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.

"........ забойца. 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.

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"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.