“So where are we going next?” Zeke asked Fredric as they walked the streets of the Undercity. Some time had already passed, and it was now 10 AM, a point in the day when most residents headed out to work. The rhythmic hum of machinery in the background underscored the city’s restless nature—a constant churn of gears, vents, and overhead pipes that fed the claustrophobic air.
The two traversed streets that pulsed with purposeful activity. Men dressed in tailored suits darted here and there, clutching sleek briefcases as though their lives depended on it. Groups of tired workers, their faces numb with routine, trudged to remote destinations. Everywhere Zeke looked, blank and weary expressions filled the streets, suggesting a shared inevitability overshadowing them all.
“We’re about to get you some work,” Fredric replied, leading Zeke past a series of kiosks loaded with cheap electronics and pungent street food. Occasional neon signs flickered overhead, struggling to outshine the artificial daylight.
“Work?” Zeke echoed, adjusting his mask and glancing at a distant security drone buzzing past.
“Oh, you didn’t think it was all going to be sunshine and rainbows, did you?” Fredric said, his tone rife with mockery. A trace of amusement glinted in his eyes as he kept walking.
“I had my hopes up for nothing,” Zeke muttered, stepping around a cluster of office employees who barely acknowledged his presence.
“By the way, does us wearing these masks in a crowd full of suits not attract attention?” Zeke asked, lowering his voice as he surveyed the passersby, all seemingly determined to ignore him.
“Oh, they simply know who we are,” Fredric responded matter-of-factly, “so they keep their distance.”
“They know about me?” Zeke asked, visibly puzzled. He couldn’t recall having done anything especially public in the Undercity aside from fighting Ludwig.
Fredric gave a silent nod. He paused briefly to let a group of frantic workers shuffle by, then continued, “News spreads quickly here in the Undercity, and besides…” He trailed off, letting the words hang as if not wanting to finish.
“Besides what?” Zeke urged, growing frustrated with the vagueness.
“This is Ludwig’s old turf,” Fredric revealed, a noticeable grin behind his mask. He gestured toward an odd bar that looked out of place in such a busy district, an older building that seemed to repel the glossy modernization around it.
Its facade included several large windows, all apparently filled in with bricks and poorly concealed under black paint. Between the barred windows sat a rickety wooden door. Above it, a neon sign shaped like a pistol flashed feebly, reading “Gun-barrel.”
They made their way inside, pushing the door open to a thick haze of smoke reeking of burnt tobacco and the acrid bite of gunpowder. The interior’s grimy atmosphere loomed around them like a physical presence. Many patrons sported illegal weapon implants that glinted under weak interior lighting, or so many cybernetic modifications that they scarcely resembled normal humans. Cyborgs with red eyes scrolled through contraband data, while some half-conscious men sprawled under the tables, presumably overdosed on demonic stimulants or cheap chemical enhancers.
Zeke inhaled, taking in the stale air that reeked of violence and desperation. As he exhaled, his gaze hardened, shifting from the uncertain boy who had once stumbled around the Lower City to a creature who clearly felt more at home with confrontation.
At the bar’s center stood a long countertop of gilded marble, out of place amid the squalor. Behind it was an elderly, gray-haired woman dressed in a black vest over a crumpled dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with stray strands curling about her temples. Latex gloves covered her hands, though red splotches peeked from under the cuffs. Her worn face suggested an existence perpetually on the brink of exhaustion.
Fredric approached, resting his palm on the smooth, golden surface of the bar. Next to him, a hulking man with messy black hair gave them both a cursory glance. In that look, Zeke sensed silent acknowledgment between the two men—a simple recognition that neither needed to test the other’s patience right now.
“Calisto,” Fredric whispered to the bartender, sliding his mask briefly off his face so she could see it was him.
“Oh hi,” the bartender replied warmly, placing both hands on the counter with a deliberate, slow movement. “What brings you around these parts?” she asked, her tone softly resonating above the bar’s cacophony.
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“I’ve come to introduce you to your new guardian,” Fredric said, gesturing to Zeke.
“Is that him?” the bartender asked, a look of sorrow flickering in her tired eyes.
“Yeah,” Fredric smirked. “This here is the one who’ll help you run District 7. Calisto, manager of District 7, as well as the owner of this Gun-barrel. Gun-barrel is basically an info agency that you manage and maintain. This bar’s in every district of the Undercity and even in parts of Lower Babel. Each Gun-barrel has a bartender who reports to you, and you compile all that intel for the King.”
Zeke stepped up, leaning onto the bar with an impassive stance. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said in a monotone voice.
