THE CHAMPIONSHIP CLIMAX.
Back in the heart of the arena, the brutal brawl reached its fever pitch. Both fighters rose slowly from the dust-choked ground, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Their eyes locked in fierce determination.
The roar of the crowd had faded into a tense hush. Only the electric strain of impending violence remained.
They charged once more. With explosive speed and acrobatic precision, Selena spun into a devastating strike, her heel connecting squarely with Storm's face. The impact reverberated like a shockwave through his skull, staggering him.
Undeterred, she pressed for a follow-up, but Storm—still reeling from the dizziness—dodged with surprising agility. He countered with a thunderous punch straight into the center of her chest armor.
WHAM.
The force hurled her backward, slamming her into the ground.
In a surge of raw power, he hoisted her up as if she weighed nothing and drove her down again in a bone-jarring slam.
Selena refused to yield. Her legs snaked around him in a vise-like hold, and she unleashed a flurry of her own punishing blows. To break free, Storm spun violently, dragging her with him, then hurled himself forward—BOOM!
They struck the ground together, Selena trapped beneath him. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. At last, she had no choice but to release her hold.
Blood smeared the arena floor. Both fighters were battered beyond recognition—bruised, bleeding, barely standing.
Storm leapt.
He raised both brass knuckles overhead and brought them down in a devastating arc. Selena ran straight toward him.
She slipped inside the descending strike, pain screaming through her body as she ignored it completely. She pivoted, twisted, and poured every remaining ounce of strength into one final, perfectly timed heel kick.
THUNDER.
The blow crashed into Storm's head like a cataclysm. He hurtled backward, crumpling hard against the ground.
Silence blanketed the arena. Dust swirled lazily in the air.
Storm struggled to rise, his arms trembling with effort. Then, he collapsed. Princess Victoria was at his side in an instant, kneeling beside him. Her hand hovered uncertainly, her eyes scanning desperately for any sign of life.
There was none.
She rose slowly and raised her arm.
"STOP!"
Her command cracked through the arena like a whip.
Turning, she seized Selena's wrist and lifted it high above her head.
"WINNER AND CHAMPION—SELENA THE SHADOW HUNTRESS!"
The arena erupted in a deafening roar.
Selena stood motionless for a moment, the weight of victory settling over her. Then, with a single nod of her head, she bowed in acknowledgment as exhaustion finally claimed her.
Princess Victoria leaned in close, her voice a private murmur amid the chaos.
"You fought like a weapon forged in fire."
Selena exhaled deeply. "So did he."
Across the bloodied arena, medics swarmed Storm. As they lifted him onto a stretcher, he managed a faint, crooked grin.
"Worth it," he muttered.
Above them, the torches flared brighter than ever, casting triumphant shadows across the arena.
The tournament was over. Only legends remained.
TALKS AND REWARDS.
In the wake of the grueling tournament, Princess Victoria summoned the arena manager and requested a private gathering of all participants. There, in a dimly lit chamber away from prying eyes, she distributed their hard-earned rewards.
The champion, Selena, received ten thousand betas. Second place claimed seven thousand, third place four thousand, and the remaining fighters each shared a thousand betas for their participation.
Soon, the tournament became the talk of the town, its fame spreading across the entire province. Stories of the battles grew with every retelling, and whispers of the prize money followed—but many dismissed those figures as exaggerations and rumor.
Princess Victoria reveled in every moment of her time in Crownpoint, the thrill of the event lingering like a sweet victory.
BATTLEFIELD FRONTLINES.
Far from the celebrations in Luciana, a grim war raged on; two armed military forces clashed in a brutal, grinding conflict. The Imperial Army of Rey Santana had been locked in a brutal stalemate against Luciana's Armed Forces for nearly two weeks, neither side able to secure a decisive victory.
At last, the balance tipped.
Through superior numbers and relentless pressure, the Imperial Army succeeded in cornering the Lucianian forces. With only a limited number of Enforcers at their disposal, Luciana's troops were badly outmatched—outnumbered not only in foot soldiers but also in Gifters. The defenders faced dire odds.
Every attempt to turn the tide failed. Surveillance missions and reconnaissance operations were carried out in the hope of gaining a tactical edge, but each ended in frustration and loss. The conditions were stacked against them.
