as possible when we pass the front of the den in ambiguous speed.


    Its second-floor windows are still illuminated to a certain degree, through the half-closed heavy curtain, windows in mandatory breeze of this season''s evening.


    The first floor is entirely sealed away with the only entrance shut tight. But the electronic lanterns hanging beside the double door are still on, not much compliment to the shabby exterior as the lights are unable to reach the ground, they only portray each''s shadow on the wall. Place ain''t got any signs apparently, the overall concrete structure binding the marbles and wooden eaves stretching between the first and second floor and sitting in an alley strip of lights made it look more of a lonely shrine of gaunt.


    And the man''s face comes into view, pulling the arm back for a drag of cig as soon as he notices a car approaching. The faint spark lights the outline of his facial features and diligent eyes as well as the cuff of his black suit. I don''t avert my eyes to his peering but instead, bring them slothfully towards with a tilt of brow and a prayer at heart that he doesn¡¯t spot the 9mm right under the window from his point of view.


    His gaze follows through that half a second of crossing and continues on the side mirror.


    I forced myself to keep my line of sight flatly horizontal while my brain was scorching everything I learned down my memory lanes as the SUV moves out the window frame and the street follows....


    Shit.


    The good news is the backseat of that car is empty, the driver''s all alone which also means the passengers are inside the joint. The bad news being the one on the street ain''t alone. Behind the sidewalk, the alley directly next to the opium den parked a G wagon of similar model, through the gap between the buildings and cars and lamp poles and the light of cigarette and the dark of night on this cursed road. Through the obstacles and for only a second I can still be very sure it''s loaded with Qins and pistols on the dashboard.


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    The van keeps moving, the end of the road in 20 meters is a single beam of light glazed over the desolate.


    "Two seven-seaters, the one in front of our target''s short on 6. The other one''s by the narrow alley to its left, that one''s full. I counted three sparks in the dark and that''s just the front row so... add ten up your ''two or three by the kitchen door''."


    Glances are thrown over each other. The fellas in the back unconsciously peek through the muddy window on the back door. Igor inhales deeply, an index crook under his left eyelid, claws it, dragging a slit of muddy white under closed eyes.


    "Alek, go around the block and back." The driver crux a look back but otherwise turns left on the branching path leading to Via Martinase. I pull the seat lever back and turn around to everyone''s share peering at the man with none of the previous mocking and spontaneous demeanor.


    "Stick to the plan." His palm strokes about the gray and the black by the side of his scalp. "Burn the place down."


    He finally snuffed it.


    "Do you always have a suicidal urge or is it just the time of the month?" I cough the words out as an ardent itch grows.


    "None of the sources suggested that they moved the collecting day. And those windshields on trucks don''t go well with the exterior no? §â§Ö§á§Ü§Ú§Û §Ü§Ñ§Ü §Ò§í§é§î§ñ §ê§Ü§å§â§Ñ." The hand rounds to the back of his neck as he leans back on it. "Budimir. What do you think it means?" The Russian asks the 10th street without looking. Kid jumped a brow from the abruptness but quickly found the simplest answer.


    "There''s a fat wig in the joint." The hand rubs into a dangling index pointing at his face as Igor grins.


    "Chances are for the takers." He speaks as if the words are crushed peddles, dropping from the chipped lips of a gator.


    The air''s among the five of us thick enough to prowl a hole and turn a hide. We are currently en-route to hell and the mute is the first to speak his piece.


    "Boss, this is distortion. Not a hit job." The kid gets off his quarter between the door and Har''s arm for the first time, bending forward. Each word is as mindful as they are uttered.


    Igor''s eyes move before turning his head.


    "Did I say anything about hit jobs?


    This is a show of force, extortion. Reprimanding those gristle bitches they are not safe even in the most deserted part of city. And we know where they are. Whether it''ll be a hit job or not, depends on your capabilities."


    I laugh internally to the point I feel a pressuring pain in my chest and made my voice sound more breathless.


    "Does that mean you''re willing to get your hands wet again?" Gripping my right palm into a fist. The wraps absorb the boiling wretches in my mind and the veins turn numb, a honed pain from the cut comes as I can feel it water again.


    "I''ll deal with the alleyway." Igor nods with a purse of his dry lips as if it''s an obvious course....


    "You''ll scout first on foot from the corner and take the one on the street." A hilt of eyes and the eyelids still pens it clear it''s not for me to choose otherwise.


    "As for the rest. Budimir will take the lead. Clear the lobby and move up to the second with Har while Nikto and Lee deal with the basement. Regroup at the front. And remember <em style="font-family: georgia, palatino">three minutes! That''s how long it takes for the §á§à§Õ§Ñ§â§à§Ü to reach here."


    Not prideful nor condescending, Igor issues the commands like a lectiophile among illiterates. And they listen dutifully with sweat running down the callus, scratches and fate lines of their palms. Especially Budimir, who''s got the corner of his blue eyes lengthened with a straight stare into nowhere while the blue of his iris remain concentrated and refined. His facial muscles tense by the only indicator of his nostrils becomes slightly more agape.


    Another turn, and we''re back on the road before the alley. The street''s partially lit by the LED tubes of some vendors and stands and stringless steel folding tables on red lines by the lanes without curbs. Old broken tiles on the exterior, canvas awing over tricycles filled with empty bottles and cardboard, not many on the street and those there are don''t look like they would react to a gunshot or a couple hundred.


    The atmosphere inside the Van is the polar opposite, you could smell the powder keg and the lingering nicotine mixed with other chemicals in the air. Glances, insecurity, suspense move their thumbs up and down the safety. There is a web weathed chains and meat hooks clinging onto every piece of object in the back of the car and it pulls and pulls and drags and cleaves everything into one.


    Stripped of agency I can endure.


    It''s part of my job.


    Used as a gun I''m willing, for that is what I''m good for. But being thrown as a glove...


    What is done before cannot be determined.


    Don''t need to be a psychic to pull the vision from your mind, it''s there like an old repeating VHS.


    They won''t make it, the VIP''s life doesn''t matter, and even the predicament of his existence doesn''t. Those cars won''t be there for no reason. And those dumb fucks at the back, they''d start a war in the pivotal of three different sectors. Dragging the city into flames.


    I fold the revolting piece of wool in my pocket and pass the rifle carefully back to Igor as it wouldn''t sell the act. He returns a nod and sets it by his feet.


    "Stop here." Two houses before the opening between parked scooters and dusted four-seaters. Igor leans his torso forward to the front seat''s glove box. Punching it down, he picks a Stechkin out strenuously. Holding it sideways, he pulls the slide halfway back with the chamber facing up before letting off.


    A second of silence as he moved his gaze from the plain tool in hand to the street outside the windshield. No lord or deity could decipher his thoughts during that second. But from this angle, it looked damn close to solitude and resentment like a cage at a snowy peak.


    Before he hilt his dark green jacket up and sticks it on his belt. Picking up the last balaclava in the crate and puts it over his head. The rest do the same. It used to be for the cops, nowadays it''s to prevent retribution from different associates.


    And we move as if crawling. Light off, the man at seat, head on lean, hands-on steel, listening to the racket while doubts set in. It''s but normal, for me, them, even Igor. Who wouldn''t question every choice before facing a sea of unknown death.


    Alek steps on the pedal with a pianist''s patience and precision as only the front window and the bumper''s poking out the corner of the alley. On the passenger seat looking through is like staring at a lighthouse.


    "Lee you know the work. Do the driver quietly, I''ll be in position soon." Igor nudges the wooden forearm of the rifle out of habit as he turns to Alek at the front. "Bring them up when you see my sign or if the chinos start engaging..." Igor bumps his fist on my left arm signaling it''s time. Alek unlocks the door.


    Grip on handle, heart by the edge. The breeze of fresh air reminds me how much in reality it stinks inside. I tilt back for a quick gander without knowing why, maybe I was looking for someone I knew from all these Deja vu or I was trying to remember those dumb lads.


    "One last thing for your peace of mind. I''ve learned long ago. The first 4 shots of any skirmishes will determine the outcome, it doesn''t matter who you''re shooting at, but all shots are fired by you...."


    The voice of Igor''s colloquial bullshit echoes in the windows as Alek leans forward with efforts to roll it up, our line of sight crossed for a second before he pulls himself back to the driver seat.


    ***


    I stoop half a meter behind the car bumper with my right eye out at the end of the alley.


    Too obvious. That single piece of side mirror on the SUV caught the entire alley. And with a shoulder holster out and a gun right under my armpit ain''t the smoothest way to approach. The guy''s posture and composure looked diluting but his eyes were sharp enough to find mine before it even came into his view. He''s on edge too by being here.


    A crooked smile forms as an idea comes to mind. How do you approach a Qin 30 meters away while armed?


    I circle around the Van and a Japanese four-seater on my left. Left hand on the broken tiles under a green metal plate of ''108'' and nothing else.


    Good fucking thing that most of the Piao Jie have the architectural choice of leaving a narrow walkway between the sidewalk and the driveway since the space''s usually taken by parked bikes.


    From his perspective, it''d look like I ran past the Van and into the alley.


    I take a breath in and go through how absurd this is, good old adrenaline came as a substitute for my inhaler. As my mind travels through the specific thought, I promise myself to cut this cold turkey shit if I live through tonight.


    I take a quick look at the empty but unquiet street behind me vertical to the alley, pull the leather holster tighter and check the safety of both arms. Then¡­


    "E lao lai la!"


    The Russians are here!


    I holler in Chinese through a purposely shifted nasal voice and sprint into the alley.

 Breach

    The gritting of my sole on bumpy asphalt seems more perceptible in my ear than my own scream and heartbeat exceeds both.


    Dim alley with a singular light made the whole walk their fortress. The one at the front is the lookout, the car awaiting the VIP to arrive at the back door. Even if it''s just one man in the driver seat, in a cramped vertical space like this is enough to lock the area under his gaze.


    But what if, he sees an Asian fellow in a plain white shirt, a set of mags, and a pistol dangling dangerously under his arm running towards him with all the hell''s horror in his eyes and a coarse cry? Warning that the Russians are coming.


    Apparently, he does none but leans outward and turns his head back, face as conflicted as you''d imagine. Left hand on the window frame, right hand clearly on a gun.


    I only pray the opium house got thick enough walls otherwise I''d be pulling off to my own amusement.


    "Who the fuck are you?" He asks in Chinese, not even hiding the bewilderment in his tone or the semi-auto on his thigh, finger in the trigger guard.


    "I...Kirin... he and..." I purposely stopped my words every few syllables with loud exhalations to slow done my pace upon his alerted eyes and moving shoulder through the rear mirror. "He told me to come here."


    "Lao zhi, you with him?... I''ve never seen you before." I feebly raise a hand up to the man in suit with rapid questions. The short breaths are real, the paranoid, almost hysteric tone is me letting the third wave of my adrenaline have its work done to look like I ran the actual marathon. That part sells the act a bit too well as he starts sizing me up and stops at the gun in my holster.


    "He was.... he was at that underground pig stead earlier... told me there to keep an eye out the vendors that stood down the cargos and said....." As his brows and facial expressions start to writhe, I deliberately lower my voice little by little...


    "Son of a dog, out with it!"


    I swallow the breath and quicken my words letting the factor of panicking overtake the breathlessness.


    "He said he''s got another job for me tonight and...if he doesn''t call at 9 then I should see him at the Jiu Lou...." I tilt my head even lower as I place my hand on the thighs, eyes darting to the side mirror of black and white and an unmoving street...save for a flash of shadow at the base of my vision, moving along the wall and row of parked cars on the left.


    "Then why are you here?" Steadily, I take another step forward without hesitation to his left arm hanging out the car window in a subtle way to keep our distance.


    "He called 20 minutes ago, told me to swing by this...whatever the hell this shithole is. See if there''s any trouble." His neck''s barely in my arm''s reach. "Then he called again. Right after I reached his dial tone a minute ago..."


    Considering the old bastard''s knees, another 20 seconds should suffice. I sniff a breath in as if reminiscing or gathering strength.


    "It was chaos on the other side, shots. Shots fired. He screamed through the phone telling me to warn you guys to get out of here. He said the Russians are all out tonight, and they''re out for high profiles and they caught winds of this place...."


    "Wait."


    A shift.


    A twitch around every muscle around the eyes. And his eyelids dropped till those eyes in the dark are but a viscous slit.


    "Who do you think is inside?" He shoots the question like a whack of chains.


    "What?... I don''t fucking know. I''m just his contact around the lanes..."


    With a lift of his right arm, the gun on the dashboard is now as plain as the intent behind the veil.


    "You don''t know." A movement by the right corner of my vision, someone dashed between the space of a red convertible and one covered by a tarpaulin. "You don''t know because Kirin doesn''t either you dim fuck. And what''s up with your hand hmph?" My line of sight uncontrollably shakes to my right palm and the base of it runs a line of red.


    A tinge of shiver runs down my spine over a second for two reasons. First, Igor had made it to the pavement about four meters away behind an old Japanese import. Second is the decision driver made at roughly the same time.


    So much for a chat.


    His right hand moves first, the gun in the dashboard gets dragged under in a violent motion with his eyes bulging.


    One step. Quarter of a meter away. Thank the lord he didn''t dock to the passenger seat.


    I swoop into the driver''s seat the instant he raises the gun through window frame as my left arm shoots forward catching the slide of his hammer-fired, crude fucking iron, rough on the hand but the space between the hammer clocked is good enough to fit my left pinkie. Across that quarter of a second, the thought of warning his pals became an afterthought, and that was the worst mistake of his life.


    My left arm twists the gun counterclockwise as he tries to pull them back. And he screams.


