At Times Square, so many people gathered that their body heat kept the snow from finding a place in that gritty, unruly spot. At best, it mixed with the street filth, clinging on as grayish clumps of ice for a few hours. The nightclub where they stood was sandwiched between a disco and a high-end strip club, looking unimpressive, almost like it was getting crushed by its neighbors. Only a neon-pink, pulsating sign above the door, bluntly proclaiming "Marilyn's Pearl," set it apart from the row of uniform apartment buildings, whose filthy facades reflected what went down inside.

Despite the place’s shabby look and its suggestive name, a huddle of Stranded and workers crowded around, craving less for fun than for indulging in lowly urges. Sex was one thing. But these young men seemed to seek an outlet in the nightlife, a way to blow off the frustrations life kept piling onto them.

Two towering, broad-shouldered bouncers in black leather jackets glared over the crowd, their expressions dark as they tried to keep everyone in line with a stare. Their air reeked of brutality and bluntness. It was an invisible barrier, and Billy was just about to break through it as he pushed his way forward with Isaac, edging closer to the guards.

Tattoos marked their faces, and everywhere else. Any patch of skin their clothes didn’t cover was inked. Billy didn’t mind tattoos; he’d even gotten a small cross on his shoulder back in the day, a symbol of faith he felt himself drifting further away from every hour. But on the bouncers’ temples, Omar’s insignia stood out clearly, o.b. The guy branded his goons like property. Pathetic little initials.

"What’s with the look, Billyboy? This place is all the rage!" Isaac shouted, catching the doubt in Billy’s glance and slipping back into his loudmouth persona. Billy pressed his lips together and gave a silent nod as they were patted down by the leather-clad giants and finally ushered into the club, once the guards noticed Omar’s ring.

The first thing that hit him was the stifling, smoke-filled air, thick enough to make a nonsmoker like him struggle to breathe. The swirling, colorful lights pounded against his head like fists on a locked door. After that ordeal at Luna Park, the last thing his frayed nerves needed was more flashy lights. A waitress breezed by with a tray, throwing him a seductive glance, angling for a tip. She could hardly be wearing any less without being outright naked. With a figure like hers, she might’ve even turned heads, but Billy was in no mood to appreciate anything or anyone. The weight of Emilia’s loss still sat like a stone in his gut, and memories of the organ-traffickers' hideout weighed heavy.

"You brushed me off earlier," Billy said. "Why would King Omar like you?"

"Omar definitely doesn’t like me anymore. But he... respects me."

"You?" Billy scoffed.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Isaac asked, sounding offended.

"No offense, but if you showed everyone that side of yourself you showed me when we first met, let’s just say you’re not easy to warm up to. Respect? That’s a whole other level."

"Keeping it simple works," Isaac smirked, forcing a wide grin. "People are more comfortable when they think they’re dealing with a straightforward guy, someone who won’t spring nasty surprises on them. They know exactly where to file you away."

"Alright, so Omar’s got you pegged. But why would he help us?"

"Help us, Billyboy? I don’t remember saying he’d help us, did I? No way. Omar’ll be using our sorry asses to clean his club floor. But from where I see it, we don’t have a choice but to be here and see him."

"So, we make the best of it?"

"That’s it, Billyboy. Make the best of it. Most of us don’t get much choice otherwise."

Billy pressed his lips into a pencil-thin line, nodding briefly. A clueless man on a sure path to ruin—that’s exactly how it felt right now.

"The last few hours just killed what little faith I had left in people," he said. "Worse yet, in reality itself. I know one thing: Whatever Omar demands, I won’t do it. I’m not working for a scumbag like Omar Branett, the king of organ traffickers."

"Oh, really?" Isaac retorted. "I’ll tell you one thing: when you’re in hell, you’d better drink the beer if the devil offers you one."

From speakers styled like vintage jukeboxes, deafening rock music blasted, trying to make up for its lack of quality with sheer volume. Next to them, a small group of rowdy, drunk guys belted out the lyrics, while a dancer on a table swayed to the beat, hidden behind a thick cloud of smoke, teasing money out of the men with feigned desire.

They raised their beer glasses, eyes glued to her, waving their club cash in the air, ready to part with it.

In one corner stood a pool table where two men were playing. Both wore black dress pants and a white shirt, untucked and creased, with a black tie hanging loosely around their necks. Billy recognized them from the factory. One of them placed a cigarette between his lips, leaned over the table, aimed, and with a single shot, sank three solid balls. The other only raised an eyebrow, chalking the tip of his cue.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

At the bar, a guy was snoring with his face buried in a plate of fries. The sight brought a brief smile to Billy’s lips, but it quickly faded when a dwarf bumped into him out of nowhere.

Billy frowned, looking down in confusion at the man who was nearly two heads shorter than him. The guy was high-strung, radiating an unpredictable menace, like a ticking time bomb with no countdown timer.

"Grrr," the dwarf growled like a dog, running his thumb along his pointed chin. He sported a pink mohawk, and the left side of his face was marked with a tribal tattoo that curled skillfully around his almond-shaped eye. Japanese characters inked his neck. He licked his thin lips, like he was about to devour something.