Then, at the brink of collapse, Lady Luck finally smiled.
Balogun's unit was en route by air transport, racing toward the battlefield to reinforce the beleaguered Lucianian forces.
As the helicraft neared enemy airspace, the copilot briefed the team on the ground situation.
"Captain Ba… Balegun," he began hesitantly. "I don't think the enemy airspace is safe for hovering during drop-off. We risk being shot down."
"It's Captain Balogun, not Balegun, Mr. pilot-man," the assistant captain corrected dryly.
"I'm sorry for the mispronunciation," the copilot apologized.
Balogun waved it off with a reassuring smile, easing the tension. "You can call me Logun. I don't mind—it's easier for most people."
"Alright, sir. Thanks for the clarification," the copilot replied gratefully.
The main pilot cut in, his tone more urgent. "The enemy camp has Gifters specialized in sensory and barrier techniques. I don't know the exact radius, but they may have already detected us—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
WHOOOSH—BOOM!
Missiles streaked through the sky, fireballs ripping past the aircraft as alarms blared. The helicraft lurched violently, dodging and banking as more projectiles screamed toward them.
"Any suggestion or plan in mind, Cap?" Sasha asked over the chaos.
Balogun grinned, unfazed. "I might have something I want to try." He paused, eyes sharp. "Here's what's going to happen…"
TORTURED IN HELL'S KITCHEN.
Elsewhere.
Deep in the forsaken depths of Hell's Kitchen, Nyx stirred slowly back to consciousness. After several minutes, full awareness returned.
Pain came first. Then gravity.
He found himself in a grim butcher's lair, suspended upside down from a conveyor chain-rail, swaying slightly in the stale, metallic air.
Panic surged.
He struggled, thrashing in desperation, but the more he fought, the tighter the restraints seemed to bite. He tried to scream—only to discover his mouth was sealed shut, wrapped tightly with tape like a hostage's gag.
He gathered every ounce of strength and—
"Give it a rest, kiddo. It's futile," a weary voice advised from nearby, a man in the same predicament.
"Welcome, Saka. First time?" another captive quipped dryly from his right.
Nyx turned his head as far as he could.
His breath caught.
To Nyx's horror, he recognized the battered figure: Razor hung beside him, right-side up—or what was left of him. Beaten beyond recognition, swollen and bloodied, barely human. It felt like waking from a dream straight into a nightmare.
What the fuck happened to you, man? Nyx thought in disbelief.
Footsteps echoed.
Four men descended the stairs into the basement. Two of them—henchmen by the look of it—dragged a beaten man between them, one holding his legs, the other his arms. Without ceremony, they hurled the broken body into a large tank filled with an acid solution.
SSSSSSSS—
The sound made Nyx's blood turn cold.
Fear seized him instantly.
The remaining two men approached. One was immaculately dressed like a gentleman; the other, his aide, looked like a heavyweight bouncer—thick-necked and silent.
"Thank Lady Fortuna, you're awake, roof monkey," the gentleman said pleasantly.
"Mmm-mmm!" Nyx groaned desperately, trying to speak through the tape.
The gentleman widened his eyes in mock shock. "Oh! Forgive me—I completely forgot." He turned to his aide. "Untie his mouth and reposition him right-side up."
The aide obeyed.
Nyx sucked in a deep breath as the tape was removed and his body was lowered. After several agonizing minutes of reversed suspension, relief flooded through him.
Once his head cleared, he spoke quickly, voice strained. "Hey—men. I don't know what's going on, but I think you've got the wrong guy."
"The wrong guy?" The gentleman chuckled darkly, rolling up his sleeves. "No, no, no, my friend. I'm quite certain you're the right guy."
He leaned closer. "I'll skip the formalities and get straight to the point. Three simple questions—and we can make this easy for everyone."
He smiled thinly. "Your choice. The easy way… or we go south the hard way."
Terror tightened around Nyx's throat. His voice cracked as he pleaded, his spirit fraying. "Look, men—whatever I've been accused of, I'm innocent. One hundred percent."
"Good," the gentleman replied coldly. "Then answering my questions shouldn't be a problem."
CUSTOMERS AREN'T ALWAYS RIGHT.