    "Kuai....."


    "Gan ta ma de!" I holler with all of my lungs breath as the volume surpasses his initial warning before my right hand covers it with four fingers hinging his jaw and my wrist pressing down on his nose bridge like a muzzle for dogs but whimpers from both his reddened eyes and mouth are still perceptible.


    "How many times do I have to tell you!"


    I roar with the fuse of actual anger, fear and adrenaline mixed together to cover the sound of his gibberishes. Pulling his left-hand knuckle by knuckle out of the window, dragging his face backward making it harder for him to utter with layers of thick cotton pressing into his mouth.


    "It doesn''t matter who the hell am I, the point is the message. Fucking hell, you think I want to be here?" Lowering my voice down two notches and quickening my words for I don''t want to wake the whole block yet. Especially not those windows on the second floor.


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    Beep.


    It was sharp, it was out of place, I''ve heard it hours ago.


    I was trying to dislocate his right wrist but as I catch his left shoulder sinks downward while the arm tries to fish something out under the car door I decided on a more radical choice.


    With one last forceful drag over his pistol in hand, I raise my left foot and stomp it in place between my shoe and window frame, the hem of my trouser got lifted up just enough to show the hilt of my dagger''s sheath on ankle. The bloat of his iris, as I pull the shrift steel in a single swipe. Hammer grip in left palm.


    Back, and forward to his open throat by yanking his face back. His body reacts in dramatic thrash of twitches, pokes, kicks and he had much fight in him or maybe it''s just a seizure. But all''s gone to the other end as I pull it out sideways. The spill of blood was bad, they rain in two trajectories as a layer of blackened hue starts coloring his white shirt collar, some went straight to the wheel and dashboard and just about the entire interior. I hold him in place for a few seconds longer remaining in this ludicrous pose until it stops after what felt like a bothersome eternity.


    Slowly, I let his head fall like a lid to the drainage of his throat covered by his chin. Wiping off the blood on my dagger before sticking it back in the sheath. I pull the gun away from his left palm which lost all strength long ago and place it on his thigh where a puddle of blood fills the dent of the ergonomic seat.


    Red blankets the inside. I reach down where his left hand was on. On the door''s cup holder is a portable radio with its screen bright. As I retrieve it Igor past the passenger side''s window with the rifle forearm in left grip, right hand rounding a circle in the air while striding like a Sunday stroll in the park.


    Eventually, he takes position a foot away from the corner of the alley and the unmarked van glides past the turn 30 meters behind us.


    The fellas get off on foot with their shoulders rubbing the windows of parked cars and closed rolling doors through the last 10 meters, jogging silently through the seam between gutter.


    By the motion they started moving as soon as I made my move on the driver.... shit, half of my shirt was already stained before going in.


    Alek double parked on the other side with lights out and leaning comfortably back.


    Igor''s by the corner to the next SUV with diligent eyes, a stockless rifle looking like an extension of his body. Muzzle points at the ground.


    The mute... Nikto takes point with Budimir right behind him. Har at the end. They hunched over the tattered concrete wall. Cold and crude iron in hand, the lantern moves without the wind.


    Feeble lights cast 4 masked shadows into 8 as they lengthened between walls. The view from the middle is poetic this way, everything speaks of killing in their bleak name.


    All in position, and by the inch of breath.


    Looking down the radio in my hand, the thought that we''ve already lost the initiative shifts in my mind like a nodding grin. Thinking there are a couple dozen of muzzles pointing at the double door grows and along came another daring. I twist the turner on the walkie talkie.


    "Hou-mn..... they''re around the back...." I choke my breath short as I speak in muffled voice through the radio. A sizzling static comes out almost immediately along with a few Chinese dialects I don''t recognize nor am willing to bother as I throw it back in the driver seat.


    Blood of my own and the driver''s made my bandage soaked and spongy and so did my right sleeve. I squeeze it tight and bring out the balaclava to put it over my head as I walk past the SUV to take place behind Har who gave me a quick glance all over and a hesitant frown by the seam of his mask.


    Nikto''s rocking a heavy jacket with many pockets, Budimir''s in a full black track suit with the zipper all the way up to his throat, Har''s in a deep blue jacket with the collar flipped to both sides like folded envelopes. All wearing a ski mask even though witnesses aren''t intended.


    ***


    I unholster the Italian 9mm in left hand, the new grip ain''t making it easier on the large frame but the extra weight feels damn reassuring.


    Clink, clack


    The sound of bulky machinery came at the front as Nikto clocks the first shell in the chamber. Everyone''s got their eyes on the overarching, red double door between lanterns and plugged windows. But the only guy in bulletproof gear got his right fist in the air still.


    We wait with hearts invigorated.


    We wait in heed of his every little flinch as Igor closes his back on the wall.


    We wait through the longest count to five.


    Agonizingly slow, he raises the fist by his ear and opens it.


    Hear.


    Three fingers retract.


    The rifle.


    A fist.


    Stops.


    Pulling it downward.


    And go.


    His hand returns on the trigger, as Igor''s shoulder rises and falls and stops.


    In the first instant, he rolls into the corner, shoulder as anchor, right foot forward, muzzle up.


    In the second, it starts.


    Three shots of 7.62 crack the night sky open in the confinement of a muffled alley, it''s not deafening but it is terrifying as each shot makes everyone''s grip tighten on their piece.


    Three shots all companies by a dull bang like knocking on a wooden door before the shoutings are apparent to our ears. In Chinese and Cantonese but way too vague to comprehend. Another series of shots ring, but too is way too quick to be the sluggish Kalashnikov....just as the thought manifests, so does Igor''s gunfire again tearing through the night sky like the whistle of a race in an open field, the Qins inside heard it just as we do.


    Four more shots amidst the 9mms or 40s but each rifle round made the other noises die out, then came a different bang. A rigid noise followed by someone''s screaming and it stretches on for the next four seconds of blazing gunshots as at least three arms firing at the same time and the scream dies out a little at each muzzle flares from the alley until it all ceases permanently. We can hear the screeching noise pampered by cries and sucking in the air. Until it was muffled, not by rifle shots, some cloth perhaps.


    That was ten seconds, and another passed linking to the next...I pat on Har''s shoulder while leaning close on the door I can feel the vibrations of noises coming out from the blocked windows. He turns back at me, eyes damn red with all the excitement. Petrified to the bones like those eyes are black, open wounds on surgical beds. And before I could tell him it''s now or never the mute beats me to it.


    A slug pummels the hinge of the right double door, a step across the space in between, Budimir take the lead and kicks the door open as Nikto rocks an empty shell out and does the same to the left door. In goes Budimir, pistol formerly raised forward looking more like a cop than a wannabe, at this moment none of them are. For this particular second, they''re soldiers in mind.


    Nikto kicks the door to the left open for better entry, the pump looks damn small but bulky in his hand. Last goes Har with the stock against his shoulder, barrel aligned with his sight as the shouting starts inside for a single second before another shell drops on the floor.


    I crook my neck and pop a joint as Har disappears inside as well, funny how I only realize he''s probably only 165 cm.


    When my turn comes, I keep the pistol further from my body than usual posture and.....


    Is that Igor?


    The son of a bitch strides out of the corner with a grin that''s not fooling anyone as even in this viability I can tell his left arm''s soaked, with a fresh hole tearing off the edge of his sleeve as blood stains the iron of the Kalashnikov and a grey triangular shape racket on his vest.


    "Lee, §´§í §ã§å§Ü§Ú§ß §ã§í§ß! What did I tell you about first impressions?" Two skips and a toss, the bastard had me reacting at the last second as a 2.5-kilo botched work flew to my face.


    I barely reacted in extending my right arm to catch and before I knew it, he was already at my arm''s reach with the functional hand gripping my collar with a forceful pull. "17 rounds left, hey. Hey! Listen, you might be right with his one... Get them out if things go south." He reeks of iron and adrenaline as those eyes descend into the same emotions I keep seeing tonight, exhilaration and mortal fear. Only it has fused into the state he''s in.


    The grin grows as he lets go of me and walks off, right hand arduously pulls out the Jenkins and once again descends into the alleyway.


    Another series of pistol gunshots echos through the gate. I let go of all emotions and questions and stick the pistol back in the holster, put the wet bandaged hand against the grip of the still warm gun barrel. Jumping across the red threshold of the double door. Work it is.

 Raid

    Place is a mess, folks lying around with three of them bleeding through holes in their ripped open chest, punctured through the neck, one of them''s missing half of his cheek with Har breathing loudly through the mask as his rifle''s muzzle lowers below the horizontal..... through the mats, tacky velvet veils and sheets on high tables, black blazers over stools by the front counter, at the far end of the ground floor lobby there''s a black panel, double swinging door with two wooden rim windows show the back of someone''s neck pushing against it as it swings in ambiguous speed.


    "12 o''clock, end of hall!" I shout while the grizzle fabric rubs my wet lips as I raise the rifle in its direction to fire by instincts. The bullet cracks a muzzle flash in dim lighting of this dump before the bullet drives through the door, the slit between doors swings backward as whoever''s behind retreats or falls. And the rest of the fellas fix their aim at the spot a second later, the four of us move in collected steps through the lobby.


    That first shot''s recoil almost made me drop the damn piece of scrap as the handle''s stained with blood on the boxing wrap.


    But Igor''s right. It is a better first impression.


    A pair of eyes behind the iron sight, aligning the north wall. Walking past Har who quickly follows as Budimir steps across the sofa against the west wall while the mute strides past the guy on the wooden bed with an open chest, clearly his latest work. I couldn''t smell the killing, but any who entered this place would be glad to have a mask on, even if it''s a balaclava. The joint has two distinct sweet smells in the air, the burning of flower juices and the wormed.


    I did opium before. But only when I''m bout to get cut or cocktail it with something else in the inhaler. Never smoked or grind them directly since I''ve heard stories about places like this, been to a few too way back only to find them a kick above an animal cesspool and a notch below a mass grave, some corpses don''t shit themselves at least. And here, it had stained the place long enough for the feces to ferment on their pants, diapers, walls, sheets. Some of them don''t even groan, most of them have more than a pipe in their life.


    With the little time given, I take in the surroundings with a narrow view amongst everything. They''re civilians, junkies in sheets or bare-chested lying motionless on beds, mats on the ground, leaning against the wall in deep slumber into somewhere far from this hell. The front counter on the left of the gate is the only place not covered in red, save for a few wooden boxes and a bronze miniature statue on the empty desk.


    Igor wasn''t joking. This place will go down within the first second, half of the ground floor is made of wood and silk. They stretch over the ceiling in a lighter shade than the sheets with occasional lanterns strung on the veil or by the chair.


    No wonder they took so long. This is a place ripe for an ambush. From the entry''s point, there''s no way to distinguish the Qin''s in a suit behind cover. And the illumination doesn''t help, there''s no central lighting at the front, the candles burn a bright red by waxy skins on the bones of the patrons, the lantern between veils of red and engraved beams on the ceiling holds the place above pitch black.


    Feels like I¡¯m back in Vieja Tortola.


    My heart pumps but most noticeable is the itch of the mask while the cold sweat runs down my back. I cross a man in his 40s with arms thinner than a balcony pole. Stepping into a larger clearing in the middle of the lobby where the third Qin lies backward at an abnormal angle on the armchair as blood runs on both ends of his bore neck. The guy got his jacket on the handle, loose cigarettes all over the table like chips in a game. Budimir had made it to the north wall as he clung to the wall in slower steps, but those boots on him ain''t cut for it. Squeaks came off the dented floor of seams seedy-filled under Har and Nikto''s trot.


    Each flinch of eyelids or a roll on their back by these junkies made my nerves strung, on multiple occasions, I almost paint one''s brain for breathing too loud....and as if a taunt on my paranoia, out of nowhere.


    Bang!


    An explosion rocks our eardrum where we can''t see it, like the vibration from the deep sea but more consistent as a hiss stays after the initial blast, along with the capricious sound of hitting a softball.....


    The four of us on different corners of the room, all turn to the left in union despite the muffled sounds coming outside. Before any of us got a grip on the situation, a more distinguishable noise echoes across the door at the far end.


    Plap, clack, plap, clack!


    Hard leather soles pound the tiles. All of us double-timed with our weapons pointed straight. That ominous ''Xianren Wu Ru'' red mark above the panel doors under insufficient illumination is where we regroup.


    "What the fuck was that?" Har curses to himself as he takes position behind Budimir on the right, his pinkie keeps tabbing the forearm of the semi-carbine.


    "Where''s the man?" The tenth street shoots the question across the periphery of the double door like it''s a radio dead zone. The muzzle stays at the door handle while he''s talking.


    "Back in the alley," I knock the side of the magazine and by the hollowing sound, I''d say it still has 10 to 15 rounds in this thing. How about having a little faith in luck and call it 13?


    "How do you want to do this?"


    "You and Nikto take left, we''ll go right and sweep the second floor as planned. Round up at the lobby." The lad''s got his tension controlled quite well, but he''s about as dim as this dump. If there''s a VIP, he ought to be on the second floor, with a truckload of bodyguards around the stairs. Burning the place down would be the easiest way to get both.


    "Budimir," I lower my voice and try my hardest to water down pragmatism to sincerity. "§£§Ñ§Þ §ß§Ö §ß§å§Ø§ß§à....You don''t need to bring some chink capo''s head to be inducted. Living is enough guarantee." He says none, the barrel before his chest wavers not, those blue eyes looked brighter between ragged cloth of balaclava. I curl my brow and shrug.


    I''ve seen the light in em before and ruefully, they tend to burn a blaze greater than everyone around.


