Stomping my way through the dimly lit streets of South Philly, I can't help but grin at the unsuspecting bricks and mortar hiding our operations. Most schmoes wouldn't give the squat building a second glance, but that's the point, ain't it?

The front's dolled up like some third-rate accounting firm or somethin'. There's always a dame at the desk, thumbing through some magazine thicker than her manicure. Don't let the gloss fool ya; she's got eyes like a hawk and steel in her voice. "Evening, Mr. T," she nods without lifting her eyes, and I grunt an acknowledgment, my heavy boots thudding against the worn carpet as I pass.

The lobby's all modesty and pretense. Plush seats you'd never guess were second-hand circle a tired coffee table stacked with outdated magazines. No logos, no fancy brochures, just generic paintings on the walls - landscapes and abstracts that could mean anything or nothin' at all. 'Cept for one feature I kinda like - an oversized fish tank brimming with life, nestled between potted ferns. Gave the room a pulse. "Night, fellas," I mutter to the fish gliding through their silent ballet. They don't know about the wolves and serpents lounging just through the next door. I appreciate their easy ignorance.

I push through into the corridor, fingertips grazing the cool wallpaper. The hallway is a vein of The Kingdom's heart, plush underfoot, dotted with doors that lead to god-knows-where. Golden light spills from half-open entrances, whispers of business wrapped in pleasantries, but I keep moving. Don't need details to know it ain't anything clean.

The break room, though, it's somethin' else. Stepping in, it feels like crashin' an aristocrat's dinner party uninvited. The tiles gleam like mirrors underfoot, catchin' the chandelier's garish glint. Yeah, a chandelier in a break room, go figure. The tables are sturdy, dark wood affairs, some supporting glossy backgammon sets and others strewn with cards. There's a fancy drinks machine in the corner, push a button and it spits out whatever brew you fancy, and I mean coffee to the hard stuff. It's a bit much, ain't it? But it brings the soldiers - all clad in dark garb, not suits and ties but leather and denim - a slice of finery.

To my right, there's a broad-shouldered guy slouched by the snack machine, popping quarters with a tattooed hand to get at the pretzels, another chatterin' about baseball scores while checking his concealed piece. You'd think they were average Joes on break, if not for the dead giveaways - holsters underarm, blade sheaths riding boots, the tension in their shoulders tellin' of coiled serpents ready to strike.

Nodding at a few familiar faces, I make my way to the fridge. There's luxury here, alright, but it's all window dressin'. Beneath the gilt and gloss, the gears of The Kingdom grind just as greasy as any other machine in the dark.

Passing another recruit, barely outta his teens, all eager eyes and quick nods, I try to shake the sobering thought. "Hangin' in there, kid?" I say, more gruff than I mean. He gives me a shadow of a grin, sharp with hunger and somethin' like hope, and for a fleeting second, I wanna tell him he's got better options. But who am I kidding? Ain't my place. Ain't my story.

So, I snag a soda, crack it open, and find a corner where the world's a simple swish of bubbles in a can. The Kingdom's building might be nondescript outside, but inside, it's a zoo with golden cages. And here I am, just another beast pacing my square of turf, restless and a little too aware that we're all, in our way, fish swimmin' in someone else's tank.

Leanin' back against the cool concrete wall, I'm the quiet in the storm, just observin'. The cola's crisp bite and the carbonated symphony play second fiddle to the cacophony around me. Eyes roaming, I take it all in: the games of chance, the hushed stratagem, the easy banter sliced with sharp looks.

There's a rhythm to this place, a syncopated beat that matches the pulse of our covert world. Hunched over a scarred game board, two vets move their pieces with a nonchalance that doesn't quite reach their vigilant eyes. A bet's been made, a side hustle in a den of hustlers. Laughter bounces off the walls, a young gun's successful bluff or a shared tale of some street-corner shakedown gone sideways. It's like theater, every role meticulously played out, but the stakes here are all too real.

And there, tucked against the far wall, a grim sort of gathering around the high-def screen spewing the nightly news - everyone watching the heroes prance about like peacocks, saviors in spandex. Not a one of 'em doesn't wish they could change that channel with a fist through the glass. Tempers huff in curt snorts and derisive chortles. "The day's gonna come..." starts a burly fella with knuckles like lug nuts. But he don't finish. Don't need to. We all fill in the blanks with our own daydreamed reckonings.

The veneer of civility stretches thin over this room - it's in the way a passed flask leaves a slightly oilier sheen on the fingers, how each joke cuts just a little too near to the bone. And for all its try-hard gloss, the essence of the break room ain't the faux-opulence; it's survival stripped to its core, shrouded in smoke and sidelong schemes.

I take another swig, the cola searing the back of my throat like liquid apathy. Here in the den of thieves and monsters, amongst the racket and reckless, I'm as much a fixture as the scratched pool table and the half-dead ficus in the corner.

Above all, it's the ordinariness that clings to me, cold and clammy as yesterday's sweat. Each man and woman in this room is someone's neighbor, might've been someone's friend, could've been just another Joe blowin' off steam after clocking out. But here we stand, in a place that thrives on the not-quite-normal, with the bottled up potential for tyranny and terror fizzing beneath the surface.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I like that. Tyranny. It's a good big word.

And as the chatter rolls on, easy as shuffling cards, I can't shake the thought: the room ain't the cage - we are. The trappings of humanity just hide the teeth and claws till they're needed. And trust me, they're always needed, sooner or later.

And there they go - the higher-ups with their heads together, all hushed tones and sharp nods. I slink down into my chair, can turned casual telescope, my gaze narrowed and peering over the rim. Mrs. Z strides in first, her walk all purpose and power, her voice low but thrumming with that professional cadence that could whip the air itself into shape. I catch a flicker of recognition as her eyes tick over me - we ain't pals, but there's mutual respect. I give a half-nod, the kind that says I'm here but not involved.