By 5 p.m., Nyx had yet to return home. The household grew uneasy, though his late nights were nothing new. They tried to remain patient.
Benzo, unable to shake his worry, made a few discreet calls inquiring about Nyx's whereabouts—even though 11 p.m. was often considered early for Nyx's escapades.
To distract everyone, he directed the group to prepare for customers as the bar opened for the evening shift. The evening session was about to begin.
Soon, the bar hummed with activity. The younger members handled bartending duties—except for Skyler, whom Benzo firmly kept away due to her age, despite the irony of their home being the bar's basement. Still, she occasionally slipped in to serve, defying his rules.
This was the Undercity—laws meant little here. Yet Benzo drew a firm line: no alcohol for Skyler. Soft drinks, ice cream, and candy bars were her limits.
Soon, the bar came alive. Laughter and clinking glasses echoed off the walls as slow jazz drifted through the air, cool and unhurried. Patrons drank away problems they couldn't solve, trading them—at least for the night—for fleeting pleasure.
From behind the counter, Benzo noticed something off at the far end of the room. Voices were raised—too sharp, too tense. Curiosity nudged him forward.
He approached the table with an easy smile.
"Good evening, gents—and lady. Hope everything's well here," he said smoothly. "Welcome to Benzo's Bar."
One of them—a scar-faced boy, empty-eyed and about Nyx's age—smacked his lips.
Tsk!
He sneered at Benzo.
"Buzz off, gramps. Nobody seeks your intervention. This is a business table— for business folks only."
Laughter erupted around the table, except from the man seated at its center—the one clearly being cornered.
The victim protested weakly. "C'mon, guys, this won't cover the cost. This isn't what we agreed on."
Another bully slammed his fist down in fury—
THUD!
He leaned forward, looming over the oppressed man.
"Look here, you shithole son of a bitch! It's either you take it or you walk outta here empty-handed—"
Before he could finish, the woman at the table cut in. She looked like a rogue soldier, her face hardened like that of a bounty hunter.
"The choice is yours, shitface," she jeered.
Benzo stepped in.
"You should learn to honor agreements," he said evenly. "From the look of things, I believe he owes you no debt."
The woman's smile vanished. She drew a sharp dagger and drove it straight into the wooden table.
THUD—CLANG!
Wood splintered.
Her expression twisted into something ugly as she glared at Benzo.
"I suggest you back off matters that don't concern you," she hissed, "before I forget this blade inside you."
Benzo didn't raise his voice.
"Unless you're a baron, a high-ranking officer, or the king of the Undercity," he replied calmly, "don't ever threaten the one who pours the drink."
The music cut off abruptly.
Silence swallowed the bar as every patron turned toward the table. Eyes burned with quiet fury. It felt like a mob on the verge of tearing loose—just waiting for permission and Benzo's signal.
The rogue woman clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers.
Full payment was shoved across the table to the stunned man.
She stood, seething with frustration as the room's hostility turned against her group.
"Count this as your lucky day," she said, casting the man a final glare before storming out with her goons (henchmen).
The oppressed man stared at the money, then at Benzo, joy flooding his face. Words spilled out in breathless gratitude, one thank-you chasing another.
Benzo grew embarrassed. He waved it off and snapped his fingers toward the bar—refill.
"It's on the house," he said warmly. "Enjoy your evening."
Then he turned and walked back to his post behind the counter, as the bar's rhythm slowly returned to life as the night carried on.
OPERACIÓN CAÍDA LIBRE.
Meanwhile, on the battleground, a scout unit from the Luciana Company spotted the royal C16 helicraft approaching. They immediately notified their base: an elite squad was joining the fight.
The aircraft climbed, gaining altitude, its engines humming as it prepared for a military breakout maneuver.
"ARE YOU READY, BOYS!" Marko roared over the engine noise.
Owad shot him an irritated glance. "You don't have to yell. We all have ears, and they function perfectly."
Sasha couldn't suppress a laugh. She still found it amusing how Marko always shouted and addressed the entire team as "boys." "Guess the ladies aren't invited to this breakout," she teased. "Best of luck to the 'boys' on their mission."
"Tsk. Give it a rest, will you?" Baker snapped.