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    "Well then," I place a hand on the reticent lad to his brown glare. "Hey, kid! How many you got left in that thing?" Less than four shells. "Don''t mind me taking the lead do you?" Budimir raises his shoulder in palpable motion, the mute says none but leans muzzle to the ceiling and hastily makes his way behind as I take position by the left door hinge. "Otherwise I''m feeling overpaid for charity work."


    From here I can see between the casing of window, the hallway ahead is well illuminated unlike the abandoned outside. There''s not a soul within the two-meter radius on the other side, nor leverage of surprise for us this time. They got the home advantage.


    I get my back against the prickly white wall, the crude AKS-74 resonates ringtones on the wobbling dustcover but a single shot''s good enough to rip through anything in a 1.5-meter width hallway.


    A glance over the fellas, some determined, some aloof, some just nods. Budimir gives me an ''After you'' with a halt of gun barrel. I swallow a breath and let it stay in, tune my watch to chronograph mode setting it at three minutes tight.


    Should have brought the blasted inhaler. Cursing the millionth time over, I make do with the fading adrenaline as I push my left knee forward, sole flat, and crook it back kicking the swing door open.


    ***


    Bright hall, ceiling lower than a fucking coffin. Black and white paintings along the white walls painted red from the waist down. The left door swings open as I dive into the next corridor, muzzle pointing to the right side of hallway and the stairs in the shadows.


    Then the first shot was fired, from a conspicuous corner into an open area. The flash shines lighter than the rows of lamps hanging on the ceiling and low enough to wake the entire back of the opium den.


    It missed but who can tell with all the adrenaline reawakening, it''d take a severe leg for me to feel pain, but I saw where it came from just fine.


    A lift, a press, the whim pillar of wood where he extends the barrel from are a spreading mess, till the wooden shrapnels settle there''s a clean hole marking where he was.


    "Right corner, second room!" With my back pushing the swinging door open as a cover in this confined hallway. I peek through the shot-through hole I did while Budimir and Har pass behind. One''s pistol up front, the other''s carbine above Budimir''s shoulder. Shouts rose again and Nikto silently moved behind me in a crouched motion under the window.


    A nod from him and a look much older than his age is supposed to embody say it all. I lean my arm flat on the door while keeping the iron sight at the center of my vision as the edge of door turns over 45 degrees.


    Four closed doors at the right side of the hallway come into view before I move up in haste, stepping into their field as the door stays in position with the mute''s left palm holding it.


    Firm steps across the wood-plated floor since speed is the only mobility we have. The rifle sitting closer to my face and the front sight centimeters before my right eye. I tensed every single nerve on me to high alert and soon, the welcoming amenity came.


    From the second room to the right, someone''s face pokes out an inch too far meeting a 7.62 right above where I aim as he dives back. Skipping four steps past the first door, a tilt of my head and Nikto get the idea. He approaches the door knob of the first room with caution, my aim still sets on the room where the figure appears. Almost simultaneously, both of us dive in.


    The sound of shotgun slug pommeling in the next room transfix first before the dumb fuck on my end got spooked and blast his single barrel sawed off an inch too left, for a singular instant I could read all the horror setting into his eyes before a single round broke his upper face, the bullet didn''t go through, blood mostly spills forward onto the sheets, brain matters came much later after I left the room, dripping down on the fucking pepperbox from Qin''s factories. He was not wearing a suit.


    Rifle barrel against the corner as I return to the hallway and the mute follows. A smell of powder and a sting sinks somewhere from my nostril to my left arm but I pay it no mind.


    Two more rooms. I raise the barrel to kick a decorative table with a vase on top mostly cause it''s a damn eyesore in this cramped space. The lamplight crosses my eyes as they swing indifferently to the violence beneath.


    And both doors open at the same time.


    "Move!" Nikto roars and I jump to the left with my shoulder leaning on the wall as the last shell in his pump penetrates both open doors, from my angle I could see explicitly how the black suit in the first one got his right shoulder punctuated just before his finger falls on the trigger of the automatic in his hand as he falls. The mute gets down barely in time a dotted line rips from the left wall to the ceiling until the Qin finally falls on the broken tiles of the vase and the gun hooked to his numb finger ran out of bullets.


    I pull myself off the wall and run to the last room of this floor about the same time the big guy in a suit comes out with a ludicrously small Ruger in hand and I run right into his grip.


    The man three notches taller than me throws his left palm over the rifle''s front sight as he overpowers me in an instant but not before I pull the trigger. Must''ve flipped the firing mode in the commotion as three bullets came gushing through his bloody palm in succession.


    Plak, plak, plank. His severed pinky falls in the next breath, and the one afterward was used screaming while I free my grip from the rifle as muscle memory serves its purpose.


    My left-hand pulls out the Pardini in less than a second as I put two in his face before he could raise the pistol. The fucker''s head swings back....as if hitting a speed bump at the back of his neck, it bounces back. The left cheek sinks into a layered hole in contrast to the bloody mess of the other one on his forehead, and they fall forward slothfully like a slide show. I take two steps back and watch him fall across the narrow hallway. His face smeared into the white part of the wall like a bridge across.


    Bang!


    I take a gander at Nikto, who had dropped the empty pump and now holding a .38 in hand, another hole on the buckshoted fellas''s forehead, not much bigger than the rest. Upon my line of sight, he gives me a fretful shrug and a show of hand before sticking the gun back in his jacket pocket.


    His humor got a weird timing.


    I laugh bitterly and with all my might, kick the big guy''s side of head as the blood mops the wall in an arc to the wooden floor. His body slants from the door to the left turn of the corner ahead.


    A ''Shanshui'' black and white painting swings left and right with drops of red on its edge.


    The mute nonchalantly plows the Balck Ruger from the corpse as I take point by the corner in case of surprises. The sense of smell slowly retakes control as my breaths dilute the adrenaline, fresh kills, man, dogs even cats have a certain smell, an odor that loosely resembles sweat but in a corrosive nature.


    Some find an impulsive repulse by it, some think it''s pleasant enough to endure, some psychic notions it as soul leaving the body, suppose our soul must be truly vile to smell like this. I concern it as a stink, one that holds less impression than the ammonia and the sickening herbal breath outside.


    A weight on my shoulder and I lean my ear to the back to be met with a stick of gun. Nikto had crawled the rifle out of the corpse too.


    "The next shot will be crooked, some blood got in." I cough out a hum and take it by the slippery and warm barrel. The lad tries to pull the slide of Ruger to check the chamber but doesn''t realize his hands are shaking either and instead, he racks the slide back completely and a loose cartridge jumps out. A red spread across the white of his eyes with a cursing.


    "Hey," Switching between the turn of a corner and the lad a couple of times I squeeze the words out of my mouth. "Check for wounds, don''t want you leaking out just now." I sounded damn crude but the tone got his eyes fixed again, he shakes his head firmly.


    "I''m good." I hum a response. Flipping back to single fire, I lean the barrel on the corner wall, as the muzzle pokes out in the open, slowly turning into the opposing force of the wall.


    20 degrees....40 degrees, the red and white wall runs along the corner into the connecting corridor.....45.....60 degrees, a smell of chemicals came to me as the most random and unwelcoming surprise in the world. What in the hell is it this time...... at 65 degrees a series of machine gun fire exploded veils of dust on the right wall half a meter away.


    "Fuck!" I blurt out.


    Telling my reflexes to piss off, I crouch down bringing the line of sight tilted upward, and press through the last lean under the bullets gushing over me into another the plank on the wall for the full view of the hallway. I rapid-fired three very off-target shots pushing the shooter back in wherever he mounted. From the view behind a notch and half a circle, I can only see the muzzle flash of my piece into another empty walk.

 Locked horns

    6 to 10 rounds left....


    Sweat runs down my eyelids and a thousand drops sticks to the ski mask on my cheek like a sewing needle patching a ragged cloth. The itch was hell on earth as it slid down my pupil. But I wouldn''t dare close to them.


    The hallway between rusted circles of iron-sight hypnotizes me, like sharpen edges shift into a vignette. To the long walk to the door at the end, kitchen must be the second turn on the left by the paler lighting sinking out a reeded glass double door open to the hallway.


    Same lamp hanging above fills the abrade, amber tint floor sucking in corrosive wax. Most of the decoration is still limited to the red and white with a woman painted in yellow, bright blue and silver dances on the brown scroll, it stretches along the white wall from the left of the first room on the right until the far end of the next where the mural ends in a saffron full moon amidst a grey cloud. Seconds went by, I starts to think the smell of chemicals are gradually becoming apparent.


    The VIP room''s open too. I can see the red mattress behind veils and wooden armchairs with carved armrests and a dressing table in front of a large oval mirror. It''s about 4 meters away from where I stand.


    "Kid...." I lower my voice to a whisper but the damn place suddenly grows quiet and dense in my ears as my voice rings across my mind. "§¯§Ú§Ü§ä§à, §Ú§Õ§Ú §Ó §á§Ö§â§Ó§å§ð §Ü§à§Þ§ß§Ñ§ä§å §ß§Ñ§á§â§Ñ§Ó§à. §Á §ä§Ö§Ò§ñ §á§â§Ú§Ü§â§à§ð." The response came almost immediately from my left.


    "§Ü§à§Ô§Õ§Ñ?"


    Least this one speaks Russian but fucking hell my eardrums were rocked. His voice sounded loud and muffled simultaneously with the jaded and spine-crawling squeak of the floor.


    Swallowing spits and a tress of cotton, I get up from the crouching position while trying my best to keep the line of fire steady with a stockless piece of cannon. The forearm grazes along the wall paint as I lean on it to keep the barrel from wavering. Inch by inch, it scratches and hisses and prowls and....


    The shiver down my spine warns me almost too late, a split before another barrage comes. I can see the dancing woman on the scroll moves along the whooshing bullets as they cross another line of holes on wall to the right, limestone chips fall on the ground. The sound came at last, some small caliber submachine gun but god damn it has some stopping power, and damn him too for I saw where the shots came from. To the end of the hall the most fortified door in the whole fucking dump which leads to the basement, it opened a seam.


    "§é§ä§à §ã§Ö§Û§é§Ñ§ã!"


    I shout through the world tilting away as I hinge my arm forward to point the muzzle at the line of dark, right of the kitchen door. The bolt rocks back as the door shakes, first shot explodes on the reinforced door. Metal collides and again as I saw the barrel of the shooter poking out of, I lower the aim. Nikto places his hand on my left shoulder as he crouches forward low, pistol in his right hand, left in a fist to stop the quivering.


    By the third shot, he leaps. His back bumps into the wall and he leans his entire frame on it. One-handing the pistol pointing at the end of hall, moving in wide steps to the VIP room just before the shooter fires back.


    Clicks and clacks of 9mms propel through the air as the cases resonates clean notes on the ground. A few rounds hit the kitchen door, racking off a large portion of the right corner as the rest cracked a web across the frame, the shot almost got me by chance. Now I''m certain the shooter ain''t no strider of its own death, more of a puss, son of a bitch stick his arm out and pull the trigger. Which wasn''t much a good news since he still got us locked in place, the bonafide bad news is that I''m running dry soon. As I try peeking through the corner again I saw Nikto by the door side in a similar posture as me. Lad points out his left index finger as he swirls a circle in the air, telling me to repeat the act, and tabs his pistol''s slide.


    A smirk shows under my mask mostly by the rousing in my blood still heeding the last drops of the natural stimulation in my system.


    He has a bright future ahead if the bleak end doesn''t catch him tonight.


    Right feet planted firmly between the door frame, he presumes a knee down and grips the short framed iron in both hands, muzzle resting by the edge.


    With a nod across the hallway I stride into another stare of demise, synchronically the mute leans out of the room in union with the lift of my rifle barrel.


    A step, a trigger squeeze, another step, his trigger squeezed .40-German-engineered are known for their precision as Nikto put a round right where he hides. The iron sight wobbles through my running breaths until my sole cracks the broken glass of the kitchen door.


    Then the screaming came. Desperate, as if it was bursting out, a hidden glee of nothingness and my world was limited to an iron circle around an iron door. The screeching reach was a pat on the shoulder with the devil grinning his mustache up.


    Then the cleaver came. It draws an arc through the open range of the kitchen. Downward cut, right on the barrel of an assault rifle. The slash was the entire weight of the person might, a numbing seeps through my palm as it lowers my forearm and line of sight while a blood-filled right eye as big as one without eyelids rounds the hate and survival instinct in a pile and lit them up in an opium pipe.


    Straight down, with a twirl of wrist, a turn of arm with an animalistic roar from a skinny man in chief''s white, the dull cleaver heaves at my face as I pull the rifle up just barely blocking the cut as it notches off the dustcover.


    I force my left palm to get the grip of the rifle and points it at his black leather shoes. My trembling finger strains the trigger, a muzzle flash and a deafening blast, he lost half of his feet.


    All but his thumb still stands through the hole and the bastard''s face runs a straight red as he bites into the pain and tears run down his eyes and breathe into my face and he''s still standing.


    I use the rifle as a lever to drive a front kick right above his belly but it merely push him back escaping his notched cleaver.


    Before I could raise the muzzle to put an end on his forehead, the door at the end of hall opens again and this time, just a few meters closer I see a pair of bulging red eyes, red as the lunatic next to me.


    I hop into the kitchen as the other glass door shatters into pieces and through the commotion there''s Nikto''s shouting mixed in but I can''t hear it for the skinny one''s lunging the knife towards me again. I tried to move the rifle to block it but I''m not so lucky this time.


    The moment I put a bullet through his shoulder, the blade grazed my left forearm as the kinetic impact of the 7.62 pushed him back.


