Paradiso had a population of approximately six billion. It was the entire world for every one of those people.

But their ‘world’ is only a small slice of the planet. Beyond the miles-thick exterior walls was nothing but ruin, death, and decay, crawling and pulsating with things twisted beyond all recognition. 

You could only see over these walls from six places in the city. The very top of massive constructions the size of countries - the residences of the best and brightest. Home of the families that ran Paradiso.

Referred to only as the Pillars.

Space was never wasted in the city. The sides of the enormous pillars were just as occupied. Houses, businesses, and lives were built onto the megastructures. The buildings and streets shifted, being lowered or raised on enormous platforms capable of moving millions of tons, connecting and interlocking like a puzzle with no question.

Those places were referred to as the Heights. They had their own sunset, that of the sun sinking below the walls. Unlike those on the Pillars, they may never know what the horizon looks like.

But these places were out of reach. The sort of thing spoken about in the same wistful and meaningless way as winning the lottery. They were pointless to even think about or consider. Just something constantly on the horizon, a reminder so big that the shadow cast an artificial night for hours every day.

For those in the Hole, they weren’t worth thinking about.

They had much bigger concerns.

Down on the surface, Tens of thousands of miles from the important people who could make a difference, tucked away in the shadow of the Pillars, on a small, nameless street - was a shop.

The sign, fluorescent and colorful as everything else in the area, broadcasted the contents of said shop loud and clear.

‘Fancy Fuckin’ Formal Wear.’

It was a tailor. Not a cheap one, compared to some of the local alternatives. Certainly not a fancy one, considering the rest of Paradiso. It was simply…a decent one.

The sort of place that got business on word of mouth alone. And the word of mouth for this particular shop was positive indeed. Almost everybody walked out happier and sharper than they arrived, save for those who would never be either.

The shop itself had a way of sticking in people’s memory. It wasn’t the only clean and professional-looking shop around, nor the most expensive. But it had an air to it. Decency. Little touches in the decor and display spoke of an effort, attention, and taste that the Hole rarely cultivates. More than a few people had walked in over the last two years of its operation and froze in confusion, briefly wondering if they had accidentally made a wrong turn somewhere and ended hundreds of miles from their destination.

Somewhere nicer. Somewhere brighter. Somewhere that didn’t smell like blood and rot.

Part of that impression came from the owner. He was manning the desk, as he ever was, considering it was where he lived. He was a relatively tall man, with blonde hair and bright, brightly glowing blue eyes. An unnatural feature for sure, but hardly worth a second glance compared to the freaks and degenerates that walked those streets. After all, the owner had made quite a few custom suits for people with extra limbs.

If the locals were a little higher up in the world, both figuratively and literally, they might recognize those eyes for what they are. But that little nugget of knowledge was reserved for those that barely even remember that the hole exists.

The owner’s name was Leon. He was currently sitting behind his front desk, flipping through a book on local cuisine. His mannerisms were unusually considered, almost regal, and his thick blue formal coat was a strange and eccentric design. Someone else wearing such a brash outfit might get an eye roll, but not him. 

The store had been dead quiet for hours, as it often is. 

Until the man that would destroy what small life Leon had managed to piece together walked through the door.

The bell chimed, and Leon looked up from his book, scanning the visitor with a practiced eye. He stood out, in a way that the artist in him loved and the survivalist hated. He had black, barely combed hair. He was of average height, and vaguely Asian in his appearance. He had a solid, wiry build. The type that looked thin and weak, until you touched him and realized he was solid rock. 

His face was a rictus of scars and stress lines, expression locked so tightly into a scowl that he probably couldn’t change it if he tried. Despite the wear and tear, he wasn’t ugly. He could almost be called handsome, though that word would be far from anyone’s mind that met him.

He carried a long but narrow blade in a sheath on his hip. This was probably the least noteworthy part of his appearance, as not carrying a weapon was strange around here. 

It was not his looks or weapon that drew the eye and then forced it away just as quickly.

It was his eyes. 

If asked, nobody could tell you what was special about them. They were simply normal, black eyes, if a bit beady. But looking into them was impossible. There was something in there, something vicious. It was not rage, or the threat of violence. It was not hatred or an unhinged spark.

It was simply the residue left behind by an uncountable, incomprehensible amount of death. This man had seen much of it. Caused most of it. This man had killed many. Dozens? Hundreds? More? He did not posture, bristle, or advertise violence in any way. But not even the dumbest, most poorly risk-assessing mook in the city would try to fuck with him.