Captain Balogun cut in sharply. "Enough. Zip it and focus on the mission."
Silence fell as adrenaline coursed through the squad as they prepared to jump.
"So…" Baker began cautiously, "whose tactical backpack are we using?"
Every head turned toward him at once. Sasha's lips curled into a slow, malicious grin as she chuckled.
Baker's eyes widened in horror. Panic flooding in. "Oh, come on! You've got to be kidding me. Cap, you hearing this?"
"I believe you don't have anything fragile in there, do you?" Captain Balogun said reassuringly. "Don't worry, B. Nothing's going to spill."
Baker groaned inwardly. His newly purchased skincare collection—gels, lotions, oils—wouldn't survive being hurled from a helicraft.
Sasha snatched the backpack from his shoulders and pressed her pneuma marker against it, the sigil flaring faintly. The marker was essential for optimal synchronization as she completed her ritual needs.
Sasha possessed the power to swap the positions of people or objects she had locked onto. While the marker wasn't strictly necessary, it significantly reduced the pneuma drain and made the swaps seamless.
Did she require the marker? No. But without it, the cost was steep.
"Alright, Baker," she said sweetly, "come to Mommy. Mommy needs to mark you too."
"Don't call yourself that," he groaned.
She tagged him with her marker, and he was ready.
The helicraft hovered at a safe distance to avoid enemy radar detection. The squad loaded Baker's backpack into the turbo launcher, aiming it at a shallow angle—less than 35 degrees—toward the enemy shield barrier.
Four… five… six…
THOOM!
The backpack fired first. Five or six seconds later, Sasha followed seconds later, her body tilting into a controlled plunge, matching the bag's trajectory.
Baker followed close behind. All three—Sasha, Baker, and the backpack—hurtled toward the shimmering barrier.
As the backpack neared the enemy radar perimeter, Sasha extended her hands forward, fingers pressed together to form a triangular hand sign. She locked onto the bag with absolute focus, breath steady and whispered softly,
"Tan!"
The world twisted.
In an instant, Baker—fifty feet behind her—swapped places with the backpack. He was now plummeting where the bag had been, while the backpack dropped behind them. Its velocity unchanged.
Without hesitation, Baker activated his own ability. Waving his hands in precise signs, he intoned, "Time Technique: Hades Gates."
A spatial portal ripped open in midair. Baker dove through it, and the gateway sealed behind him.
Sasha, still descending toward the barrier, turned, eyes locking onto the falling backpack once more.
"Tan!"
She swapped places again. Now the backpack plunged straight into the shield barrier and passed harmlessly through, leaving the enemy forces below baffled as a lone rucksack streaked overhead like a meteorite. An enemy Gifter scanned it—expecting explosives.
Instead, the bag contained toiletries, gels, lotions, and basic survival gear as it sailed past.
The artillery systems auto-tracked it as it exited the barrier and continued along its trajectory.
Sasha instantly linked the two active pneuma markers she had placed on Baker and his backpack—the signal for him to prepare the final swap.
Inside his time-space pocket, Baker felt the shift. He opened a second exit portal just as Sasha swapped him into the bag's former position. The maneuver allowed her to enter through the first portal and exit through the second—cleanly bypassing the shield barrier without contact.
They burst back into open air.
As they fell toward the forest floor, both deployed their AMGs, steering toward the forest where the terrain favored ACS maneuvering. They swung through the canopy, momentum carrying them safely downward.
Sasha, Baker, and the battered backpack touched down together.
She fired a green smoke flare into the sky—the all-clear signal for the rest of the squad.
Back aboard the helicraft, Balogun spotted it instantly.
"Green light," he said. "First phase complete. Sasha will signal the second."
He glanced at his squad. "And I don't want any of you missing the portal and hitting the ground like a pumpkin pie."
Almost on cue, a second signal shot upward.
"Alright, squad," Balogun barked. "It's go time. On my lead—move!"
He leaped from the aircraft, the squad diving after him in tight formation.
At ground level, Sasha backed up about twelve feet, then sprinted forward. Her gravity boots launched her skyward with explosive force, swinging toward the forest canopy.
As she neared the forest canopy, her AMG thrusters ignited—
WHOOOM!
Rocketing her upward at roughly 120 miles per hour (ca. 193 km/h).