    The skinny man in white and red drops back hitting the stainless stove as he slowly collapses along the frame, his left torso a bloody mess but those eyes are as wide as ever with the compulsory hatred only growing. He takes the cleaver from his right hand and throws it at me with his left. It falls measly on my abdomen before bouncing off. With my blood stained on its edge.


    His chest heaves no more, but the snub nose''s still pulsing open. He''s in a Qin''s standard office shirt not a fucking chef''s uniform. I raise the iron sights at his delirium eyes and plaster them across the side of stove like sparks of firework leaking down across the sky.


    I force off the urge to pull the trigger again. Upon checking myself I found the cut on my left forearm a fucking hassle, it won''t affect my movement as it didn''t make it to the bones or major arteries, but each stroke burns just like I''m slowly bleeding out the scythe-shaped wound. I put the rifle down on top of a surprisingly clean oven for I''m in no condition to do heavy lifting nor.....


    Cling.


    A clean chime comes along with a squeak from edge of knife scratching the hard surface in the wrong angle. From the further end of the cramped kitchen that can only allow singular passage, sideways.


    I pull the 45 from my belt and the irritation of the rag hanging on my palm. There''s the smell of bleach competing with the stench from the fella in the back urinating through his relaxed bladder all the while the ambiguous whiff of chemical burn dies out. And I''m in a kitchen.


    Stepping through the crooked path of pots, empty knife rests, overly protruding ventilation fan over my head. The stoves seamlessly connect the ovens and end in a freezer facing the door at the end leading back into the hallway where occasional gunfire is still very perceptible.


    I approach the only hiding place, where stations of chopping boards and frying pens pile on one another on dry fabrics by the door.


    My heart beats slower and slower, dealing with that crackhead drained out the last bit of my adrenaline. The dizziness sinks in but it won''t affect the aim in close quarters, and sure as hell nor does the bullet. I keep the pistol close without extending my arm as the hammer clocked back


    an inch under my chin, finger on the trigger. The last few steps on a slower trot, the corner of my eye twitched. I grab the handle of a frying pen, take a breath in before flipping it at the white tiled wall at the end and sprints to the hiding spot behind the table as the commotion racks.


    But above the notch on the barrel, there''s nothing at all despite the spot being the only... A squeak, a pressure on my nape chips my reflex.


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    Body leaning forward, right foot lunges into a back kick caught the ambusher off guard as the fridge door slams shut with the person''s arm clamped half out, the pocket revolver in his palm rocks a shot from the sudden tense of palm as it blows a dull spark between the stove knobs.


    Without a second thought, I turn and put three rounds through the freezer door, all aiming at the center where I imagine the arm leads to.


    45 ACP pierce through the plastic fridge with the sound of convertible backfires ending abruptly as it starts in small confinement before the slide returns.


    The hand slides down pushing the fridge door open which makes the arm drop completely and the revolver flips to the ground.


    The door slides open to a man.....a teen with the black blazer over his shoulder in the freezer''s white vapors and defrosting wall.


    Black hair, tank top, knees against chest, big brown eyes, blackend pimples on chin, two bullet holes on throat and shoulder. The slow-running blood forms a triangle behind his knees as all strength escapes him before I open the door. Either he thought I was the man with a cleaver or he was actually trying to jump me in.....Shut up. You''re talking to a corpse.


    I nudge his arm back in and close the door before his legs fall out too, there was some form of resistance.


    ***


    Deep breaths does the same as my mind''s telling me to. I place my hand on the second door at the end of the kitchen area. This one''s made of glass as well and if I''m not out of my mind, the shooter''s no more than two meters away from this exist.


    Another series of shooting pops from a closer distance than I expected as if answering my pinched mind. I can see the smoke and the sound of machinery, the chamber rocking back again and again like a sewing machine throwing spent cases like coins under cash register. Smoke capsules the floor slithering as I can faintly see through the blurry glass door. But thankfully, this one''s hinge swing.


    Pistol raised by my face as I hold the handle, my fingers cling on and off the handle. Pulling it back just by a seam, then a crack, wider, wider still till I can smell the bleak and chemical


    distinct itself from the gun smoke to my left. Now it''s pungent enough I can tell, it''s the same smell that every 10th Street boy grew up with.


    The smell of cutting iron.


    I wouldn''t dare to pull the door back completely, but through the glance I can see there''s one last room on the right side of hallway, the large door''s in fireproof grey but swings loosely open with the central mass where I suppose the lock was dissembled, leaving a hollowed hole bout the size of a clutched fist.


    I motion to the right as much as possible. Since I couldn¡¯t see the basement door from here, plus the fact that trigger-happy cunt hasn''t start blasting again I''d say there''s at least another 3 to 4 paces between us and his vision are buried behind the iron sight.


    I throw my watch a quick gander as it hangs loosely by my stinging forearm.


    2:32, half a minute left. With this much commotion we stirred, I''d suspect a quicker response time from the Qins.


    I take another look through the slit, more specifically the door on the other side opened to.....It opens outwards.


    An idea dug its way through my ear like an overboard eyeing a floating orange rope. I fit my arm upon the glass door to get an estimation, it''s about 80 centimeter in width and I''d say the one across the firing pit is wider.


    "Merc! §´§í §Ö§ë§Ö §Õ§í§ê§Ú§ê§î?" Nikto''s shout hollers through the hallway. Strangely enough, despite the thick accent and guttural voice I can immediately tell that he hasn''t passed 22 yet, the confirming inquiry''s a lot more dependent than it sounds.


    Sticking the 45 back in holster, I unbind the boxing wrap on my right palm and lay a pad on the cut before circling the rest around my forearm. Ending up with a crude, triple surgeon knot above it to circumvent the blood flow. This thing stings with the thought of infection and HIV.


    Planting my left foot firmly forward, right foot on the fridge door as a boost. I let the inquiry sink as silence takes its place, as it grows and expands until its tendrils reach through the basement gate, prowling its way into the shooter''s mind.


    I take a breath in and another out. Notwithstanding the fact it doesn''t help was established.


    Tensing each and every part of my muscle, I can feel the force of my foot on the freezer door, my breathing slowly hallows from the inside. My mind went through the notions of risk but went silent as I try to find a less suicidal way.


    So be it. The adrenaline''s back, the swollen sensation upon my ears is back, and the cut on my left arm feels like a tab in the wrist despite the red getting squeezed out by the veins pulsing faster.


    Alone to myself, I can fondly admit. I''ve missed these feeling in the past three months...


    A push on the glass door made the hinge squeak as it swings forward by the pull from the other side''s chain. The shots came before it could turn to 90 degrees, as it shatters and sounds of cricket''s hopping rush above me.


    There''s a moment of complete unknown, before the tattered glasses fall on the ground, before the shots hit the wall at the other end of hallway, before Nikto can utter another care.


    The grim reaper tabs his wrist behind the shades at the edge of my vision as I leap by three steps into the hallway, broken glasses by my shoulder as cover. I ran with my body bending so low like a racing greyhound, my eyes fix on nothing but the fireproof door across the 1.2 meters of my life.


    The world does not slow down when the end arrives, nor would it under any dosage of ecstasy or crack of adrenaline. It was simply your body knowing what to do faster than your mind could comprehend, animals likely feel this way all the time.


    Glass shrapnels on my collar, my right hand in white and red stretches for the last reach as I cling to the door while the force of the dash sends me further just before my head hits the edge of the glistening aluminum I let the pull spins me around as my back hits the wall and the heavy door swings open like a palm unclenching a fist. Clings and tacks of 9mms hammers on the steel door, I turn around and push against it ignoring the impact of my spine on hard white fucking concrete above the wood.


    With my right shoulder leaning onto it, my left pulls out the Italian 9mm blind firing through my pommeling heartbeats in my ears, drumming out the gunshot.


    "§Ó§Ù§ñ§ä§î §Ó§í§ç§à§Õ§ß§à§Û? §ª§Õ§Ú §ã§ð§Õ§Ñ!"


    I scream back at Nikto as I tried to peek out of the cover of steel door. A shot spins passed me by an inch, it crosses the gap between corners before landing somewhere on the basement door and the lad rushes past my turn of vision as he slides across the floor in heavy breaths that grow quicker by the thick woven balaclava. The edge of my eyes spot the room inside leads to a short corridor filled with empty shelves where that smell derives.


    "§´§í §é§ä§à, §ã §å§Þ§Ñ §ã§à§ê§×§Ý?"


    "How much you got left?" No need for secrecy anyway, we''re quite literally two meters away. Nikto pulls out the pocket revolver in his hand and gives me a shake of head.


    I smirk.


    "Say he''s about the same. Unless we''ve hit their bloody arsenal by chance." As if jinxing me for spite, another trail of bullets rings a bloody rhythm on the steel door boudin off as the vibration passes to my side.


    A bullet hits the hole where the handle was on the door sparking a close of eyes merely centimeters away. I put another shot through the hole where the handle was. I can endure the pain, and I''m yet feeling the blood loss taking tolls on my mind but the trembling of muscle speaks otherwise.


    A freelancer''s lot, as much as it is whimsical bullshit. Nine times out of ten we just couldn''t find a better reason to die for, so we leave the pointing for someone else, we do the dying.


    I swap magazines with the half-done 9mm for a new one on my leather holster. Thumb over the engraved words, I clutch the barrel off my left palm slowly losing strength and hand it to the mute, kid''s got a look in his eyes that''s best describe as comedically confused.


    "18 rounds. Don''t waste them. Preferably don''t scratch the piece either," I do the same to the Colt, the feel of slide locking back in place in my right grip''s what I''m most used to. "I''m going to force the door open, lay cover and if you catch a clear view of that chink''s face. Put a fucking hole through ¡®em." I mins my dry lips behind itchy fabrics, Nikto blinks each emotion per shut of eyes but eventually he takes the gun from me, kid checks the chamber immediately while his brown pupils are filled with reflection of my abandonment, I can''t see anything else in them.


    I hold the 45 in palm, first layer of blood had settled giving it a tighter grip despite the stinging pain. Back of my palm on the flat of the door as I insert an ounce of pressure, the steel door responds sluggishly with a wobble as the hinges are at the limit.


    I roll my eyes to the right, the mute''s holding my gun in both hands in a crouching position, arms a triangle in front of his chest.


    Some faces jumped to mind but I didn''t recognize them. I was already gone.


    Withdrawing and slamming my right shoulder onto the fireproof door, it swing past its last turn before the chain on hinge halts it in a creaking noise amidst total chaos. As I take the gap between the door and the wall expanding to my last resort. 60 cm in width,to line of fire I charge in. Pistol in front, I slip into it turning horizontally with my eyes glued to running off the wall leading eventually through the 0.1 seconds of static to the half-shut basement door.


    One shot after another, both hit the side of the wall while the arm twitches outward with a face behind it. The wild, red-vain-crawled eyes almost jump out of his sockets, I can see plainly the corners of them are squeezed and twisted into a swirl like the skin around his eyelids is strangling them. A quarter second past, I dock to the right in reflexes to that ugly piece of work he''s single handing and the shot came first from my back, between both squeezes of trigger, Nikto behind me got him flinching first as the shot went directly through the narrow gap the Qin opened.


    His line of fire crooks away from me accordingly into blindly squeezing the trigger, by the third shot fired I''m two paces away on skips along the right corner, my mind''s a plain of milk white nothingness as I surrender every ounce of my body into instinctive behaviors.


    Without halting, my body slams into the iron door like a raging horse. The pain spreads on my shoulder afterward like a late bloom lily, the door swings wobbly to the force of push as the hand tries to retract back but I am faster. With a leap from my position, my bloody left arm caught his botched SMG by the steaming barrel and yank it with enough force to dislocate my wrist but the resisting force disappeared in an instance as the barrel left my grip and so does my footing. I fell on the ground with the gun dropping a step behind me. Son of a bitch let go of the piece to close the door.


    A roar came out of my mouth as every fiber of my being urges me to stop him. But Nikto was faster, kid rushes past me and dug five fingers in before the door could be locked. He kicks his left foot up by the door as another source of pull even with a mask on I can see as well as imagine his silent scream underneath. I stumble up on my feet and rush to aid his effort, centimeters by centimeters as we slowly overpower him. A gap breached, good enough for a peek. Nikto turns to me in stifled frustration, his line of sight moves along a nod as Nikto sticks my gun in his jacket pocket and digs both hands into the door while his head leans back in pain, eyes glisten. A single word pronounced in an hoarse voice.


    "§å§Ò§Ö§Û §Ö§Ô§à...."


    He puts the center of his torso to the right as we switch places. A step over, without second thoughts I stick the 45''s barrel in and pull the trigger, a muzzle flash illuminates the dark of the interior behind the door and a short man in bleached hair and a black suit¡¯s shocked but silent expression.


    Nikto trembles two steps backward as the door swings open with a gust of wind. Instantly, I pull the gun back in fear of retribution while letting the door swings by in this confined space.


    The lamps on the ceiling, the lanterns by the paintings on the wall seep their light in greedily consuming the shades covering the shooter''s face. Blood mopped, heaving breaths of coughed blood as the bullet dug a hole in the back and front of his lung. He''s wearing a silver earring on the left, a black suit white shirt both soaked and at least over a size. He''s only a year or two older than the rest of the Russian wannabes tonight.


    Back against the wall, a leg hangs two stairs beneath, the shot penetrated his chest directly as a damn bullet hole''s visible on the tattered wall behind him. Three, four...dozens of SMGs and pistols by his side and leaning on the wall, most of them emptied. Spent casings all the way down the stairs in incomprehensible numbers, shimmering like the night sky in the wild, like


    his faint-heartedly closing hazel eyes, his last breath was drawn before that. Nikto''s trigger squeeze in point-blank range confirmed that.


