Saint-Mort [CV22 Location]]

Saint-Mort

Saint-Mort is a sprawling, decaying city nestled along the Gulf Coast, a former hub of commerce and trade that has now sunk into disrepair and corruption. Once a shining symbol of American prosperity and influence in the South, it became a magnet for crime, smuggling, and all things illicit. The city’s history is steeped in the rise and fall of industries, from oil and shipping to high-tech manufacturing, all now overshadowed by crime syndicates and corporate greed.

The city’s foundation was built on the exploitation of the Gulf’s resources and its location on trade routes, but over time, it became a haven for those seeking to escape society's norms, making it a hotspot for refugees, criminals, and marginalized groups. As the years passed, government corruption, unchecked corporate power, and the rising influence of organized crime have eroded the city's soul.

Saint-Mort is a place where the rich live in opulent high rises while the rest of the population struggles to survive in the depths of the lower districts, known as the Morts (meaning the dead). Here, power is the only currency that matters, and survival is a daily challenge. The city’s streets are a mix of old colonial-style architecture and brutalist modern buildings, giving it a unique, but decayed, aesthetic.

Districts & Key Locations

1. The Quarter des Morts (Quarter of the Dead)

• The heart of Saint-Mort is a dangerous, rundown district filled with sprawling slums and low-income housing. It's where the working class, drug runners, and street gangs call home. The area is marked by narrow streets, neon lights, and a heavy presence of illicit activities. Vendors sell everything from counterfeit goods to illegal tech. Locals here often make a living from what the city has discarded—junk, scraps, and human life.

2. Le Vieux Port (The Old Port)

• Once the backbone of Saint-Mort’s economy, the Old Port has long since fallen into disrepair. Shipping warehouses stand empty, and broken docks now host shady deals and illicit trades. The water is filled with oil slicks and rotting debris, but it's still used for smuggling goods into and out of the city. It’s also the unofficial base of operations for the city’s most powerful criminal syndicates, who use the port’s labyrinthine tunnels to move goods and people without being detected.

3. Nouvelle Heights

• A stark contrast to the Quarter des Morts, this district is the epitome of wealth, though it comes with its own dark side. Here, the corporate elite, politicians, and gang leaders live in towering skyscrapers made of glass and steel. But beneath the polished surface, the residents engage in shady dealings with the very same criminals that dominate the lower districts. Corruption and corporate espionage are the name of the game here, with the city’s leaders often looking the other way when money is involved.

4. Le Jardin du Crépuscule (Twilight Gardens)

• This district sits just beyond the reach of the main city, a semi-rural area known for its forgotten plantation-style estates and the remnants of old mansions. Overgrown with weeds and vines, the estates have been repurposed into underground clubs, hidden brothels, and illegal fight rings. The wealthy often escape here to indulge in vices far removed from their pristine public lives. It’s a place where blood, money, and secrets flow freely.

5. La Ville Haute (The High City)

• Located on a hill overlooking the rest of the city, La Ville Haute is where Saint-Mort’s high society and government elites reside. It's a place of opulence and power, where decisions are made, lives are bought and sold, and the influence of the city’s shadowy underworld seeps into every deal and law passed. At night, it’s a place of decadence, with luxury restaurants, private clubs, and hidden speakeasies for the rich and powerful to indulge in their darkest desires.

Culture & Atmosphere

Saint-Mort is a city of contradictions, where the sacred and the profane collide. The name itself, meaning "Saint Death," is a constant reminder of the tension between life and death that permeates the city's streets. It’s a place where people are constantly fighting to survive, whether by clawing their way up the social ladder or simply scraping by.