Fifty feet into her ascent, breathing deeply to steady her pneuma. Midair, she hurled Baker's backpack toward the portal they had exited earlier.
She locked onto it. "Tan!"
Six feet from the portal, she swapped places with the bag. Baker, sensing her approach, reinforced the portal's force field and yanked her through with tremendous force.
Captain Balogun spotted her emergence on the safe side and guided the squad toward her position. Sasha fired her AMGs once more, thrusting forward to lock onto the descending team.
"Tan!"
She swapped positions with the entire group. Blood spilled from her mouth as she coughed—the strain of swapping multiple people at once was immense, tearing through her pneuma reserves.
The rest of the squad—Balogun and three others—made it through the portal cleanly.
Everyone except Sasha.
Her marker was still on the backpack, which was now free-falling on the opposite side.
Baker struggled to maintain focus. Too many transitions. Too much strain. The portal began to collapse.
With her last reserve of pneuma, Sasha focused, breath tight, vision dimming.
She fell through just as the portal sealed shut.
The squad continued their controlled descent, but Sasha emerged far behind them, separated by the distance they had already fallen.
"Cap!" someone yelled. "We've got a problem—she's too far away!"
With her final ounce of strength, Sasha locked onto the backpack once more, swapped places, and materialized mere feet in front of the squad.
Balogun grinned, pride flashing across his face. "Good job, kid. I'm impressed."
He surged forward, AMGs boosters flaring, and caught her limp form. She had lost consciousness, but she was safe.
The elite squad glided on, undetected by the enemy shield, deep inside hostile territory and ready for the fight ahead.
TORTURING CHAMBER.
Back at the butcher's house, deep beneath the floorboards in the cold belly of the basement. Nyx is faced with a dire situation, and one wrong answer—one misplaced word will cost him life. As he just witnessed a body tossed into an acid bath.
The man introduced himself, "I'm Don Klause, and right now, kid, you're in a deep mess."
He seized Nyx by the hair and leaned close, his breath hot against Nyx's ear.
"Make sure you don't end up in that acid bath," he whispered. "Or worse—harvested for your organs. You're young. You'd fetch me a good price."
He snapped his fingers, and his aide drove a punch heavy as a wrecking ball into his abdomen.
THUD!
Forcing blood out of his mouth. And come the questions—
"My den—who sent you to wreak it?" As he interrogates Nyx.
"N… Nobody, men. I swear," he replied.
"LIES!"
He snapped his fingers, and another punch launched straight into his abdomen. The pain was so excruciating that he screamed.
Klause crouched to meet his eyes, his expression cold and patient.
"Let's try again," he said. "Maybe you didn't hear me clearly, kid."
He straightened, his voice suddenly sharp and venomous.
"Who the fuck sent you to trash and crash my place of business?"
Strength was bleeding out of Nyx with every breath His vision blurred, his legs trembling beneath him.
"I swear… on my parents' graves, man. Nobody—"
He coughed, spitting blood onto the concrete.
Klause studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly.
"I see," he murmured. "So this was all your doing. Fascinating, I must say."
He reached for a bat resting against the wall and hefted it once like he was checking the balance of a fine sword.
"That's some guts you got there, kid." He smiled once again. "I will be frank with you. That takes guts, kid."
He tapped the bat against his palm. "Next question. Now tell me—where can I find your partner? From the footage, it looked like you two were working together. A tag team."
Nyx shook his head, pain flaring with the motion.
"C'mon, man," he muttered. "You already got me. Leave him out of this. I dragged him along—just to keep me company."
CRACK!
Klause's answer was swift and brutal—a full, two-handed swing. The bat cracked across Nyx's ribs with the sound of dry wood splitting. Nyx's body jerked like a marionette. He collapsed, gasping, the world spinning.
Klause loomed over him, fury finally breaking through his calm.
"Do you even understand the situation you're in right now?" Klause snarled.
Blood dribbled from Nyx's lips as he forced the words out. "It wasn't… my intention to wreck your place." He said hoarsely. "The other guy—he cheated. Used menos. I… I called him out. Exposed his ass. He lost it—came at me—"
His words dissolved into coughing as more blood spilled onto the basement floor.