    The Qin''s head didn''t even move, only reaction was the hole in his temple pressuring blood out as some spilled on the wall, some on the barrel of my 9mm. But most are painted along the stairs down for the mute kick him on the side of the head where I shot him.


    It rolls hesitantly and uncannily at first with arm bending back somehow creating resistance then the head slams down on the next roll making it more of a ludicrous slideshow, but eventually the corpse made it to the bottom in a bell rang.


    Bak!


    I give the lad a quick gander, his rage''s quickly being pressed but the heavy breathing and swollen knuckles are better representations of his mental state.

 Omen in blaze

    I pull the mag out for there is but one in the chamber. Sliding back the first one, I keeps a mental note of the 6 rounds left.


    The stair down''s steep as brittle, the collective steps ain''t much quieter than the corpse slung down but we''re way past caring. I take the lead, Nikto follows with lines in his iris breaking but he''s keeping the gun up. As much as one can ask him in this state.


    The stress after rush ain''t going to get easier. It''d just become more frequent.


    I turn my wrist to check the timer as the last blade of light ends at the sixth step. The time''s unsurprisingly up as the longer hands of my watch cross the tip on its third whirl.


    Ragged breathes in a gnarled path down as we both lean into the wall with wooden pickets running along the frame. Here is the mold and smell of paint against the powder and chemicals outside.


    Right where the dead rest its head, the last door to the basement but a white-washed wooden placket at best, a brass knob on the left looking as secure as a half-turned screw. No peephole, no camera, only an ill line of orange illumination under the door''s seam.


    The smell of chemical burn fades off on the first approach of the stairway but reincarnated at the end of this door. But not quite the same, this is...drier.


    A hand on the frame, first layer''s rooted by bugs. Tracing down the line of flimsy cracks where the plant curled in soft. My finger grazes the handle before turning back to Nikto gesturing him with a push in the air. Not taking any chances at the last moment.


    A stair up I extend my aim at the knob. Two trigger squeezes of 45 ACP open most types of wooden doors. But I was more interested in the reaction of the other side and one Mississippi and two Mississippi and... Nikto squeezes over to the right as he bumps into the door on his leap from the stairs. The door cracks open as he stumbles in there with my gun still held vertically by his eyes.


    Extreme concentrated lights almost blinded us, I curse under my breath as rushing in with my sight clouded in purple as if being sucker punched.


    I can only tell the outlines by my half-shut eyes, while the mute''s rushing towards a well-built short Qin in a loose shirts and covered in sweat, a flash of shade crawls at the bottom left.


    Two blinks, I raise the aim along the movement and quickly gain on him as he crawls under a table amidst the confined interior.


    I grab his left leg and with a drought pull, the guy''s torso slides back out on the slick concrete floor. Hands clawing the pistol off the duck tape as it drags the table off its leg despite the gun barrel still stuck on tape. His eyes move to mine distorted vision at the last second like standing over a cliff. A trigger squeeze feels like clicking a staple or stamping a paper while aiming down. Four walls and the ground send the shot''s echo back instantly as if the round was spiked.


    Turning around the blaring light caught me instantly as I turn away from my own shadow. Raising a palm above my eyebrows to see Nikto repeatedly slamming the butt of my gun down the guy''s mouth like a broken roadblock.


    I raise my aim higher with my palm still above my brows, aiming at the brighter spot hanging on the center of the ceiling which is just around 40 centimeters above my height. As I squint my eye till a tear jerked, rolling down the balaclava.


    I put the gun down since it would be futile. The whole bloody ceiling''s striped in HPS sodium lights the size of baseball bats in four columns, cables slithering the space between and blocking out the original infrastructure. Whatever the hell that was must be very fireproofed.


    And the smell. It''s.... it''s close to the whiff of chemical burn from the hallway but not quite. If it was cutting iron outside, here are burning pipes and neither are pleasant.


    I circle along the wall that envelopes the staircase down. I can faintly observe that''s where all the lines lead.


    A hand on the frame of primitively bounded straps of cables moving up and down with sharp rings of stainless steel, bracket rod. The sound of murmuring grazes my already overwhelmed mind as I make my way past the crowded space blocked by table after table of.... empty trays and scrubs...


    Through the corner and then, right under the hollowed stairs there are three sets of power switches wrapped amongst a hornet''s nest of grey cables the size of my forearm.


    Left to be electrified, right to risk going blind. I pick the lever to the left and force it down with my left forearm sending a burning sensation.


    The ceiling blooms in my vision like a sea of inverted violet plain before extinguishing into oblivion. The basement''s almost pitch black save for camping lamps there for emergencies as they shine alone the planks of the corner where they were nailed. Painting the violet sea over my iris still a few gold spouses of rose.


    "§¹§ä§à §ï§ä§à §Ù§Ñ §Þ§Ö§ã§ä§à?? " And now I can properly hear the murmuring. "§¤§à§Ó§à§â§Ú!


    §´§í §Ò§Ý§ñ§Õ§î! Speak!" Walking along the wall, I almost trip myself over a shorter table under another one that reaches to my waist covered in empty steel trays and brown scrubs in close appearance to amber or balls of mud.


    The sound of steel clocking the feeble layer between bones and noise starts following each inquiry. The rusting of bones and the barrel against the slide sounded like a wet dog walking into a slaughterhouse.


    I saw a few bill counter on top of folded push carts, one of them still got some local marks as well as the opened craters in the back and plastic bags on the floor. These are good enough indicators for me to stop asking questions. The place functions above laundering and now''s as empty as a gutted trout. Shit, maybe those SUVs outside really are here for the monthly collect but either way, what''s to be done here is apparent.


    Taking out the thermal, I cling my thumb in the pin as I make my way back to the front.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Nikto, it''s done. Pop the burners and let''s get out of here." The kid ain''t answering me, he''s back''s against me while the chink in full body ink is against the table leaning backward by the 10th street over him. I squint at his strained posture and skip two steps further across the only open space in the B1 in front of the door. "kid! For the love of Saint Peter are you...."


    On the northeast corner hangs a smaller set of concentrated light that''s round like a headgear. It swings a little on the mute''s left, whose right eye is bulging in the shadow as he sticks the pistol muzzle into the bloody mouth of the Qin. Those aren''t just bloodshot, not even a crackhead on his last hit before animosity takes him would look like that. It''s a mix of all the worst emotion in the world; fear, exquisite hatred, a raucous wane, and most of all confusion. It''s a state absolute that eats the rest and leaves you somewhere between perpetually like this or for a very long time.


    "§¬§Ñ§Ü§à§Ô§à §é§Ö§â§ä§Ñ §ä§í §Ù§Õ§Ö§ã§î §Õ§Ö§Ý§Ñ§Ý?" He whispers like a snake poking out its forked tail. The lower half of his balaclava''s a wet mess across the lamp framing him a halo in his worst self....


    Raising the colt chamber in 45 to the temple of the bloody mess. Clutching the piece so tight that its grip safety squeaks, from raise to aim to the bullet ignited in the machinery to euthanasia less than a counted second.


    The side of the skull cracks open as the bullet goes through and out into the wooden plank five inches beside the headgear light. The kinetic impact shattered and raises the bone around the hole like a crown before its body loses all strength and slumps off to the side, torso bumps into the nearest table while the flopping arm knocks a tray off the ground after the barrel leaves its sunken mouth. In a louder nuisance than the gunshot itself.


    Sticking the pistol back on my waist, I stride a step forward and clutch the slide of the Pardini while the other goes for his throat.


    "Didn''t I tell you not to rough it up?"


    "§Á §á§à§Þ§ß§ð §ï§ä§à§ä §Ù§Ñ§á§Ñ§ç...."


    "Lad..."


    "I know the..." My left thumb pressed in.


    "I''m going to drop the grenade right where you stand in three seconds...." Now my eyes are as wide like his as the minor inconvenience of suffocation made him squint and frown in question of his place and the thoughts that went over his head. "Whatever you think you know


    I do not care. I do, however, care about the four maybe five trucks of Qins, of pigs, of other cunts coming our way in any second."


    I point my piece at the red riding hood on the ground. "Save your doubts for quiet nights. We''re almost done." I keep my stare and the grip on his vocal cords as his lopsided brown irises slowly return to the realm of tangible. A few glues of milky white float on the ridge as it expands and narrows by his ragged breath under wet mask.


    Letting go of both the pistol slide and his moving throat. I pull the cylindrical grenade out right in front of him.


    "Are we clear?" I raise it to his eye level, pulling the pin right between them as I drop the ring while my pinky''s on the clip.


    "Yes."


    "Good." Slinging the canister off to the other side of the room, the clip detaches four steps away, the grenade hits the wall and hurls into the dark amidst the tables stacked together as metal chime of half-full tin can. The sight of sparks spewing out the pluck of the cap as the noise of thermal sizzling in a place rigged in cables and high-functioning lamps could bring most sane men back to panic. And thankfully, the mute seems about pissing his pants by the raise of his eyelids.


    I grab his shoulder before we''re on the same pace as none are in faith in Igor''s ability to tune fuzes. On the second breath across the blasted basement door, the loud sizzling arouses into a small explosion as you can practically hear the incendiary fall onto the ground, wall, ceiling, green-yellow bills, and the equipment before bouncing off to another until all the chemical burns and overheated incandescent''s smell be devoured by the simple purity of acrid burning. Nitrogelatine burner can reach around 4000 degrees Celsius. I''d say this building can''t withstand 150.


    ***


    I can feel just as clearly as I hear the whiplashes of cables combusting within accelerating heat at the rate of a radio switch.


    We can''t feel the temperature rising yet but a dryness doubles on each step we climb. My shirt''s soaked in cold sweat.


    We rush past the half-closed iron door as the mute takes the lead bumping the door open with his shoulder while another 20-some jumps of electric failure result in high-pitched bangs like the first note of a strip of firecrackers. The lamps hanging down the ceiling blinks.


    Running past the kitchen door and storage room, the first whiff of smoke catches up. Nikto hooks his left palm at the turn to pass the corner and keeps running at full speed. The kid almost trip over by the big guy''s corpse sloped on the corridor.


    "§ã§å§Ü§Ñ!"


    The mute pulls his left foot off between the corpse''s neck and the floor, skipping two steps before resume hurling through the narrow passage. I jump over the bastard with a gnaw on his neck as the lamps above blink again and shut off for a straight second while everything but the outline printed in your vision disappears before coming back on. <em style="font-family: georgia, palatino">The two other levers....for the love of god, you lots can have some sense of fire regulation.


    Nikto stops in front of the double door back to the lobby as he turn a quick glance at me bypassing the first room to the left before practically knocking it open with both arms.


    "§é§Ö§â§ä §Ó§à§Ù§î§Þ§Ú!"


    He stuck his head out a second before turning back as I stop two paces beside him.


    "What?"


    "They''re not here!" Eye whites almost glisten under the ectropion. Nikto mask heaves in his gasping.


    "Fuck!"


    He unknowingly turns to the stairs at the right end leading up to the second while I gaze at the open exit at the other end of lobby through the door window.


    "They might be back in the car no?"


    He laughs a bitter one as the first whiff of smoke made him choke on it.


    "Budimir said to regroup at the lobby. The idiot would be here waiting even if the building got bombed." The lighting shines against the shake of his head.


    I want to scream into laughing and bail into the night but Nikto had turned away from the double door as he strides to the stairs.


    "Nikto." I take a step forth before a loud and hollow snap happens on the other side of door.


    "Nikto stop."


    Two steps forward I grip his shoulder again but he just shrugs it off as he pulls my gun back out of his jacket pocket.


    "Kid they''re dead you know it."


    "I don''t. You neither."


    He responds plainly and tries to move on.


    "Nikto. Listen, listen for fuck sake," I run past him and put an arm up his chest and a foot back to stop him, he ain''t taller than me but sure weights more but now, his look is the splitting image of some damned son of a gun 7 years ago. Shit, everything down to self-doubt and the hypnotic nature of his false determination is identical.


    Ain''t it the worst? Professing a will or admitting fear while none changes the outcome.


    A smirk moves an itch on my cheek dragging the muscle around my eye sockets. I let go of him and show my empty palms up.


    "If you go up that stairs I''ll walk right out and tell Alek to leave immediately. I''ll tell him all of ya''ll are dead..."


    There''s the excuse to live with yourself.


    "You son of..." He tried to raise mine fucking gun in his right palm, the muzzle purposely lowered as he''s more hinging the iron sight forward as I grip it by the barrel as my right forearm sends to his joint, bending his right forearm inward pressing the gun against his chest.


    "Or instead, you walk out of that door and get in the van. I''ll go fetch them." I state the alternative evidently and ever-cheerfully. His eyes drop simultaneously widen in despair.


    And here''s someone to blame but yourself.


    I removed he''s point of purpose just found as well as the sense of assuredness. His eyes seemingly narrowed horizontally in a squint, touch of brown swirls like a confused man. I''d never imagine the silent kid at the last bench would be the unfeigned one. Encouragingly, I pulled the gun away. Accordingly, he let go.


    Now you can do what I didn¡¯t.


    I mop the blood on the muzzle off on the boxing wrap tied to my forearm, still stings but the bleeding stopped. The right corner of my vision lies a corpse in suit leaning by the open area of what I assume to be a staff room and Nikto was still standing still like....the other 10th street kid in the alley.


