“Allow me to explain,” John said, his tone cheerful.

Gunfire erupted. A bolt round exploded through the leader’s back, flinging his body forward. John grabbed him by the collar, using the corpse as a shield. Two more shots rang out, tearing through one gang member’s head and shoulder. Another round severed an arm, sending the wounded man screaming as his stray bullets ricocheted wildly.

The remaining gang members finally reacted, opening fire. But John advanced with unnerving speed, the leader’s body absorbing their shots. Reaching the closest one, he hurled the corpse at them, knocking one off balance. With precision, John’s bolt gun obliterated a leg, sending its owner screaming to the ground. The next shot silenced him for good.

The last gangster, panicked, fired blindly. John dodged effortlessly, closing the distance. He smashed the butt of his gun into the man’s face, pinning him against the bridge’s railing. Dangling precariously, the man’s terror was palpable. “How many gangs are there?” John asked, his tone casual.

“Wh-what?” the man stammered.

“Three, including you,” John continued, tightening his grip. “Who are the others?”

“The Hammer Gang and the Syndicate!” the man shouted. “They run the factories and the trade networks! Please, let me go!”

John released his grip, and the gangster screamed as he plummeted into the darkness. Moments later, a distant thud echoed back. John leaned casually against the armrest of his chair, glancing down with a faint smirk.

"Oh, that did sound like quite the drop," he mused, his tone carrying more amusement than regret. Straightening, he tilted his head thoughtfully, his eyes settling on the shrine below. "Well," he muttered with a sly grin, "this is turning out to be more complicated than I expected." Without further ado, he leveled his weapon and fired a single, decisive shot. The shrine exploded into a blaze of destruction. John chuckled darkly, taking a step back. "Guess it’s time to make things even more complicated."

The old gasoline barrel burned fiercely, flames licking out through jagged holes in the rusty metal. Its flickering light illuminated the grimy street, casting distorted shadows over the uneven walls of the surrounding buildings. The air was thick, not unbreathable but carrying the tang of oil, rust, and despair.

The people here matched the setting—a rough patchwork of humanity cobbled together with shoddy cybernetic implants and worse attitudes. Cheaply made prosthetics whined and rattled with every movement. Their mechanical casings were scuffed and scarred, etched with crude and often profane engravings. Those without implants were no less conspicuous, sporting tattoos that ranged from vulgar to outright blasphemous. Their clothing? A chaotic mix of patched leather, frayed fabric, and the occasional scavenged armor piece. One look was all it took to know these weren’t law-abiding citizens.

The great irony of this place was its honesty. Heretics, cultists, gangsters—they all wore their sins openly, making it easy to identify them from afar. John liked that; it saved him time.

He approached a bar—a beacon of light and sound in the oppressive gloom. The neon sign above the entrance bathed the cracked pavement in an eerie purple glow. Silver Snake Bar was spelled out in stylized Low Gothic, the letters flickering faintly. The hue reminded John of someone from his past—a woman with skin like amethyst and a laugh like wildfire. How long had it been? Months? Years? She always made time feel strange.

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Shaking off the memory, John pushed open the heavy door. The inside of the bar was a stark contrast to the outside world. Polished tables, a clean floor, and walls adorned with intricate tapestries gave the place an oddly refined air. Above the bar, a large emblem of a coiled silver snake gleamed in the dim light.

For a low-hive dive, the establishment was oddly well-maintained. That might have explained the crowd. The place was bustling, every table occupied by locals who wore their affiliations as boldly as their scars. Coiled snake tattoos, hammer insignias, and blooming flowers adorned the arms, necks, and faces of the patrons. Gang members, all of them. Despite their differences, they sat together, drinking and laughing—a tense peace that seemed ready to snap at any moment.

John’s eyes scanned the room as he strolled toward the bar. He took in the tattoos, the wary glances, and the weight of hidden weapons.

Behind the bar stood a woman—the bartender. She moved with precise efficiency, wiping a glass as she worked. Her face was partially obscured by a sleek, intricate mask that resembled a gas filter. Strange, considering the air here wasn’t that bad. Her long lashes framed sharp, intelligent eyes, and loose braids fell around her face in delicate spirals.

John leaned casually against the counter, his usual cocky grin firmly in place. The bartender barely glanced at him, her attention fixed on the glass she was polishing.

"What'll it be?" she asked, her voice cool but not unfriendly.

John reached into his coat and pulled out a few Imperial gold coins, setting them on the counter with a soft clink. "Something decent," he said. "And don’t water it down."

The woman’s lips quirked in a faint smirk. "Of course not," she replied, grabbing a bottle of golden-orange liquor from the shelf. She poured a generous amount into a clean glass and slid it toward him.

"Golden Pirate," John observed, lifting the glass and swirling its contents. He took a sip, nodding approvingly. "A heretic’s drink, but a good one."

"Funny," the bartender remarked, setting the bottle back on the shelf. "That’s what they say about everyone who drinks it."

John chuckled, setting another coin on the counter. This time, he placed a pendant beside it—a silver snake coiled around itself. The bartender’s expression shifted slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied the emblem.

"Andry sends his regards," John said smoothly, taking another sip of his drink. "He thought you’d know what to do with that."

The bartender picked up the pendant, her fingers brushing the cool metal. She said nothing for a moment, then poured herself a drink, raising the glass to her lips with practiced ease. "What’s your business with Andry?" she asked, setting the glass down and fixing him with a steady gaze.

"Mutual interests," John replied. "He helped me; now I’m here because he thinks you can help me."

The bartender leaned closer, her silver-gray eyes locking onto his with a piercing intensity. John met her gaze without flinching, his own expression calm but alert. After a long moment, she straightened and resumed polishing glasses. "What do you need?" she asked.

"Information," John said, glancing over his shoulder at the noisy crowd. "Interesting setup you’ve got here. Three gangs, one bar, no bloodshed."

"Neutral territory," the bartender explained. "No one’s stupid enough to start trouble here."

"And they listen to you?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "This is a place for deals, not battles. They know better than to ruin that."

"Smart," John said, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Now about that information..."

The bartender sighed, setting down the glass she’d been cleaning. "A shuttle crashed on Owen-4 a few weeks ago. Survivors made their way to Victoria Prime. I need to know where they went."

The woman’s expression darkened. "They came here. Six of them at first, but only one stayed."

"The others?"