SAVED BY COINCIDENCE.
"Sooo… let me get this straight," Klause said, voice rising with dark amusement. He leaned forward, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You're the leader of the pack, and you decided the best move was to wreck my place of business?"
He barked a short, harsh laugh.
"Of all the dens in Hell's Kitchen, you chose Devil's 8Balls." He shook his head. "I admire your bravery, son."
He set the bat aside and picked up a hacksaw instead. He lifted it just enough for the blade to catch the light.
"For my next question—if I don't like your answer, you lose a finger."
He dragged a chair across the floor and climbed onto it, compensating for the height difference as Nyx hung suspended several meters above the ground.
He opened his mouth to ask the third question when a worker rushed in, breathless—
"E—Excuse me, boss." A nervous worker appeared at the edge of the light. "Sorry for the interruption. A… prominent guest is here to see you, sir."
Who the hell is looking for me at this hour? he wondered.
He turned sharply to the messenger. "Tell them I'll be up in a minute," he said. "I've got something urgent—"
He never finished the sentence.
Footsteps echoed from above. The visitor was already descending the stairs.
"No need, Klause." The voice rolled down the stairs, calm and clipped. "I myself am in a bit of a hurry. I don't have all day."
Surprised—and more than a little amused—Klause tilted his head. Whoever this was, they clearly knew about his torture chamber.
Who might you be? he wondered.
The gentleman emerged into view, leaning lightly on an exotic cane, each step measured and graceful, like a nobleman strolling through a ballroom.
"Still stuck in old habits, aren't you, my friend?" the gentleman said.
Klause's face lit up. He laughed aloud.
"If it isn't the Prince of Hell's Kitchen himself." Klause's grin widened. "What brings you to my dungeon?"
He gestured for a chair. The guest waved it away.
Nyx's vision had gone completely blurry, fog swallowing the edges of his sight. The chase, the beating—his body had nothing left to give.
The guest glanced around the chamber. "Looks like you have your hands full."
Klause wiped the blood from his hands and extended one for a shake. Once again, the gentleman refused.
"I'd rather not," he said calmly.
Feigning exaggerated courtesy, Klause bowed his head, placed one hand over his chest, and gestured grandly with the other—as though greeting royalty—purely to mock him.
"If you're done with the jokes," the gentleman said coolly, "I'm here to inform you that we may have a little hiccup in our plan."
Klause's smile faded. "What do you mean, a hiccup? I thought you were supposed to be the genius."
The gentleman chuckled.
A soft chuckle. "No plan is flawless, my friend. I'm not God."
Klause's eyes narrowed. "Since when do you believe in God?"
"Since our plan encountered difficulties," the gentleman replied, removing his hat with a flourish.
Klause scoffed.
"So much for the master planner, my ass," Klause muttered.
"Acting pissed off won't change the situation," the gentleman replied. "Do you have any constructive thoughts to contribute? We need a Skywalker—or someone who can fill that role."
Klause spat on the floor. "Do I look like a fucking planner to you?"
He turned abruptly to Nyx and drove a heavy punch into his abdomen—for the third time.
"I work with my fists!"
Nyx screamed, the sound raw and agonized.
At once, the gentleman's attention snapped to him. The punch had forced Nyx's face upward, just enough into the light.
"By the good gods," he exclaimed, eyes lighting up. Sudden delight in his voice. "Looks like I'm a believer now."
He smiled broadly.
"Klause, it seems Lady Luck just handed you a blackjack."
Still irritated, Klause snapped back,
"You taking a piss, or did you hit your head?"
FREE FROM TORTURE.
The gentleman pointed directly at Nyx. "Our final piece has just been delivered to us… on a platter of blood, I presume."
Klause blinked, still lost.
Klause stared at him, confusion etched across his face as he tried to piece together what the brainiac was implying.
"Free him," the gentleman ordered. "Clean him up."
Klause gestured to his aide, who obeyed immediately. Chains rattled. Nyx dropped to his knees with a groan.
The gentleman pulled out a napkin and raised it to partially conceal his face from Nyx.
"Are you all right, Nyx?" he asked gently. "How did you get yourself into trouble with Klause?"
Nyx's voice came weakly, pain rippling through his entire body. "It's… it's… it's a long story, Mr. Goodman, sir."