    I opened my mouth to say some, and I did, but the biggest explosion yet came three walls and a floor away blocked it. Every single soul in this compound heard it. Last thing I saw was through the tiny round window to the lobby, waving gray smoke are now perceptible at the edge of the west wall connecting the ceiling, slipping through the red veils. Last thing I heard was a scream about fire in Chinese from other side of the double door. Before the lamps and bulbs beam one last blink to signal the complete darkness sweeping in.


    "Run!" I shout in the dark as I urge Nikto to move with a forceful push before turning towards the second floor.

 Yakshini

    Green lights from the emergency sign hollowed a vacant space between the turn of stairs. The squeaks of my footstep, the squeaks of wooden floor combusting three walls away where hell broke loose on a controlled chaos.


    Lining up my sight to the edge of the green halo plating the vision into neon and over-saturated darkness while everything is losing balance. I take a breath in and stare into the abyss as I take another stair up and another as each creates a lasting squeak of scornfulness at my action.


    The green light of a 30 by 10 plank hangs on top with the miniature of a person running downstairs as I reach the landing. The painting of an arduous ridge runs along the scroll as the colors are reversed. The sky is dimmed green by the lights, and the mountain plains are ink black as the lines cast along the shade of me.


    I can hear my own beating heart like a response to the yearning breaths in my ear, through my systems straight up the emptiness of my skull as I give off control to my instincts for the last time. My figure casts upon the corner with tip of my head reaching an inch under the last step of stairs going up. I lower my posture as I emerge through the path carved between emergency LED lights.


    The steel notch and the dot of white shakes in my sight as do my arm, the other ragged and stiff as my breath. The tranquility of the cold air still hangs in the still air as I can feel a breeze on the sweat-stained rag on my head on each level I climb, so does the smell of iron and animal fur.


    My shadow casts across the empty hallway of the second floor. Walls on both sides are paved and trimmed in gold on the edge and carved in panels on the second ring as the middle is covered in plain white silk of no decoration.


    My second step hurled a spent case on the soundless wooden floor. The rifle round rolls round and round in front of the first room on the left, the door swings inward, the lower hinge soaked an emerald glint as this is the end of the LED''s reach.


    I inhaled deep to tell if it truly was the smell of blood. Unlike common depictions, to smell the scent it takes an open wound and intestines hanging or something more dire. Standing beside the entrance of complete darkness away from the faint, layered, illuminated corridor. I turn my left shoulder forward, back against the wall as I move. The suture of endless Stygian between the door frames blinks at me, and its brothers and sisters smile. My eyes haven''t fully adjusted to the dark or the setting, but ain''t got much of a choice.


    With the gun held closer to the chin, hold clench and release. I enter the room hugging the left wall with the line of aim moving accordingly. West corner, east wall, north-east corner. There¡¯s not a shift in the dark but the smell continues. My footsteps silenced on the solid and waxed floor making three paces forward like a walk to the nether. It creeps up on me, and moving feels no different than stepping a circle as my figure blocks the last angle for the emergency light to reach. The grey lines in the dark are by the blessing of the singular source of light slanting 45 degrees behind me.


    I''m alone and the breaths are getting louder as a few peeks of paranoia soak into my strained mind and exhausted body making every step as real and solid as a punch in the gut.....


    Until I hit something while I was moving towards the east wall. I lower my sight to a...figure in the corner, contours in the dark made it look like some deformed animal skeleton which is the only thing in this room that isn''t distinguishable or at least imaginable as furniture, armrests by couches or pots on tables with curled legs.


    I crouch next to it with heed and reach forward as the smell of blood and fermentation grows like a warning. The touch was sleek, as how you''d imagine a newly made casket in a funeral or the cheap polyester of the market at B5. I was going to check the pulse but as the touch became slippery and soft then turned coarse. I get up from the southeast corner.


    It wasn''t them.


    It was another poor bastard with a missing portion of the skull, odor coming out as metallic and freshly turned soil from the unmoving mess. Judging from the bullet case Har got him right through the door, the guy falters back on the ground next to...


    A step to the left, I prob the wall which leans for a door knob. The notches by the panel felt moist against the finger, blood had settled in by now. Across its surface, I find the seam between walls as I hint at the edge for a release but there''s none, not even on top. My hand swipe over a door lock by the side but found the same notch of panels and columns, like the one further to the left.


    I inhale a breath in and step a pace away from the corpse. With my right shoulder extorting flat between the panels, arm flat, barrel by the edge aiming horizontally. I give the uneven wall in the dark a push.


    ***


    It moves about as slow as the safe in my apartment (The one in 4th) Either it has three layers of ceramic plate or I''m at the end of rope.


    As the more imminent dark wavers and swings like a clad, first was the white dot at the front sight of pistol. Then it took another moment for me to register the interior of this room, at least the part by the left is viable by the eye despite still resting in blind.


    Antiques gather dust on and under the desks of finely carved. Vases, glass miniature of cricket in acrylic box, urn for incenses the size of my palm tilted on the ground covered by a heavy rug of deep green and show hints with dotted lines of red tracing an arc along the turn of this damn door.


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    12 o¡¯clock, straight ahead. A slit of light pokes like a dame in white dancing in night sky.


    The door hits a permanent stop at 90 degrees. I eagerly leave it for the half-hidden window. Five strides over the soundless floor and a drag. The copper ringers sound off against the pole as implicit night fills the room.


    The moment of clarity and euphoria was short-lived by a snatch of awe.


    Another body in a black blazer snuffed on the ground in an obscure manner. Face tab on the wall right next to the old potteries, arms stiffly by waist defying gravity as its body are slanting upward like a bridge. Not much blood, just a dent on the left temple not even sure it was a bullet that did it.


    All the fragile million bucks lying around a compliant corpse by the window, tracing back from thy point of view and nothing seems...


    Across the room, through the camouflaged door, perfectly align to where I stand, lies another one of the Qins. Sitting on the ground, torso leaning by a large armchair, shoot to shit with at least six spreads of crimson soaking half of his white shirt black. Its left arm seems to be pulling him towards something even in this state, the hand gripping the barrel of a rifle in reverse. In a trance of focus, I take a step to the left so the dim street light marches a few meters further, but the gap seems smaller by the slow movement of the door swings back in the most slothful manner. My gaze raises to confirm there is no auto hold on the hinge as my pistol''s raised already.


    First is a pair of running shoes, tips pointing either way. Then the shoulder tilts to the closing door. The tattered jacket with its collar flipped to the side while the lower half was torn, both cloth and flesh. The person look as if he was penetrated by a shell but I can see the gauge amidst shreds of fabric has layers of shade in its red. Finally, the head pushes the body off the door as it closes behind him.


    Not even a body dropping on the floor made any sound. That was my first thought.


    The bastard lost an eye. That was the second followed by the notice that he was wearing a balaclava as well.


    I walk over in a state I''m not too familiar with. Nonchalantly, I held his head off the ground to pull the mask off him with effort since the blood had glued his skin and wool after settling.


    Short black hair reaching both ears over shaved sides. Wide nose bridge sliding into the shallow eye sockets with one being brown circled in red and the other''s gone. Pushed into the tear-through perhaps. There''s a horizontal stab on the right eye stretching the hollowness apart, I can tell how much force was behind the stab just by the ripped skin by the eyelids. Deep red then purple draws right under his eye bag for the ski mask had trapped the leakage by the rim of the eye hole.


    The neck''s relatively clean, and so is the left arm. While the killing lies by his belly, shallow stabs repeated by the right kidney on the same spot until the last one is buried to the hilt and runs horizontally through the fabric, skin tissue, muscle, intestines, skin again. Carving a way for the knife to leave. The killer probably switches to a hammer grip by the last step before driving it back to the eye.


    Found Har. Standing up over this mess. The last notion hits after I recognized the jacket''s original color was deep blue.


    ***


    Some find it desecrating to move the dead within the first hour. I mainly found their eyes odd, lightless, unmoving, right up till the moment I press a thumb to shut his remaining eyelid. Couldn''t feel much for him. But ain''t got nothing personal to him either.


    There''s still Budimir. And if I''m not mistaken. There''s only one room left on this floor.


    I pick myself up and take a whirl around the stash. Taking no more than five seconds to find another set of trap door on the west wall where the seams betrayed the paint job. Hinging the left end, the door spins as both sides rotate soundlessly like a scythe in the air. I dive into the dark again.


    Stepping into the hallway, the first thing that came to mind was the itch behind my face, above the nostrils and soreness around the iris. The smoke is reaching fast.


    I shed off the bothersome thoughts and raise the gun towards the door directly across the hallway. The streetlight outside the window is limited to the fine line drawn by the turnstile wall that''s vertically still to the layout, just enough to tell the silhouettes in the dark, and the heavy flops of curtain by my left. I prowl a hold and yank it open so the light is welcomed into this floor once more illuminating the rest of corridor all the way where till it meets the green in the other end. My left eye blinked to adjust to the stiff that came unannounced as the world dyed a bluish hue with purple popping here and there.


    Turning back to the closed door in carved wood. I can see an elaborate and mirrored ''Qin'' in ancient Chinese sink into the door. Circled by a dragon whose head overlaps with its tail.


    I reach my wounded arm towards the brass knob as it takes more moonlight splattered on the waxed floor, linking my slanted shadow to the wall of text and painting. Just as my palm grazes the cold metal, my mind produce the most possible imagery behind the door. Another kid by the wall, few dozen cuts.


    Raising the Italian 9 close by my waist, the same height as the knob. I grip it tighter. Breathing the smoke into an uncomfortable knit of loose helms. I do not try to chase off the thought.


    The cylinder heeds for a few margins before the latch stops it whole. Jackpot. I let go of the knob, half a step to the left, muzzle aiming straight down at it...


    One and a half seconds.


    That''s how long it took.


    To walk the line between oblivion.


    The latch ticks a loud tack around the string, but it¡¯s to the further right where the green LED still touches. My aim shifts accordingly to the other door on this side. It falters back above the hilt of iron sight. A figure falls head first out of the door, by the fire exit light on his left and the reflection on my narrowing pupils. His black blazer hangs stiffly on the shoulder.


    Three-quarters of a second.


    Finger back on the trigger, the resistance on the trigger was molded into just half a pound away as my reflexes kicked in.


    1 second.


    But something else holds it back firmly like a whack on the back of my head. My aim follow the man in black as he dives and....falls face first in the corridor.


    1.2 second.


    The green light catches the man''s seedy mess of blonde hair curling back on his scalp.


    1.3 second.


    Another latch ticks. A shiver down my spine pacifies all the doubts, guilts, familiarity I can¡¯t even register, all rendered to none by the shock.


    1.45 second.


    I drag my line of sight back straight. The door falls back into a 2 meter lightless dark escaping the moonlight.


    1.5 second.


    A face of sleek and smooth black and curled fangs tilting on four corners like the stitches of a sewed mouth, full black pupil or none at all. Traces of red settled as dots on the left where the cheekbones hinge into a swirl like a smile in feral, perpetual pain. Caged in its hungry bones. It approaches in less than a blink.

 Fiends and stigmata

    The knife tears through the dark like a bladed whip manifested by formless creatures. From my waist''s height, like an uppercut coming straight at the face...no, my thro...by instincts faster than a span of thought I arch my wounded left arm up by my ear as an unbeknownst weight almost bends it with a sickening ulcerative pain spreads as my head jerks back by reflexes. The blade''s a karabit in a gloved hand in a single run of neurons, my fear vanished. As I know the monster has a physical body.


    Hip firing on my right but the ''face'' in the dark simply turned inward at the same time a muzzle flesh happened, its torso was shined as standing sideways while the force on my left forearm changed its course to dragging the blade downward with the momentum of a turn, the sharp edge drags and narrows a deep cut upon my arm leaving a cross on it.


    The force changes in the air, drawing a V under my forearm. The fang leaves another cut on my wrist before the last pain settles as it dashes for my face in a second¡¯s million pieces while I barely tilt my head to the right as the tip of the curved dagger flies by, and the blunt hilt immediately stabs accordingly to my left temple without a single wasted opportunity.


    My left eye closes as the impact gives me a spread of nausea, in retaliation I blind fire towards the seemingly vast darkness before me. The muzzle flesh caught the thing in another as the shot grazed the scorning ''face'' in my slanted view and a loud ''plank!'' was perceptible in steel and lead colliding and bouncing off to something else scattering pieces.


    The next thing I know, a run of silver was drawing in the dark by catching a glint in the hallway as it missed pair of sight by a breath. The face retreats into the dark of densely overlapping lines in the right main room. I take a shot in the dark at where it ran and another by the muzzle flesh and another for wishful thinking till the echo runs in both the corridor and my ears and the gun smoke leaves the rest... a revolting turn of my insides forced an itch and sputum up my nasal into a forceful cough. It is not caused by the shots fired. It''s the fire, and the black mist is seeping through the floors as I''m inhaling more and more with my breaths on skates.


    Sprinting to the blonde kid lying in worse condition than me while keeping my aim somewhat fixed on one of the entrances in case of....whatever that was.


    The space between the doors seems to stretch before me as each step feels sharp and heavy against the ground as if walking on gravel. The blood leaves my messed up left arm in a trance as my palm crawls with the now apparent pain and the green LED light seems to double into its halo like a widening road leading up to the unconscious 10th street covered in a blazer.


    Smart fucking sociopath.


    And the candy man shows up. Its arm twists a turn above Budimir from within the door like a shade or crooked branch under the green light shook and bent like a twig in the bellowing wind with a glint in the center of my vision.


    The knife spins through the remaining meter in less than a blink, and a burn resides on the gap between my collarbone of the left shoulder as the knife falls onto the floor by indirect impact, but that was before the son of a bitch rushes out the corner.