• Music: The city's soundtrack is a mix of gritty street rap, soulful jazz, and mournful Creole folk tunes. The sounds echo from the alleys to the boulevards, with street performers playing instruments like the accordion, saxophone, and the soulful sounds of guitar.
• Religion & Beliefs: Saint-Mort’s population is a blend of various cultures, but voodoo, Creole Catholicism, and old-world superstitions play a strong role. Shrines to Saint-Mort, the patron of the city, are found at nearly every street corner, candles flickering in the dark. People both fear and revere Saint-Mort, believing that it is a city where no one escapes their fate.
• Language: The locals speak a blend of Creole, French, and English, often mixing them in fluid conversation. Street slang is heavy, especially in the Morts, where dialects shift from neighborhood to neighborhood. "Saint" has become a term of both reverence and irony, used by people in power and the desperate alike.

Notable Figures

Le Loup

The most powerful crime lord in Saint-Mort, Le Loup rules from the shadows. His identity is a mystery, and only a handful of people know his true name. Le Loup controls the underground market, from drugs to weapons to illegal technology. He is rumored to have connections with powerful corporations and even corrupt politicians in Nouvelle Heights.

1. Mireille “La Fleur” Roche

A former dancer turned crime queen, Mireille controls the brothels and underground clubs in Le Jardin du Crépuscule. She is both feared and admired, and her influence in the city’s illegal activities is unmatched. She’s also known for using charm and cunning to gain leverage over others.

1. Colonel Dumas

A former military officer turned corrupt politician, Colonel Dumas heads a private military group that operates in and around Saint-Mort. He has a knack for making enemies disappear and has long-standing ties with both the city’s crime syndicates and the highest levels of the government.

Factions

The Red Tide Cartel

The Red Tide Cartel is a ruthless, militarized criminal organization that controls the city’s drug trade, running an empire based on synthetic drugs and black-market pharmaceuticals. While most gangs in Saint-Mort dabble in petty crime, the Cartel deals in the high-stakes game of altering minds and bodies. They’re the producers of Scorn, a powerful street drug that’s sweeping through the lower districts. The Cartel also manufactures custom narcotics for the elite, taking advantage of the growing demand for performance-enhancing drugs and experimental cybernetic enhancements. Their influence extends into the media and entertainment world, using PR and violent tactics to maintain control.

The Red Tide Cartel is led by the enigmatic "Sombra", a figure whose real identity is rumored to be a series of faceless clones, or a single mastermind with an unparalleled ability to manipulate both politics and the underworld. Sombra operates through a network of lieutenants known as the "Sea Kings", each overseeing specific territories of the city. The most powerful of them is Marta Rojas, a former military strategist who controls the Cartel’s drug production and distribution networks.The Red Tide Cartel specializes in drug production, smuggling, and illicit cybernetic enhancements. They maintain a secret network of clinics for performance-enhancing drugs and operate clandestine laboratories for creating both highly addictive narcotics and new forms of illegal augmentations. They’re also involved in extortion, money laundering, and using their vast wealth to manipulate public officials.

The Ascendancy

The Ascendancy is a highly organized, secretive cult-like faction that believes in the transcendence of humanity through technology. Their goal is to augment and evolve the human body into something far beyond its original form, using illegal implants, genetic manipulation, and mind-altering substances. While they appear to be a group of radical tech enthusiasts, their goals are darker than they let on—they believe that Saint-Mort is the cradle of humanity’s next evolutionary step, a city where the transhuman transformation will begin.

The Ascendancy is led by Archon Seraphine, a cybernetically enhanced individual who claims to have undergone the "perfect" transformation. Her ideology combines mysticism and technology, and she promises her followers eternal life through artificial means. Below her, the faction is divided into Circles of Ascension, each focusing on a different aspect of human augmentation or mental expansion. Notable leaders include Lysandre Drayke, a surgeon turned bioengineer, who leads the Circle of Flesh, dedicated to body modifications, and Kaleb Kane, a former neuroscientist who heads the Circle of Mind, working on mind-uploading technology. The Ascendancy is known for its underground clinics and research facilities where they conduct illegal experiments on people. They deal in illicit genetic engineering, neural implants, and performance-enhancing augmentations. While they claim to offer a new path for humanity, many of their experiments result in horrifying side effects, creating the very monsters they claim to want to evolve beyond.