He was a Hunter, clear as day. And a powerful one at that.

And he was also dressed in a shoddy pant and jacket combo so stained and ripped that it looked like he pulled it straight out of the dumpster. Old blood caked it, and worryingly fresh blood stained it.

Leon’s voice was bright and clear. Young, and yet not childish. “What’s the occasion?”

The tailor’s owner assumed the man was here only because he had to be. It did not take an empath to figure that the Hunter wasn’t the type to care about how he looks. And Leon was far more than that. 

The Hunter’s voice was like a paved road. Made of stone, yet smooth despite it. “Appointment with the Guild liaison.”

If Leon was a normal man, a slower one, then he would have frozen in shock.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

A single sentence, packed with enough dangerous context to send one’s head spinning.

The only people from the hole that spoke directly with a liaison were guild leaders, their representatives, or incredibly powerful Hunters. And they don’t just meet for tea and crumpets.

This was important, even by Leon’s inflated standards.

And he came to some (comparatively) cheap hole in the wall, in a (relatively) poor corner of City, in an exceptionally (somewhat) dangerous area. Why?

It took 0.017 seconds for him to reach the correct conclusion. “Rush job?”

The Hunter checked his watch with a practiced motion. “Ten hours.”

“Till the appointment, or until you need it done?”

“Former.”

Leon Grimaced. Rush job indeed. The pillar was quite the distance away “That’s going to be triple.”

A nod.

The man clearly didn’t like to waste oxygen. Leon just sighed. “Any requests?”

“Your discretion.”

Now Leon understood why the man of few words even bothered to mention who the appointment was with. Clearly, he gave context solely so that Leon could do the heavy lifting for him. He didn’t even bother to clarify that he indeed wanted a suit.

Leon thought he was an interesting man, despite the dangerous atmosphere. He didn’t know the Hunter’s grade, but he felt safe in his assumption that he was at least grade 3, the highest he had met in person.

What did Leon see, when he looked at him?

A man made of iron. Someone who had cut away everything that wasn’t immediately relevant to accomplishing the goal at hand. It was almost impossible to upset or excite him. Only shift his priorities and goals.

Quite the analysis for someone he had only exchanged a few words with and had known for less than half a minute. He could be dead wrong.

But he wasn’t.

He didn’t bother with small talk or pointless questions as he measured the man. And he certainly didn’t ask his opinion as he put together a simple dark grey pinstripe suit, going as fast as he could without compromising his craft. It was cold and understated, dark as could be without being true black. The brown dress shoes came next, the shoe size easily eyeballed by the experienced tailor, and then came the tie.

The only bit of spice to an otherwise overwhelmingly dull look. Dirty maroon, the color of blood, and a pocket square that matched.

Leon even threw in a sheath, the same color as the shoes. Just as simple and understated as the rest, built into the belt. It was made for a thin and narrow blade. Unfortunately, almost everybody there literally did not understand what the word ‘understated’ meant, so most preferred much bigger weapons.

It was honestly pure coincidence that Leon managed to offload three different articles that he had made on a whim and had been struggling to find a home for months. Leon never skimped out on his customers, even if he didn’t like them. A description that fit virtually everything with a pulse that walked through the door.

It wasn’t because he cared, or even out of professionalism. It was simply pride.

So he was confident in his choice when he handed a pile of neatly folded clothes over the counter less than an hour later. He gestured towards the changing room with his hand, and the Hunter disappeared behind the door.

Not even a moment after Leon sat back down, a big, fat, burly motherfucker of a man slammed through the door, the bell chiming for its life. “What’s up, pretty boy?!”

Despite being too stubborn to flinch, Leon felt a surge of fear, almost reflexive - like a battered dog. Then, his rational mind took back over, only losing a second to surprise.

Far more than he’d like. He resented that. Hated that he had to feel unsafe in this shitty little rat-filled Hole.

He recognized the man and acknowledged the fact that he threw open the door just enough to be obnoxious, but not enough to not damage anything - even though he very easily could have.

Chap was his name. A member of the Dandy Men, the local gang. He was wearing a large suit for a large man, tastelessly accessorized and gaudily colorized with browns and golds. He sauntered over to the front desk, twirling his weighted cane in one hand in a decidedly unimpressive fashion.

“How’s business? Making good money?”

