Cav stood at the edge of the rooftop, the city sprawling below him like a living, breathing organism. Lights blinked on and off, patterns of movement he couldn’t quite understand, yet there was a rhythm to it—like the beat of a heart that didn’t know why it kept beating.

Something stirred in the alley below. Cav’s gaze drifted downward, catching the faint shadow of a cat weaving through piles of discarded waste, a creature of grace in a wasteland of neglect. It moved with a wariness that spoke of a life lived on the fringes, ears flicking at distant sounds, aware that it didn’t belong here—didn’t belong anywhere.

Then, from the darkness, three shapes emerged. Stray dogs, lean and wild, their ribs showing through matted fur. They spotted the cat, freezing for a moment as if deciding, then advancing with sudden, ruthless speed. The cat bolted but barely made it two strides before the first dog snapped its jaws around its hind leg, dragging it down into a chaotic struggle of growls and desperate screeches.

Cav didn’t flinch, but his body tensed as the scene unfolded. The dogs tore into the cat with savage efficiency, their hunger transforming the living creature into nothing more than meat. It thrashed for a second longer, then stilled as the pack set to work.

He watched until there was nothing left to see, only bones picked clean and fur matted with blood. The dogs, satisfied for now, wandered back into the shadows, leaving the alley silent once again.

Cav turned away from the edge, his hands in his pockets. The world continued below him, just as it always did, uncaring and indifferent.

He shifted, ready to turn away and leave, when something below caught his eye. Movement in the alley. Cav paused, narrowing his gaze, and decided to stay a moment longer.

Down below, a figure lurked in the shadows. A man, tall and lean, crept up behind someone huddled near the wall. The scene unfolded quickly—a hand yanked the stranger upright, slamming them against the bricks with a thud. There was a brief struggle, but the stranger gave in almost immediately, their body slumping under the mugger’s grip.

Cav stayed still, watching from above as the mugger rifled through the victim’s pockets, pulling out whatever they could find. The efficiency of the motions—the way the mugger moved—looked familiar. Cav’s brow furrowed as he tried to place the man below.

The flickering streetlight briefly illuminated the mugger’s face. That’s when Cav recognized him. Rif.

They’d met before, though barely. It wasn’t enough for Cav to care. He watched for a moment longer, his face blank as Rif pocketed the stolen goods, glancing around to make sure no one had seen.

Cav exhaled softly. “We’ve met,” he murmured to himself, a simple acknowledgment without any weight behind it. Then, just as quietly, he turned and left the rooftop, leaving Rif to finish his work below.

Rif slipped the stolen goods into his jacket, giving the alley one last glance. The rooftops above were empty now, as far as he could tell. Satisfied, he tugged his hood lower over his face and melted into the city’s labyrinthine streets.

The market was as thick with people as ever, a dense mix of vendors, buyers, and shady figures lurking at the edges. Rif moved through the crowd like water, sliding past bodies and stalls, his hands always light, ready to pocket anything that looked easy enough. He threw a casual nod to a couple of familiar faces as he passed.

“Yo, Rif,” one of the street dealers called out, leaning against a wall, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Got somethin’ for you next time you’re lookin’ to score.”

Rif smirked, flashing a casual hand gesture in return. “Next time,” he said, not breaking his stride. He had his own rhythm here, a pace that let him blend in without drawing too much attention. He kept his eyes moving, scanning the market with the awareness of someone who’d been playing this game for too long.

Just as he was about to turn down a side street, a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. He tensed, instinctively shifting his weight, but relaxed when he saw the man behind him.

Mitch, one of the boss’s lieutenants. The guy was built like a wall. He gave a slow smile, the kind that was more threat than greeting.

“Rif,” Mitch grunted, “the boss wants a word with you. Now.”

Rif tilted his head slightly, keeping his tone nonchalant. “Not available at the moment, Mitch. Maybe later.”

Mitch’s grin faded as quickly as it had appeared. “I don’t think you get to make that call,” he said, his voice low but hard. “You know how it goes. The boss wants to talk, you show up.”

Rif glanced around, noting how a few people in the market had stopped to watch the exchange, trying to look casual while still keeping their distance. He forced a thin smile, hands slipping into his pockets as he looked back at Mitch.

“Yeah, well,” Rif said slowly, “I’ve got my own things going on. Tell the boss I’ll catch up later.”

Mitch’s grip on Rif’s shoulder tightened, his expression darkening. “You don’t want to make him mad, Rif. You know what happens when people start thinking they don’t have to listen.”

The words hung in the air like a loaded threat. Rif’s eyes darted to Mitch’s hand, still clamped down on his shoulder, before looking back up. He weighed his options for a split second before nodding.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll go.”

Mitch released his grip and jerked his head in the direction of a nearby alleyway. “Smart choice. This way.”

Rif followed reluctantly, cursing under his breath.

Rif followed Mitch into the alley, the crowd’s murmur fading behind them. They weaved through narrow streets, passing by figures who slunk in and out of shadows, people who made their livings in the margins of the city. Rif recognized some of them, exchanging nods with a few, but his mind was already on the coming conversation.