"Take him upstairs and tend to his wounds," the gentleman said. "I'll brief my partner here."
Still hiding his face. He moved toward the two other men still hanging in chains. He didn't recognize them.
Likewise, he studied them a moment, then looked back at Klause.
"They part of the crew that hit your den?"
"Yes. What of it?" Klause replied. "You've just freed one—and you still owe me an explanation."
The gentleman turned to Nyx. "Do you know either of them?"
Nyx lifted a trembling hand and pointed. "Just him."
The gentleman drew a revolver, shot the chain above Razor's wrists—CLANK. Razor crashed face-first to the concrete.
THUD!
"Oooouch!" he yelped. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
The gentleman then aimed his revolver at the remaining captive.
The man's face lit with hope. I'm getting free too, he thought.
The sound was not merely loud; it was a period at the end of a life.
A definitive, thunderous BANG!
The headshot was crisp, final. Blood sprayed in a brief red arc. The body sagged. The gentleman had spoken with his weapon, and the conversation was over.
Nyx and Razor froze in terror.
Razor was dragged from the ground, carried upstairs alongside Nyx, while the gentleman and Klause remained behind—alone—to speak in private.
AUTO PART PARADISE.
Elsewhere, in the heart of Hell's Kitchen—specifically along Palmville and Auto-Part Avenue—This was a paradise of steel and speed, a chaotic nexus for all things automotive. By day, a legitimate hub for parts manufacturing and repairs. By a less discerning light, it was the complex: a notorious zone for the sale of stolen vehicles, chop-shop operations, illicit modifications, contraband routing, and off-the-books transport services. Machines entered whole and often left as parts—or never left at all.
After dark, its empty stretches became arteries for street races where reputations and lives were wagered.
At Redbeard's Metal Garage, the air hummed with chaos: the high-pitched scream of circular saws slicing through metal, sparks flying from welding electrodes in every corner, heavy metal music rattling the roof, roaring engines of modified cars, and the acrid stench of chemical paint jobs mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol and energy drinks. It was a symphony of raw mechanical skill, craftsmanship, and unbridled disorder.
Sharma strode into this pandemonium. He moved past the glittering skeletons of cars, straight to a reception desk that seemed salvaged from a scrap heap. Behind it sat a woman in her early forties—gothic, her hair a shock of sprayed green, her skin a canvas of intricate tattoos.
In a voice that was both weak and fractured, yet carried perfectly, she intoned, "Welcome to Redbeard Metal. We fix everything and anything." A faint, almost ghostly smile touched her lips. "Even if it runs with blood." She flicked a fingernail against a suspended wind chime—CHIME!
Her gaze lifted, devoid of warmth. "How can we be of service to you… Mister… Who again?"
Sharma leaned in, his presence darkening the space between them. "I'm here to see Der Sand."
The woman didn't recoil. Instead, her expression hardened into something predatory, a boxer's squint.
"I will advise you to get your godforsaken ass outta here," she said, her broken voice now edged with flint, "before you lose a limb."
The workshop went silent. Engines cut off. Tools stilled. Conversations died mid-sentence. Every mechanic and patron turned toward Sharma and his entourage, turning their gazes toward them like a mob ready to pounce.
She reiterated her warning: "If you know what's good for you, pal. This is the perfect opportunity to get your ass outta here in one piece."
From his vantage point on the mezzanine floor, the manager noticed the sudden hush and unnatural quietness in the workshop and came to investigate. To his surprise, he spotted Mr. Sharma locked in a tense standoff with the receptionist.
At the top of his voice, he called down to Sharma. "Good lord, Mr. Sharma. When did you show up?" He snapped his fingers. "Let him through, honey. Everything is fine; nothing to worry about."
Recognizing that the manager knew the visitor, the workers resumed their tasks without further ado. Sharma and his goons ascended the stairs, and as they did, the patrons and staff fully returned to their activities. The saws screamed back to life, sparks flew, and the metal music resumed its assault on the rafters. The green-haired woman gave a slight, dismissive shrug, her eyes never leaving Sharma's as he and his men moved toward the stairs.