Leon’s relaxed pose didn’t change, despite his internal discomfort. “As much as ever. You fine gentlemen seem to go through clothes at a prestigious rate.”

The man loomed over the counter, laughing. “You know how it is! Hard to keep shit nice and clean when those fuckin’ animals keep gettin’ their claws in us, you know?”

The Animals. The rival gang. Most of the local demihumans were in it, especially the dangerous ones. Leon didn’t give a shit about the Rats and their pathetic politics, but his relationship with the Dandy Men was the only thing keeping him alive. It was why he bothered to open a tailor, after all.

 It was hardly his calling in life. He was simply catering to the local cabal of homicidal morons.

“I can imagine. Are you here to buy?”

The big man loomed even larger, somehow. It must be an ancient wanna-be gangster technique. “Not today. You see, the Animals moved in pretty hard tonight, and we lost some real important territory. Our budget just got adjusted, you feel?”

Leon’s face didn’t change, despite the boiling disgust in every pore of his body. If only he could get away with gutting the big bastard on the spot. Not that he even could. “You want more protection money.”

“Consider it taxes. Er… Supporting your local economy.”

“How much?”

The big man whistled innocently. “Oh, I dunno, 20%.”

Leon felt dizzy with pure hate. But he ignored it. It meant nothing. He had no means to act on it. No ground to stand on. The only reason he was even still alive is that the local gangs loved their obnoxious, idiotic themes, and he found an in pandering to their deranged bullshit.

“You know I can’t stay open with that much,” said Leon. “12 percent.” 

The polite veneer evaporated into the air as the man slammed his fist down on the desk, cracking the wood. “I wasn’t asking. They hit us hard. Adjustments need to be made. And while we love your work, we can always find another tailor.”

Leon felt sick. Defeated. His pathetic, dog-like life was about to get even harder. 

He wanted to throw a punch and let the dumb fucking brute put him out of his misery. But he was afraid. Scared of dying. Scared of the slow death they’d give him. He had no powerful will or incredible courage.

So he opened his mouth to agree.

And that was the moment the Hunter walked out of the changing room.

Leon could almost feel the weight in the room shift as he entered it. He had chalked it up to charisma, a real presence. It was a feeling similar to men like his father, and he had wished he could fill a room like that before.

But he was wrong. It was a very real, very intentional phenomenon. It simply wasn’t directed at him.

That’s why Chap felt it a little differently. He froze on the spot, fist still on the table. His eyes widened, and his breathing turned sharp. His heart rate spiked, and he immediately began to pour buckets of sweat.

He hadn’t even looked at the Hunter yet. 

Leon was proud to admit that he nailed it. The grim, dark look of the suit fit the Hunter beautifully. He was still adjusting the tie as he walked to the front desk, his old clothes left behind in a bin. 

The Hunter said nothing as he placed the money on the desk. It was thrice the standard price for a full set, plus a little extra. 

Leon was not so brave as to not mention that. “That’s more than the asking price.”

The hunter had already turned around. “A tip.”

A tip. When was the last time Leon had received one of those? That was a trick question. The answer was never. This wasn’t the kind of place where people shopped for luxury or fun. The clothes here were an asset. Either to impress or protect. Every single person who walked through the door fought tooth and nail to get as much as they can for as little as they can.

It was nice. Leon felt appreciated. 

“Wait,” he said, right before the Hunter walked out the door. Chap flinched, still frozen in spot, but not so much to stop him from glaring at Leon.

The hunter stopped and turned around, expressionless.

Leon gestured to his chest, where a breast pocket would be. “That pocket square is supposed to be folded and angled 90 degrees. Not just stuffed in there.”

The Hunter was silent for a moment, staring uncomfortably. Then he adjusted his pocket square. “Thank you.”

And then he was out the door. Chap practically collapsed against the counter, panting like a man who ran a marathon.

Leon raised an eyebrow, hiding his gratification at seeing the big man reduced to a quivering puddle. “You know him?”

Chap’s pupils were shaking as he whipped around to glower at Leon. “Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t know who just walked into your shop?”

“That was implied.”

Chap shook his head. Sweat was dripping down his brow and falling onto the fresh cracks on the table, soaking deep. “That man… he’s-“

An enormous, six-foot-thick rusty chain smashed through the shop faster than either could process, annihilating the building itself and obliterating them both as it whipped through the building in less than a second.

What small portions of their bodies that weren’t liquefied on contact splattered against shattered wood and stone, and were soon buried under rubble.

They both died instantly.