Mitch led him to a side door, nondescript and tucked between crumbling buildings. They entered, and Rif was greeted by the familiar stench of sweat and cigarette smoke, the atmosphere thick with tension.

They stepped into a dimly lit bar, where the air pulsed with muffled music and low conversations. At the back, in a VIP section cordoned off by velvet ropes, sat the boss, a figure thriving on the power he held in his little empire. Surrounding him were expensive drinks, glimmering crystal glasses, and a couple of women leaning in close, laughing at his jokes.

The boss leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he eyed Rif, his gaze appraising. “Rif,” he said, his voice oozing a mixture of arrogance and a strange sort of respect. “I hear you’ve been keeping busy.”

Rif shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Just getting by.”

The boss leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his gaze intense and calculating. “I’ve got a job for you. Pays well, and I wouldn’t ask just anyone.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “You’ve got the right instincts.”

Rif felt the tension coiling in his stomach. “I’m not looking for any new work right now.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Ah, but you’ll want to hear this one out,” the boss insisted, his tone shifting from casual to commanding. “There’s been talk of new players in the area. You heard about the guys in the black jackets? The ones stirring things up?”

Rif nodded, though he kept his expression neutral. “Heard some whispers.”

“Good. They’re getting bold, poking around my territory.” The boss’s eyes narrowed, his obsession with maintaining control evident. “I respect that you’ve kept your head down, but I need to know if you’ve seen anything.”

“Can’t say I have,” Rif replied, keeping his voice steady, the truth hanging heavy in the air.

The boss leaned back again, crossing his arms, his bodyguards looming nearby, watching. “What about those corporate types? They’ve been popping up more often—police on their tails or not. Makes the streets uneasy, you know? And I don’t like when things get shaky.”

Rif thought for a moment, recalling the encounters he’d had. “They’re getting bolder. Heard they’re looking for something—might be related to those new guys.” He kept his tone deliberately vague, not wanting to reveal the connection to De’s organization.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it. Power shifts, you know? I like to be the one holding the reins.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And I’d like you to help me keep things under control. I need someone who knows the streets—someone like you.”

Rif hesitated, weighing his options, feeling the pressure building. “Alright,” he finally said, his voice low. “I’ll keep my ears open. But if it gets too hot, I’m out.”

“That’s the spirit. Just remember, in this game, survival comes first. I expect info about both of them every week, Rif. And you know where to find me if things go south.”

As Rif stepped back into the night, the bar's noise faded behind him, replaced by the lively murmur of the streets. The underworld market buzzed with life—vendors shouting, laughter mingling with the clink of bottles. This chaos felt like home to him.

He weaved through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces—people who thrived in the margins, just like him. Turning a corner, he spotted a homeless man curled up against the wall, a tattered blanket draped over him. Rif paused, glancing at the man’s open backpack, a few crumpled bills peeking out.

With casual efficiency, he approached, slipping his hand into the bag and pulling out the cash. The man stirred slightly but remained lost in sleep. Rif pocketed the money, feeling a sense of satisfaction, then turned to move on.

Just then, a familiar voice broke through the clamor. “Rif! Is that you?”

He turned to see Jake, an old acquaintance, stepping into the light. The weariness on Jake's face was evident, eyes sunken and troubled. “You won’t believe what happened,” Jake said, breathless. “My sister... she overdosed last night. Didn’t make it.”

Rif’s expression remained neutral, the news washing over him. “That’s rough,” he replied, feigning concern. “Sorry to hear that. It’s tough out here, you know?”

Rif noticed the bruise near Jake's wrist, a dark mark that hinted at the kind of choices that plagued those in their world. He recognized it for what it was—a sign that Jake had been contemplating joining De's organization or taking their easy way out.

Jake looked hurt, his disappointment palpable. “She was trying to get clean. We all thought she was turning her life around.”

Rif nodded slowly, his tone sliding into cliché. “That’s tough, man. Life can be a real struggle sometimes, you know? You can only do your best.”

Jake glanced away, as if searching for something in the bustling crowd. “Yeah, well, I just didn’t think…” His voice trailed off, the weight of loss heavy between them.

“Listen,” Rif interjected, maintaining a casual demeanor. “You gotta keep moving forward, right? Life doesn’t stop for anyone.” He offered a tight smile, one that suggested he was trying to be supportive without genuinely engaging.

Jake sighed, looking defeated. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Just take it one day at a time,” Rif added, a rehearsed sympathy lacing his words. “And remember, you’re not alone in this. If you need anything, just reach out.” The words slipped out easily, designed to provide a semblance of comfort while keeping him at arm’s length.

With that, Rif nodded again, sensing the conversation was winding down. He turned to leave, feeling the familiar pull of the streets. As he walked, something glimmered near Jake's feet—a small ring that had fallen from his pocket. Rif glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, then quickly pocketed it.

As he made his way through the throng, he felt the reassuring weight of his stolen goods. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the cash he had taken from the homeless man earlier. It wasn’t much, but it would buy him a few nights' worth of drinks, or maybe a new set of clothes. He felt a small thrill of satisfaction, as always, from taking what he needed from a world that didn’t care.