Upstairs, the manager—Mikey—greeted them with arms wide, a big smile plastered across his face. It was a smile of pure pretense, a mask of camaraderie. "Sharma, my buddy! What in the devil's name brought you to my place of business?"
DER SAND AND SHARMA'S FEUD.
"Where's your goddamn fucking partner, Mikey?" Sharma barked, not breaking stride.
Mikey's smile turned into a teasing smirk. "Hey—ease up, dude. What's eatin' you?" Mikey teased.
"A goddamn German fucking shepherd. What does it look like, Mikey?" Sharma's fury was a barely contained furnace.
"I dunno," Mikey replied lightly, spreading his hands. "You tell me."
Sharma's jaw tightened.
Fuming with aggression, Sharma snapped, "Don't play me for a fool, Mikey. I know he's around here somewhere."
Mikey sauntered over to an outdoor refrigerator, pulled out a few beers, and offered them to Sharma and his henchmen.
"Beer, anyone?" he gestured, holding the bottles aloft. "Whatever be the case that brought you here. I believe we can sort it out."
Sharma accepted the beers, passing the others to his men. The edge in the room softened, and tension eased slightly, though it never disappeared.
Mikey gestured down the hall.
"Right this way, boys," he said, leading them into an adjacent room and down to an open sparring area filled with gym equipment and people training.
There, in the midst of an intense workout, was Der Sand, drenched in sweat and laser-focused as he pummeled a punching bag with relentless strikes.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Upon spotting them, Der Sand turned with a welcoming smile and open arms.
"Qué pasa, mi amigo? Como estas?" he asked.
The civility was the final provocation. Without warning, Sharma hurled a beer bottle at him, which Der Sand dodged; the bottle shattered against the wall.
Enraged, Sharma snatched the bottles from his stunned men and launched them in rapid succession.
SMASH! CRASH!
"You. Fucking. Bastard. Son. Of. A. Whore!" he screamed between throws.
"What's eatin' you up, Bud?" Der Sand inquired.
Mikey chimed in playfully, "I already asked him the same question—"
"Shut your hole," Sharma barked at Mikey before turning back to Der Sand.
"Since your provocative little move in Upper Crownpoint, every route and means of transportation has been put on hold! Your ruckus at the banquet has every checkpoint on double alert."
Der Sand, having avoided the barrage, stood steady, looking genuinely puzzled. "Is that why you left your castle? To come tell me?"
In a fury, Sharma seized a foldable chair and hurled it—WHAM—CRASH!
"Your buffoonery has got every checkpoint on double alert. All goods are being thoroughly checked for potential threats. I can't move my merchandise without scrutiny," he cried out in frustration. "I am bleeding thousands of beta every fucking day."
Der Sand snapped back, "How is that my damn problem? I don't see how it concerns me."
"You did this intentionally to spite me!" Sharma cried, his voice raw with frustration. "You wanna screw me over and gain his favor!"
Der Sand's amiable facade dissolved. He took bold, deliberate steps forward until he was inches from Sharma. "And what made you come to such a profound conclusion?"
Sharma burst into harsh, mocking laughter. "You've been dying for years to gain an audience with him. I've always been your hurdle. Your barrier. And you finally decided to kick it down."
Der Sand grabbed Sharma by the collar—prompting Sharma's henchmen to draw their weapons, eyes fixed on their boss.
In a dark, menacing tone, Der Sand said, "I have kept my end of the bargain for fucking 3 years, but your covetous mind seems to find ways to play trickery and end up not honoring your side of the deal."
"So… what if I did, Sharm? What are you gonna do about it?"
Sharma forcefully pried Der Sand's hands from his collar, brushed off the dust from his expensive clothes, and shot him a daring glare.
"Looks like the little cockroach has grown some wings. Sandboy has finally grown some balls to bite the master's fingers. This is how you pay back loyalty, huh?" He shook his head. "You're gonna regret this, you little prick."
Der Sand chuckled. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
Sharma signaled his men to retreat. As they departed, he called back, "Oh, no, no, it's not a threat. It's a promise."
The silence they left behind was thick and combustible.
"Mikey, please show these fuckers out the exit. Will you?" Der Sand pleaded.
As ordered, Mikey escorted them off the premises. The rift between Der Sand and Sharma deepened, the bad blood intensifying with each passing moment.