"You better apologize," Isaac whispered.

"Me? He’s the one who ran into me."

"You don’t know who this guy is, do you? Do these count as enough of a reason?" He pointed at the man’s pants, where two knife sheaths were strapped on either side.

"I thought… weapons were banned here."

"Not for him."

"So what now?" Billy said. "Is he gonna kill me just because I don’t apologize for him bumping into me? Right here, in front of everyone?"

"Exactly. That’s exactly what’ll happen, Billyboy. Just say sorry, quick."

Billy let out a laugh, more in disbelief, though the loud music swallowed it up. Even if it all seemed like bravado, the wild look in this little berserker’s eyes told a different story. The air around him seemed to crackle, and everything in the strip club felt like it had stopped, all eyes suddenly turning to Billy Jones. His fear began to feel physical, like he was trapped in his own body. A prisoner to a life that felt more hazy and unbearable by the minute.

"That’s Sato Ishim, a freaking assassin!" Isaac blurted, like they were facing some living legend from the underworld.

"Who…?"

The Asian man placed both hands on the grips of his knives, like they were just waiting to be freed.

"S-a-t-o! Sato Ishim. The Soul Butcher himself," Isaac whispered. "The terror of seven continents. He’s slit throats for way less, so be smart and let go of your pride, man!"

Billy felt his stomach churn, his face turning ghostly pale.

Acid bubbled in his throat.

Was this the new world?

Where brute strength held more power than intellect, where fear ruled instead of respect earned through good deeds?

Relics from humanity’s past that had survived every era.

Power is strength.

But enough was enough.

"I don’t care who you are," Billy said, looking the man in the eye. "I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything."

No sooner had he spoken than he felt cold steel at his throat. Sato pressed the blade firmly against the paper-thin skin. One movement and the knife would slice through his neck like butter, splitting his arteries wide open.

This was it.

Billy said his final prayer.

You could almost see his blood pulsing beneath his skin. Sato was ready to make a bloody mess. Most of the clubbers looked away in fear, or not caring what was happening on the middle of the dance floor. Even the strippers kept dancing on tables and in cages against the walls, while the girls upstairs flirted with the men. Everyone turned a blind eye to the injustice, and even Isaac was paralyzed by fear.

Then suddenly, a large black hand appeared from the crowd, resting gently on the assassin’s shoulder.

A gold, diamond-studded watch dangled from the broad wrist. Billy couldn’t make out the brand, but the gleam of gold and gemstones left no doubt: it was worth more than he could earn in a lifetime at the solar factory.

"In my kingdom, I decide what happens to people," declared the dark-skinned giant, addressing everyone around them, though his gaze was fixed on Sato. "My kingdom, my rules. And I have something very special in mind for these two."

Billy could barely make out his face, just enough to see that it was broad, with a square jaw, wide nose, full lips, and deep, black eyes. Diamonds glittered on both his earlobes, like stars in the night sky.

"You’re Billy Jones."

Before the man had even finished his sentence, Billy was nodding furiously.

"You look like someone I gunned down earlier."

Billy froze.

He had no idea what the man was talking about, and his face showed it.

"Well then, I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Omar Branett. The king of the underworld. And with your help, I might just own the whole world soon."

"With my help?"

In a flash, Billy realized what was happening. The stranger suddenly had a name, along with the face painted by the media and whispered rumors. King Omar. The feared king of the underground. A ruthless criminal, pimp, and drug dealer—and, as Billy had recently learned, the head of a smuggling ring trading in human beings and their organs.

"I’ll assume you’re not here to dance, so let’s skip to business," Omar said, his voice calm yet somehow cutting through the noise around them. "Follow me. We’re going somewhere a bit more… private." He spoke with a steady authority, and Billy found himself and Isaac following him, step by step, like chicks trailing behind their mother, while still keeping their distance.

"Man, you’ve got more luck than sense, Billyboy," Isaac nudged him.

King Omar led them away from the chaos, through a staff door into a narrow corridor lined with stacks of drink crates, full trash bags, and boxes marked with scribbled labels. The noise dulled, though still loud enough to cover any hushed conversation from King Omar’s ears.

"How do you know this Sato guy?" Billy asked.

"He’s famous in the underground scene. Besides doing jobs for... him, he takes out anyone who messes with his pride. And that’s easily done, as you just saw. When it comes to his pride, he’s absolutely ruthless, no exceptions. It’s more important to him than anything, even his boss, and he knows that. You’re lucky beyond belief, Billy. Sato was seconds away from sending you to the furnace and straight on to hell. Don’t think he’ll forget about you."

"All of this," Billy whispered, "sounds like a bad fairytale."

"Shh! This man’s got more dead men and women on his conscience than you’ve taken breaths. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. No, wait. He’s got no one on his conscience—because he has none at all."

"If any of this is true, why’s he even walking free?"

Isaac nodded toward King Omar. "No one dares touch Omar’s guard dog. Not even the justice system… well, whatever’s left of it... the ruins of law scattered across the abandoned boroughs."