His fingers brushed against the ring, and he pulled it out to examine it more closely. The metal was tarnished but still beautiful, catching the dim light. He recognized it now—the style, the engravings—it had belonged to Jake’s sister. A brief flash of her face came to mind, but he quickly dismissed it.

Rif shrugged, unfazed. It was just another piece of jewelry, a quick sale to a dealer he knew. Someone else’s loss was his gain.

As he navigated through the bustling market, the chaos around him felt like home—familiar and unyielding. He let the noise wash over him, each shout and laugh a reminder of the life that thrived in the shadows.

With the stolen cash in one pocket and the ring in the other, Rif moved forward, blending into the ebb and flow of the crowd. The city around him pulsed—each step resonating with the low hum of life, a rhythm of survival that beat beneath the noise. Neon lights flickered above the market, casting fragmented glows on the cobblestones below, creating a patchwork of shadows that clung to Rif’s form as he moved. Faces blurred past him, indifferent like the city itself, where survival was the only creed worth following.

Then, a scuffle caught his attention. It was faint at first, just a ripple in the flow of bodies—a minor disturbance. One of his gang’s enforcers, a bulky silhouette in the distance, was grappling with a stranger in a black jacket. Rif nearly ignored it, instinctively stepping to the side, but something nagged at him. The stranger’s arm, illuminated briefly by the market’s glow, revealed a bruise just above the wrist. His blood chilled for a moment. The mark was unmistakable—the organization’s bruise.

He almost turned on his heel to leave. It would be smarter to walk away, let the enforcer handle it. His instincts told him to avoid this situation, to vanish into the city’s anonymous maze. As he stepped away, he heard the enforcer growl, “Get out of our territory, black jacket. You don’t want a war with us.”

But before Rif could slip away, the stranger’s gaze locked onto him. Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes, and then, with the voice of a man clinging to desperation, the stranger called out: “Hey, Boss! Rif! Could use some help here! These guys are giving me a hard time!”

The words cut through the murmur of the market like a blade, freezing Rif mid-step. A wave of heat surged up his spine. The crowd seemed to slow, its pulse faltering, the cacophony dulling as the stranger’s reckless shout hung in the air. Rif felt eyes on him—his enforcer’s confused stare, the growing attention of curious onlookers, but worst of all, the weight of his own identity, tied now to a man who had just betrayed their shared secret.

Rif took a breath, his mind working fast as the world around him seemed to still. He couldn’t walk away now. The consequences were too sharp. His pulse quickened, but outwardly, he remained calm, slipping through the crowd with an air of cold, calculated purpose. His feet thudded on the uneven stones, his path straight as he shoved bodies aside, anger brewing within. The crowd parted around him like water, rippling with tension, but no one dared interfere.

Rif arrived at the scene, his gaze hard as stone. The stranger, now visibly uncertain, stood awkwardly beside the enforcer. The man had expected Rif to help, to acknowledge the shared bruise that marked their connection to De’s organization. He was a fool.

Rif’s voice cut through the tense air, quiet but filled with venom. “What did you just call me?”

The stranger blinked, confused. His hope wavered. “I—”

“There is only one boss here,” Rif continued, his voice colder now, “and it isn’t me.”

The stranger’s confusion deepened, eyes wide as Rif’s meaning sank in. He had been expecting an ally—someone to vouch for him. Instead, Rif looked at the enforcer, whose brow furrowed in bewilderment. “Do you know him?” Rif asked sharply.

The enforcer shook his head. “I don’t. But seems like you do.”

Without hesitation, Rif reached into his jacket, fingers curling around the familiar weight of his pistol. In a single, fluid motion, he drew the weapon and fired. The sound echoed like a thunderclap in the narrow alley. The bullet struck the stranger in the head, cutting off whatever words he might’ve said. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, blood pooling under the dull glow of the streetlight.

The city seemed to inhale sharply, the market’s noise pausing for just a heartbeat, as if even the streets themselves acknowledged the brutality of the act.

Rif lowered his pistol, his face expressionless as he turned to the enforcer, who stood wide-eyed, pale from the sudden violence. “What were you waiting for?” Rif growled. “I didn’t know him either. You let the enemy wander deep into our territory? Do you want me to tell the boss about your embarrassing failure?”

The enforcer’s head shook rapidly, fear contorting his features. “Please don’t. I’ll handle it. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Rif nodded slowly, tucking his pistol back into his jacket. “Good,” he muttered. “Now clean up this mess.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, the sound of the enforcer dragging the body behind him mixing with the city’s returning pulse. The crowd, once thick and indifferent, parted for Rif as he passed, giving him space. The neon lights flickered overhead, casting distorted reflections on the puddles beneath his feet, as if the very city was a broken mirror, reflecting fragmented truths that no one wanted to confront.

The streets swallowed him once again, the shadows clinging to his every step. The bruise, now invisible beneath his sleeve, still burned with the weight of what it represented—a bond, a secret, a path of no return. Yet, as always, Rif shrugged it off. In this world, survival was the only story worth telling.