    Blood on gloves glistening by the green lights behind as well as the edge of that hideous mask but not the karabit in its right hand. The blade''s as quiet as the one at a distance where gun ain''t as effective as bare palms, first shot hip fire in the last moment before it descends upon me almost as if some wild animal in a growling state. The bullet grazes the side of the killer''s vest without a doubt works better than a punch to the gut but it does not stop. The killer uses the momentum to cross its right foot to my arm''s reach shoulder turning by a forceful sway.


    45 degrees slash from my left thigh to my right arm as it crouches with a retract of calf like a rattlesnake. Second time in my life, a gun worked indifferently in close quarters.


    Left steps back by shallow cut weather by choice or reflexes as I slam the pistol down the trajectory of knife. The butt of its grip hits the killer''s last two digits as the hooked tip scratches off the magazine and the base of my palm.


    The bastard didn''t even scuffle.


    Its knife-holding arm hinges in a turn to push the muzzle off the line of fire as it pushes forward, next came the left arm. With a stretch and a pull, my gun hand''s in a clamp as the killer rotates my wrist with pressure on both in a very unpleasant way.


    I can''t let go, pulling the trigger won''t help except hurting the bastard''s eardrums. In a fit of rage and desperation I clench my bloody mess of left fist as each and every cut squeezes and stings by the contracting muscle. Waist to the half-suspended shoulder to the arm into a punch in the cunt''s rib.


    And it shrinks for a second, before returning a knee buried into my belly with a pull of my right arm. Sudden burst of trauma almost made me puke and my vision contrasts the bare lights in the oval. The face turned around in my moment of delirious.


    Absurdly, it was the placement of its foot changing that gave my distorted mind a clear view of what it is trying to do.


    Ignoring the muscle and intestines wrenching and begging, I thrush my left knee up to its waist as I lean back with all my weight. Not much impact but it doesn''t matter.


    Fun fact, shoulder throw can''t be done without your waist''s effort. And now is my weight against its two limbs.


    The mask turned like the only tangible object in the space narrowing by the hues of red spreading across my iris. And its black. There''s no eyehole on the mask of the glower, just a sheen of Vantablack absorbed. Its brow drags on by the lines of red protruding; Its corner of mouth suspended in a drag to the tip not by grin nor laughter, but by livid anger of breaths seeping through few fangs drawn between the gauges.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    It looks jaded.


    Like an irritated god.


    In a spin of movement, its leg lunges back at my standing foot in a back kick of incomprehensible reach as I''m tilted to the left by its push. In a loss of balance by pulling off my left knee, the killer ceases the opening by dragging the knife under my right arm leaving another mark while freeing the lock to catch my thigh in a hook while left palm''s still clutching my gun, a simple lift of its shoulder tilt the already gone center of mass as I fall back in what feels quite like a slower world. Until my back hits the unyielding floor.


    It climbs over me before there''s a chance to move my right arm the solid sole boot has nailed it in place as the killer gets in a crouching stance on top of me with the right knee on my chest, clawed dagger sending straight down my throat like a punch, my blood mingled palm feebly extends to block it. And it doesn''t even register it in the line of stab. The overwhelming pressure falls and the tip of the blade is five breaths away from my vision as arm''s stacked in the middle like a bumper and its closing in. And the face in shade as well, almost yearningly lowering to my last. The green light''s at the bottom of my vision but somehow I can still see a round of halo around the mask, uneven, raven black seeping outward the mask. Shit, I can see that now.


    Merely 30 centimeters away, I recognize the face from old books of world folklore. It is Yakshini. Their finest vulture.


    I want to scream a bloody smile but none will see for this ragged mask upon my cheek, for the son of a reaper before me with a silver scratch on the forehead has no eyes, for I''m about to find out if blasphemous will earn me a seat by the devil or just pitch black snap of line.


    The mask grows closer as does the knife, inches turned to centimeters to a shorter margin by the wobble of some primordial understanding that there''s no afterlife, there''s only this and nothing else that matters. Not the people in my putrid life, nor the riches under my bed, or truth of some bygone questions, some I failed some I left I... am a selfish bastard. Cause I still cling to life like the last drop of rum down the drain into the sewer before ocean, as meaningless as it is, there''s a portion of it declaring remanent.


    And by the Divine way of this absurd world, in this trance state between the last two milliseconds. I realize the Yakshini only has one knee on my chest as it is better for the elbow to push another pound of weight into the stab, but against a mount position, I can still move my left leg.


    By a roar of the first growl between us, my mask must have sunken a dent right under my eyes by how hysterical I am straining my jaws down as my sights are suddenly morbid and in high contrast to every bit of illumination.


    A breath in, with the last of my might, I push against the knife hand as the tip is gnawing into my flesh again, but this time I let the pain ensue the cry. What came through my throat was inhuman as a screech like the endless horizon dragging on and on and endlessly dismantling. And it echoes through the confines of this hallway as I gain back an inch and another, and before the fucking thing hinges its left elbow onto the knife. I stretch and pull my leg up.


    Couldn''t kick its face, I make do with its armpit as I force the fucker away from me and what do you know? The hem of my trouser falls back by the gravity revealing a shining grip of my dagger on my ankle right where my left palm falls in this clutch. I hope under that forever enraged mask, you have regrets.


    My bloody palm clawed the dagger''s grip as my left leg stretches over to get it off the sheath, before circling back the killer''s neck, hooking it before the Yakshini could pull itself off the lock.


    Now''s arm against arm, dagger at each other''s face. I turn my wrist by a notch down that bulletproof mask, slanted at its defenseless neck like a race to death. And miner a longer reach.


    For the first time, I can hear its breathing under the violence. So is the pulse by its neck. It''s a hunt, don''t you back off just now.


    One eyeless, the other bulging out of the trim of badly woven wool. The pressure on my right-hand shifts a little but resolves before I can exploit it as the killer starts to wavers. Its entire torso''s falling onto me trying to force the blade back but with each pound it adds, tenfold I return the pull while I wedge my right arm underneath the boot, not much resort, but it''s distorting the bastard''s center mass. But the blood keeps dripping down my arm on multiple open wounds while the adrenaline''s only shortening the process and my bones feel like they''re burning on the verge of broken. The stalemate wouldn''t last, but I need it to make the first move.


    I let go of the pistol and push it off my palm with my thumb. My wrist''s still being nailed, but with my hand free, the tip of its boot is just barely reachable. My fingers dig into the shoelaces.


    Steel tip of a callous angle caught the glint of the window side streetlight barely visible the sharp stab of my dagger and Yakshini''s oxide black wiggling just above all the fatal arteries.


    I can see the changes in it, I can see the faltering line of defense like a crack on a frozen lake spreading as an on-and-off static, each more palpable than the last. It''s an easy enough assumption to all the colorful unsaved of the world that none wants to die, especially here, as pointless, not even a legend''s above mortality and on the fourth second. It gave up first.


    Its left arm pulled off in a flash like a lighting shooting back, across the belt under the vest and a push dagger materialized between her fingertips as the triangular blade shone by the mask in a clean trajectory to my chest, throat, mouth, eyes and this is my window.


    The force against my left arm greatly reduces me to redirect her pressure and my force simply with a bent of my forearm and a push of my elbow while my right hand grips the boot''s laces and pulls coordinating the turn of my torso. It lost balance.


    With an animalistic rage behind my strength out of the thread of life, I turn the tide by flipping Yakshini''s entire body off me and to the side, as I predicted the bastard weights no more than I can handle.


    By the moment we both tumble onto the floor we acted simultaneously.


    Right arm numb as a corpse''s trailing the back of my waist into the welcoming grip of iron as the knife stab to the floor like a cane to get back on my feet.


    Yak shoots a kick in an incomprehensible angle onto my chest forcing my back to fall back onto the wall while the killer''s struggling to get up with left palm on the floor, the blade sticking out between fingers like a nail.


    And another kick came out of nowhere as soon as it gets up, not a precise retaliation like what it''s been aiming for all this time.


    The combat boot swinging towards my face came out short as I lower my head, lie back on the floor for a clear aim as I finally manage the colt 45 off holster.


    Arm extended to the fullest like the angels in some Italian fuck''s drunken masterpiece. Calling out for the end and start and rescue and salvation and a moment of complete halt lasting 0.2 seconds before the hammer strikes the cartridges. Sending a .45 ACP on the mask of Yakshini.


    Like the slide racking back so does the killer''s head. But amidst the smoke, I see no blood or limp. The kinetic impact forces it to back off two steps as I keep pulling the trigger in disarray before the slide locks back as it stumbles into the same room it came out. The second shot left a hole on the door frame, the third''s untraceable.

 Author’s note

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 The burning bastards

    A breath was wasted as I tried to comprehend what just happened.


    Before the sensible parts of my brain took control again. Thumb brushes the safety to release the slide and stick it back on my waist. Crawling to the piece on the ground as I return my aim on both exits of rooms on the left while I pull myself to Budimir''s side just a meter away.


    Turning him over made me grit my teeth. I''m carved up badly but all seems laughable compared to the kid.


    The 10th Street''s clothes are soaked in red. As I do so, a murmuring whimper in high pitch escapes his mouth sounding like his body''s response instead of his. There''s a dagger buried to the hilt into his belly, and half a dozen cuts across his thigh, wrist, chest, collarbone just under his neck it''s a miracle in itself that his blue Iris is still moving with his silent, chipped lips trembling as if in hyperthermia. Eyes half shut, lids extracting and loosening as the pupil sinks and floats.


    Son of a.....


    Moving a person with a knife in the stomach is going to kill him an excruciating death. Each bump, stretch, and twist is going to cut his intestines into smaller bits till all the blood in his body is lost internally if he doesn''t die of sheer pain first. And pulling that thing out will just speed up the process of drainage.


    By my mandatory medical knowings from the other end of a needle I say there isn''t a fucking stretcher I could use in here. The boxing wrap on my arm''s already soaked in blood like a sponge. The best-case scenario is him waking up and walks down the stairs with the knife out, or I have to drag the fucker down...


    "Aye, kid...Budimir can you hear me?" Stained thumb and index took some effort to pry open the baby blues bewildered like a motionless raindrop between space but he''s still half-conscious.


    "Oh for fuck sake." I tab his face, then slap him with my left palm, the neck rigidly turning along the cheek smeared in my blood. My right''s still fixed on the dark few paces away, whatever the beast''s waiting for I don''t intend to find out. Finding his palm under the rag, I pinch the center of it until his pupils are dilated to a full. Then I slap him again.


    "Wake up. There''s a fire downstairs, we are leaving." And by the rising smoke starting to blur the emergency sign vague, it had spread to the second corner of the corridor.


    By miracle or pain, the kid''s left palm slowly raises like embracing the coming of the end yearning as his chest heaves rapidly in short breaths, lips trembling but the sight''s still off focus. I round my palm at the back of his head as to lift his gaze at the fracturing green light. His pupil traces in, narrowing to the abnormal in his serenity and I lower my head to his ears.


    "I can hold you, but I can''t drag you down the stairs." The breaths lengthened into seedy drags of a silent yearn of mouth like each inhale''s a scream. With no better option around, I fold the Qin blazer thrice into a rough patch of square. Lucky enough it''s made of wool, not polyester.


    "Budimir, if you think you can walk. Blink twice." The kid''s fighting it, I can see it in his shimmering iris diming the hue of tears. There''s an end at the bottom of green LED in his sight. There''s an end to the ambiguity, torment, knife wounds sewed and digging leads. Somewhere through the needle hold, an old man''s fishing by a Siberian lake of white and there''s a flaming gate next to the snow clearing, some might be waving in the dark, some might be smiling across the line.


    Devil''s greatest trick is projecting millions dying to give up for the facade your brain conjures at the last breath, that there''s more than a spoon scooping off your soul and toss it down the next poor bastard for you have sinned and he will sin. Convincing, that beyond endless darkness there''s a backdoor to heaven, the truth is you were comforting yourself in pity of your meager life and everything you never gained.


    And Budimir blinks.


    When the eyelids open, the pupils are trained on me. I stick the Pardini in the holster and grip his palm in the air as hard as I can until there''s a response to his.


    "Get ready."


    A snuck, a loose.


    The knife''s out, the first spill splattered up my neck as he screeches and howls in low and shrift of a dry throat. Repulsively, Budimir rises as his entire body tries to retract as tight as possible to keep the pressure from pumping his blood out. I toss the dagger away and apply the patch of cloth on the gush as fast as possible while guiding his grip down to the abdomen,


    "Hold it as tight as you sucked your mother''s tits." A few very short breaths came out of his mouth as the pain surged, he got through the initial shock and didn''t pass out.


    With haste, and while he''s still in a sitting position, I shoulder his right arm over me like operating a machine. Crouched in one knee, right arm securing his on my shoulder, left arm under his armpit, I stand up with as that''s left.


    And a shiver runs down my shoulder. Reflexes come and pull my arm off the wounded for the pistol out in a hip fire position.


    At the end of the hall, it stands. Mask cracked with a corner opened and a silver line on its forehead. Behind the streetlight shyly emanating through the window now opened, throwing its shadow further as the hilts of all kinds of blades poke out the bulletproof vest, it stands like a shapeless ghost of very tangible violence.


    An arm tagged as it hangs in grip of a new blade, left shoulder carrying a...if you could call that a person. A scrawny old man, in crimson red mandarin of frivolous embroidery around the buttons but the wearer''s clearly unconscious with an unsettling grin on a delirious smile..... over the face of someone that''s almost the spitting image of the son of a bitch. Same, subtle hook nose over a sunken side...But he''s not the emperor, the Qin will not put himself in any situation as defenseless and as undignified as a crackhead and the person on the back of yakshini simply resembles all yet none at all.