Now Mrs. X is another story, a tight-bound bundle of eccentric genius, nose crinkled at the everyday chaos that ain't laboratory sterile. She's a few paces behind Mrs. Z, lost in some diagram only she can see, her fingers threading through the air like she's typing on some invisible keyboard. I hear the rattle of Mrs. Z's patient breath, see the curve of her back as she stoops just slightly to get level with her colleague. That massive greyhound, Scylla, clip-clopping at her heels, eyes as still as pond ice.

"The retrofit on the security system, it's delayed," Mrs. Z is saying, each syllable weighed and measured like she's calculating the trajectory of bullets in the wind.

Mrs. X, eyes darting around like panicked birds, almost trips over the rickety ficus. "Oh, this poor thing!" she exclaims, veering off course. Her hands flutter to the leaves, brittle as old paper and just as forgotten.

Mrs. Z rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't tumble across the floor. "It's a plant, X, not one of your precious experiments."

"But the schedule," Mrs. X murmurs, thumbing a wilted leaf between her fingers.

I can't help but smirk. The juxtaposition's too rich: the withered houseplant and her chimera beasties. Go figure.

With a quiet authority, Mrs. Z clamps a hand on Mrs. X's shoulder, wheeling her away from the leafy casualty. "The schedule will hold," she asserts, voice calm as the eye of a hurricane. "Polygraph and I hashed it out -- operations shift seamlessly by tomorrow night."

Mrs. X finally rips her gaze from the plant, caving beneath Mrs. Z's logic. "Fine," she concedes, though her fingers twitch like she's jotting down a mental to-do list - water the ficus probably at the top.

I recline, easing my weight onto the ratty upholstery, my presence a shadow they've already bypassed. But that don't mean my ears aren't pricked, drinking in every word filtering through the hubbub like I was a stray dog sniffing out scraps.

"I'll discuss it further with A and B tonight. No distractions," Mrs. Z continues, her hand now guiding Mrs. X's elbow, steering her firm as any ship's rudder. I raise my brow - talking directly with Mr. A is top shelf business, not the kind you spill on the break room floor. "Since that cock-up with Cher... with Mr. Federov, A's been in rare mood."

Mrs. X finally meets my eye, fleeting as a comet's tail, and there's that tiny quirk to her mouth. It's a scrap, sure, but I know it means we ain't at the bottom of the tank today. I'll take what I can get. I don't need to see her pity. I'd rather have her scorn. "What are *you* looking at?" she challenges.

"Your flat ass, obviously," I sarcastically reply. "What, you're in front of me, you want me to scoot the chair 90 degrees?"

Scylla stops and stares at me, and I turn my chair, what, forty five degrees? I don't like that mutt. Scares me.

Mrs. X's gaze might've frostbitten another man, but I'm too thick-skinned for that, especially when she ain't got the bite to back it up. "Keep your eyes to your drink, Mr. T, or I'll realign your vision," she fires back, her voice like icicles crackling underfoot.

I snort, swiping a hand through the air. "If you could realign anything, I reckon these suits would've had an upgrade from your bargain-bin-sourced science projects." There's a bite in my tone, but heck, if I don't enjoy prodding her.

She huffs, puffing herself up like an indignant pigeon. "You think mutation is child's play, do you?" Mrs. X retorts, almost stumbling over her syllables in that 'I'm-smarter-than-you' way she has.

"Could've fooled me," I say with a dry chuckle, nodding toward the gangly chimera loitering in the doorway. "Big Fido over there looks like somethin' a kid slapped together with a tube of superglue and too much free time."

The muscle in Mrs. X's jaw clenches tight enough to grind diamonds. Scylla, sensing the tension, tilts its oversized head, thin antennas - or whatever the heck she stuck on it, maybe whiskers - twitching with an unnerving syncopation. It's spooky, like one of them silent horror movie killers waiting for the harpsichord to cue his bad deeds. Gives me the willies, really.

"Oh, laugh it up, strongman. At least I'm contributing to the advancement of--"

Her sniping cuts off as Mrs. Z snaps her fingers, one sharp crack that's a period and a half to any sentence. "Enough. We're on the clock here." The exasperation on Mrs. Z's face could've stripped paint. "Both of you, park the playground talk. We're not here to make friends, we're here to--"

"--Make money, yeah, I know the spiel," I grumble, rolling my eyes, leaning back into the nonchalance that doubles as my shield. "Just having a little verbal sparring to keep things lively."

Mrs. X glowers, but Scylla's prickle has softened to a drowsy wobble, like the storm passed as quick as it rumbled in. For all her cold intellect, the doc's got the social grace of a sledgehammer in a greenhouse.

"Keep it to the ring," Mrs. Z commands, but her shoulders have lost a shade of their stiffness, like she's half expecting us to knock heads whenever we're breathing the same air. She turns, nudging Mrs. X along with a firm press against her back.

The shuffle of boots interrupts, the drag-and-scuttle rhythm of a guy with more mileage on him than a cross-country hauler. Mr. P hauls himself into the room, looking every bit like he'd kissed the business end of a freight train and got second base.

You could hear the collective breath catch in the room, thick with surprise and that ain't-right sense that something in the ranks got scuffed. We're scoundrels, sure, but there's a threadbare honor stitched into the shadows we stick to. Seeing one of your own rolled up and dumped, it frays at the edges.

His eyes sweep the break room, that signature twitch to his temple telegraphing loud and clear: he's winding up that lie detector of his, and we're all about to be pop-quizzed.

"What do you know about Fly?" The question lands flat in the middle of us, like a dropped gauntlet.