“Frail and lousy,” the large man beside them commented, speaking in a gruff undertone that made Zeke stiffen.
“Huh?” Zeke growled, turning a cold stare on him. “Who is that?” he asked Calisto.
“Boar,” Calisto answered, “he’s—” She attempted to introduce him, but the man cut in.
“One of Ludwig’s men?” Zeke asked, his eyes narrowing as if recollecting past incidents.
“That’s right,” Calisto nodded. “He’s been a fixture here for a while.”
“How’d you know?” Fredric asked, tilting his head.
“Oh? I just figured that someone as brazen as him must be used to getting away with nonsense. After dealing with Ludwig, I know he was the type who saw raw strength as everything. So I assumed this must be his subordinate. Plus, he’s decked out in military pants and a Kevlar vest—he looks like an enforcer,” Zeke explained, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“I’m a gangster, kid,” Boar said, leaning down so his face loomed over Zeke’s mask. “I don’t know who you think you are, but don’t expect to do whatever the hell you want in my turf.”
“A gangster, is it?” Zeke replied icily. “Then you should know there can’t be any gangs in my territory. Either disband your crew or move out of District 7.”
“No,” Boar snarled, standing up from his stool, now towering ominously above Zeke.
Zeke rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “You’re beginning to piss me off. I think it’s time I educated you, so we can have a conversation on equal footing.”
“Educate me?” Boar retorted with scorn. “That’s real convincing coming from someone who couldn’t even get a contract on his own. The rumors say you only won the cradle of fools because you sneaked around while the stronger contenders took each other out, Prowler.”
He spoke loud enough to catch the attention of every occupant in the bar. Zeke noticed that masked figures now surrounded him and Fredric, forming a circle of silent threat. Zeke stole a glance at Fredric, feeling a moment of anxiety, but Fredric responded with a calm nod. Zeke’s tension faded, giving way to a disconcerting stillness.
“They say comparing a contractor’s strength to that of an ordinary human is like comparing an adult to a child physically,” Zeke stated, edging closer to Boar with a voice that sounded oddly calm. “But even if that’s true, are you saying a child can’t ever defeat an adult? Like Tom Sawyer besting Injun Joe—some might call that impossible, but I don’t think so. So how about you back off, unless you want to starve in a cave.” He slipped both hands into his pockets, turning his head so that only his eye stared out from behind the mask. “Trust me, I’m by no means a defenseless child.”
Right when he finished talking, Boar unleashed a savage right hook. Zeke quickly twisted away, letting the punch graze past.
“Prowler or not, I’ve already become a contractor,” Zeke said. Then, moving almost too fast to follow, he produced a short jet-black blade from his pocket. With a fluid motion, he lodged the blade into Boar’s forearm and released it. Lowering his stance, Zeke spun and slashed another small knife across the inside of Boar’s knee.
Boar collapsed, stunned and confused, apparently unable to register how someone smaller had disarmed him so handily. Zeke approached him, ignoring the onlookers.
“Are you a bit too weak to be talking all that trash?” Zeke asked, a sliver of mockery in his voice. “Was it all bravado, or do you have something else in mind?”
Boar’s face twisted in agony, sweat beading at his brow. “I invo—” he began, maybe trying to invoke his soul’s power.
Zeke struck again, stabbing a blade directly into Boar’s tongue before he could finish a word. The knife lodged between Boar’s teeth with a sickening thrust.
“Smart plan,” Zeke muttered darkly, “trying to compensate for the skill gap by calling on your contract power. Seeing as I only recently became a contractor, you assumed I’d be powerless if you unleashed that magic.” He tilted the blade, pressing it against the roof of Boar’s mouth. “But you obviously didn’t think about the fact that you can’t safely do an invocation if your enemy doesn’t let you. You and Ludwig have that same flaw—no ability to see the bigger picture.”
Zeke seized Boar by the throat, pulling him closer until their faces nearly touched. “Did you really think the Contractor King would give me a contract if I was weak?” he growled, his eyes a menacing red. “Even as a normal person, I’d have beaten you.” He slipped the knife free of Boar’s mouth, leaving the gangster trembling and bleeding.
“Listen, piglet…” Zeke hesitated. “No, that’s not quite right,” he mumbled. “Hear this, anyone who doubts my competence,” he said, raising his voice so everyone inside the bar could hear. “I am known as the Prowler. Let this be your first and final warning. If any of you disrespect or attack me, or threaten my district, I’ll cut out your tongues,” he proclaimed, staring Boar down with unyielding focus.
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