    Its stygian gazer aims straight at me. I could take the shot from here. Her vest had taken a shot the fibers had lost the edge. And by the looks of it, the killer ain''t trying to run or fight. It places its left foot half a step forward and to the side, itself blocking any trajectory to the junkee. And I know.


    It''s the younger brother of Qin Cunhua, Qin Yen''s uncle and a known addict.


    Casus belli.


    I holster the 9mm and replace my arm around Budimir''s waist. Yakshini tilts ever so discreetly, the void where eyes reside shiftlessly.


    Bleeding right arm goes behind the junkie''s knees as the killer held its employer up with both hands and thrashes it out the narrow gap window like a mailman stuffing package through the seam, followed by the sound of a scream and coughing as the sound of impact on the G wagon''s top torn the momentary silence apart as it continues.


    Before I could conjure what was that¡ª the Yakshini turns swiftly with both hands on the window frame pulls its legs up in a leap and a pull, jumping out the window.


    What is that thing made of?


    I don''t have the luxury of contemplating. The kid''s hand on the wound is loosening as the sleeve of blazer starts slipping off. I pull his right arm down with my neck as the anchor to keep him from falling I turn back to the stairs where smoke is emanating visible.


    Budimir frowns and coughs in reflexes as his saliva drips down the corner of mouth onto the first level of staircase. The balaclava does less than more in filtering.


    ***


    A step at a time, a tremble at the expanse of both of our lives. Budimir''s semi-conscious state was brought to a stop by the coughing smoke making him uncontrollably squint and squirt.


    Two stairs down, a leg on the lower level while maintaining the balance from titling into the fall. Both of my hands are now on his shoulder as I slowly guide him down, when his weight''s been put against me, I''d lean forward to stop it, when it''s numb and still, I''ll have to give him a pull as if teaching a pitbull to dance.


    Sweat covers my skin like there''s a cold flame burning inside despite the heat''s yet to reach this corner. The kid''s relatively getting better as he tries to force the last few steps to the landings on his own, which failed as I had to catch and prop him with my shoulder again. His breath became ragged as soon as I steadied myself as tears started to form on the blood-smudged face of the oblivious youth.


    The smoke''s getting worse as I can hardly open my eyelids as well.......Naive couldn''t adjust how faulty I was once we made the turn on the landing.


    I can''t see the end of the hall, fire surges and roars with the sound of cracking wooden interior


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


    like an amber eye turning red at the sight of us, its iris expanding like a lantern in the blacken shroud of its sclera laughing vilely. At the center of a vague figure, I can see the big guy''s corpse is now a bonfire that in some way, slowed the spread of fire by his grease and blood and flesh and tissue and soon enough, bones. To be dust and ash if not mine along with them.


    "Hold your breath.¡± I growl in Budimir''s ear and pull him forward. We have less than 20 seconds.


    For the last six levels, I ignore his groans and quiet hisses that come to a stop at violent coughs the rest of the way. The burning eye races me to the middle of the hallway where the exit to the lobby resides. With each move, it taunts a speed of threefold while the blinks of red become more and more tangible as it cracks. Leaking like a thrown of gravel, a broken egg. The fire whipped itself up the ceiling, the paintings on the wall took less than a second as it blackened into aflame and curled in the air like an incomplete petal that turns to ash after an arc in the dense and accumulated soot of acrid, the floor, as the spread of fire made it past the corner.


    Budimir trembles a step but hooks my left arm upon his armpit and forces him to keep moving as the last of my adrenaline burns everything inside like it''s also in a race with the fire. I couldn''t see anything, and the wall on the left felt worm as I made a prob, each attempt of breathing was a cycle of violent coughs that consumed more smoke that shut my brain from processing, and by some miracle Budimir''s no better but still on his feet.


    I try to hold my breath but the smoke still finds its way in. Torture of the finest craft, 12 meters is an endless climb as I wish to tear my face off along the fucking mask. Every inch of my skin crawls with an unbearable itch as I cough till my eyes water and blur the last seam between my swollen eyelids and the residues beside them.


    Few meters, just a few... the eye becomes a gushing tear of something primeval and lopsided, as the first there is when it all started this world. The fangs of a beast behind its breaths hiding the redness gnaws of its swallow... I can feel the heat wash over me as real as a throw of stone, especially when I''m half blind at this point.... Come on...


    The last of their cry stays behind as I kick the botched door they locked. The fire issues behind me as I carry him further, just a bit further, don''t look back, don''t look back, the fire brightens their faces, don''t look...


    Budimir''s weight starts gaining on my shoulder while his legs are giving up by the mingled brain of cyanide, carbon dioxide, pain. My hand probs his belly to make sure his still holding the blazer. Fucking hell, it''s already soaked. I pull him by the waist as I push him forward just a bit further, I know this path even in the dark. I recognize pain and denial even in the blind. And so does the gazing sun roaring in front of us, I can feel its warm malevolent creeping up my torn skin of machete slashes and bullets missed... laugh you son of a bitch! Laugh to your lung''s and heart''s content. I am here! He''s here besides as always! Lord above can go fuck himself as well, I am still here! I''m still...


    The setting sun made brick pavement shine like ambers. The whole street was gleaming an unusual sight with the peddles catching glimpses of the fire.


    I can''t raise my head, the Russian bastard''s arm on my nape drags me down. All I see is the orange glimmer of the sun and fire rounding up the oval pieces on the ground. I screamed but the street was empty, so I crossed another step forward and there was...noise between the ever-shouting interior creaking and the wooden interior snapping.


    A clean tab on the shoulder but audible perceptive and another among my next steps. Standing on the abyss I turned to the left and found something of a different color above the kid''s hanging head, different than the grey and the red of shoreline horizon at sunset.


    They''re black-like mistakes, with shards of broken pieces connecting to cracks of grey and seams pieced by a stolen yellow on the rim by the accelerating heat. I''m here.


    My body shifts to the left nudging Budimir to lose his footing as both of us fall through the swinging double door. The fire consumes what''s left. The seam on the upper door frame seeps smoke before the flame declares it as the ebony color quickly turns grey and shrinks into the vertical flame that climbs through the bursted windows in a reach like a claw to the prey or a cry for help as the smoke finds a different outlet to drown, the heat is especially immediate since the little air locked in the lobby engulfs it into a greater blazer.


    I turn around to check Budimir only to find him lying still on the ground with left loosely upon the piece of rag falling off the wound. The lad gasps for air as his eyes search the red veils on the ceiling turning brighter with each breath. His body either went into shock or breathed too much smoke inducing into his wheezing state. Dizziness is setting in by his systems desperately gasping for oxygen while the smoke''s emanating in front of us at a terrifying speed clouding the mists of red veils hung over the walls and ceiling as fire will soon catch up. His body''s being convinced that he''s in a safe space to recover.


    "Kid...afch! Budimir don''t close your eyes we''re not there yet.. arch!" Each word is a race and a bargain as I pull him by the armpit half a meter away from the burning door now creaking ominously as my regained sight starts going blur again and Budimir lets go of the blazer.


    "Fuck!"


    I crawl forward and press my thumb upon the soft under his chin where his throat connects...


    One......


    One two.......


    One.......


    He''s still there.


    Pulling off the bandage on my upper arm, I grab the blazer to fix it by his leaking belly. Around the waist, over the abdomen. A triple knot on top as the rest hangs loosely like the bloody intestines had already got out. Despite my best effort by the time I''m down, the smoke had filled the better portion of the lobby and I can hear the coughs.....fuck me, there are abundant of them. By the bed, rolled on the ground, halfway to the front, hanging by the stools with scrawny arms intertwined over the mid rails, curving the corner of lips on the soiled sheets.


    "Kid.....just keep your eyes open... I''ll do the rest." My upper arms under his armpit hooking back as I raise his numb torso by force as I drag him, with all that''s left of me. Fresh blood trails down by the contracting of muscle, the parts that are settling in as brittle pieces of a different skin. Only when I hold my arms up to carry him do I realize how bad it was, my left arm''s already covered as the seams are breathing in the toxin in the air, opening and closing like a gentle welcoming. I couldn''t feel pain, I couldn''t feel anything physical no matter how hard my eyes squint at the mess.


    My vision tilts between Budimir and over my shoulder checking if there''s any furniture or dying junkies in the way. With each turn, the fire eats off another part of the view in front of those two windows as the anchor point, the entire north wall is getting chewed out by swirling flames that circle through the planks, first through the seams as smoke irrupts then the fire arrives, closing in on the space in between like an defeating chase. Each turn, each step in this crouching posture puzzles me more. The limited oxygen depleting and the carbon dioxide poisoning my neural systems are as if materializing two different worlds with contradicting answers.


    Why am I here....


    Smoldering through every single corner of my view, I can feel the coarse and itch repulsing at the bottom of my throat again.


    "What happened to my voice...."


    It took me a second to realize that sentence was in Chinese and another to recognize the elderly with mud-grained pupils questioning me. They''re strained to a bulge unbeknownst to the flame ensuing behind him until the smolders and ashen smoke covered the voice, the hand was in the air till the last. I cough out something.


    He''s not the only one, either choked by smoke or waken by my trudge. More and more patrons are waking up in puzzled glances at the flame, on me, on the unconscious man dragging a trail of blood on the floor like a mop, a paintbrush, an animal.


    Some of them are quietly starring at me, some are looking for something on the ground until they lay back down but eyes still trained on me as I trot by, and some with their mind still intact get off the beds and start running past me towards the exits in hilarious fashion of crooked legs. All the while the veils or sheets or whatever that are hanging across the ceiling in arcs finally caught on fire as they''re broken into a drape falling with a burning end swinging in the air like fuses. The west wall was finally ignited as well, the point of origin at the southwestern corner of the stairs down the basement had breached the layers between.


    Tables, beds held up by stools and poles, desks, clothes, jackets, bodies, junkees, each turn as I bump into something I witness another lost soul or a nuisance on the path and soon enough I stop distinguishing them through my violent coughs as I can taste the corrosiveness at the end. With each turn, I see the fire consume more of the world in front, my iris glassy and illuminated glaring down at them lying around. It''s a carousel through purgatory. And a reminiscent one.


    The motionless body on their last breath watching the flame caught up on them as you escaped. <em style="font-family: georgia, palatino">Run, clutch, fight, kill, push, and forward.


    Don''t look back.


    Staring at the hellscape crawling its way forward I simply stop distinguishing the differences, or rather I can''t no more.


    The toxin in the air invaded my neurons and forced open the memory lanes locked in the cellar under the rug.


    Someone''s palm reached my right shoulder from behind. I spare a hand to snap the thumb outward to the center of my palm, I can''t hear the cracking of bones but I can feel it in the hand tremble in my grasp and a scream of sharpened stack inserted. The face of no differentiation to a hollowed skull falls on my arm pulling back off its bony arms circled my arm in a tight grip as it screams through inward-folded lips and sunken sockets, protruding eyeballs.


    "I don''t want it anymore! I want more. But I don''t want this anymore. Please...." Please.... brother stay with...... the spare hand unholster the gun to pull the trigger at its left eye. Most of the blood left in the feeble woman spills through the back of her head as the chain-like arms fall off me along with its head dribbling downward the rest of her body onto the ground, some painted the muzzle red. But the voice didn''t stop.


    Please, stay with me brother. Don''t go off.....


    "Fuck off!"


    I shout into the cough as the smoke surrounds me, killing the visibility as it surges towards the open gate. Every single whiff of them flowing in my direction...


    Come on... Ivan... Budimir... whoever the fuck I''m trudging.... I think I''m about done.


    There''s the bleeding horizontal at the vague far we aim. The sparks of blood trails along where we''ve been and where we''re heading, all paved in gold by the setting sun.


    On peddle or steel, I can no longer see.


    Through countless bodies, I drag us both through until I can''t avoid stepping on them. Their eyes are the same dullness chiming in grey ready to dissolve, I keep telling myself that but I can''t avoid them. They wouldn''t let me, the shiver kept running down my spine despite my mind slipping away through the open wounds rinsed by blood.


    The dizziness is setting things tilted like my closing lids, each blink swatted with tears forced out my swollen eyes and the voices keep luring me off balance. My mind is a twining knot, threads of past and present and forewarns and regrets tangle and bundle into thick hemp ropes round and round on each other till the knot squeezes them together. Past, present, hopes, and reality rub shoulders with each infested piece but two constantly anchored my mind.


    I had nothing.


    Everything gained, has a due.


    Therefore, to those that give notwithstanding. I will never forget.


    What was left of my senses twisted my mind in the last breath of survival instinct into me believing what I was carrying was someone else at a place I never allow myself to even project into existence.


    And it did.


    I drag the person in my arm with a raging fit and he moans out in pain. A stride, a pull. Rummaging through whatever I bump into in this senseless smoke like a bull in thorn snarling in pain. The faces are losing their strength as well as the howls and cries and teary eyes finally close when the smoke filled their lungs as mine, choked into oblivion while I burn the last of myself through the light that contradicts the sea of fire buried under obscurity. This one glimpse of a quiet bluish hue renders into a cleaner white than the smoke erupting through it like a great flood.


    "You will live. I owe you a life that meant nothing to me, brother."


    Through the halo that warms me in its blind illuminating every particle in air none differentiated, me included.


    Beaten, bloodied, and covered in ash, strings of white smoke hooked its trail to the edge of our souls like the ones that ran away from the place of no light. Ghosts clawing their pale, weightless twig-like arms on me. Weightless yet so tiring. Some came back with rigorous resolve for hate, some just continued existing, and some left without a touch, much like every other night. And the first breath of fresh air came into my lungs.