The Street Saints

The Street Saints are a militant, yet community-driven faction that arose from the deep poverty in the Saint-Mort slums. They believe in self-reliance, power through unity, and a strict code of honor. Members of the Street Saints fight to protect the underprivileged and disenfranchised, often clashing with both the Red Tide Cartel and the government forces in Saint-Mort. While they are generally seen as a force for good by the downtrodden, their methods are violent, and they are fiercely independent.

The faction is led by Sergeant Juno ‘Ironhand’ Calhoun, a former military officer who defected to the streets after witnessing the corruption and exploitation of the lower classes. She’s known for her brutal tactics but is also beloved by the people of the slums, who see her as a symbol of resistance. Beneath her, the Saints are organized into Legions—paramilitary units that protect neighborhoods, run smuggling routes, and train the younger generation in combat. The most feared Legion is the Legion of the Broken, which specializes in retaliatory strikes against Cartel-controlled areas.

The Street Saints engage in guerrilla warfare against corrupt factions, defending their turf from the Red Tide Cartel, government forces, and mercenaries. They run covert ops, provide protection to local businesses, and also have a hand in the local food supply, smuggling goods from outside the city. They are staunch anti-corporate and anti-government and offer sanctuary to those fleeing the systemic violence of Saint-Mort.

The Neo-Fatherhood

The Neo-Fatherhood is a radical faction of old-world conservatives who have reemerged in Saint-Mort to fight for a return to traditional family values, which they believe have been eroded by both corporate greed and the chaotic nature of the city. Their belief system is rooted in patriarchal ideals and a deep mistrust of the government and tech industry. They see Saint-Mort as a battleground for the soul of humanity, and their goal is to create a new, utopian society based on family, discipline, and moral absolutism. The Neo-Fatherhood engages in “moral policing,” using fear and intimidation to control behavior within their community

The Neo-Fatherhood is led by Father Gideon, a charismatic but brutal figure who mixes extremist religious doctrine with the political power of the city’s elite. He believes that the family unit is the only legitimate form of governance and that anything else—be it government, gangs, or corporate overlords—undermines the sacred order of society. His closest advisor is Sister Lillian, an ex-cop turned enforcer, who has a reputation for violent justice. Together, they lead a growing movement, rallying disillusioned citizens and attempting to enforce their values throughout Saint-Mort. The Neo-Fatherhood engages in aggressive propaganda campaigns, often using media and covert influence to sway public opinion. They are involved in moral policing, seeking to curb the influence of drugs, illegal augmentations, and what they deem "corrupt" lifestyles. They’ve also been known to target and silence anyone they see as a threat to their cause, including journalists, activists, and even government officials who don’t align with their values.

The Chrome Cult

The Chrome Cult is an ultra-modern, high-tech faction that worships cybernetics and believes the human body should be fully integrated with machines. The Cult believes that by becoming one with technology, they can achieve immortality and transcend the limitations of the human form. While many factions in Saint-Mort see augmentation as a tool or a business, the Chrome Cult sees it as a religious calling—an obsession. Members are fanatically devoted to the belief that the human soul can be perfected through machine interfacing. The more implants they add, the closer they believe they come to divinity.

The Chrome Cult is led by High Priestess Cyra, a former bioengineer who once worked for a top corporation before her beliefs led her to abandon everything in search of transcendence. She has undergone several extreme augmentations, including cybernetic eyes and a synthetic spine, making her a living testament to the power of technology. Below her, the Cult of the Iron Flesh is run by a council of Cyber-Saints, who are devoted to guiding the Cult’s mission and pushing the boundaries of human-machine fusion.

The Chrome Cult is involved in cutting-edge cybernetic experimentation, performing extreme augmentation surgeries on both willing and unwilling participants. They’re also known to hack into corporate systems to steal advanced technology and medical research for their own use. The Cult also operates as a recruitment network, drawing in disillusioned tech workers, outcasts, and those looking to transcend human limitations. They’ve been known to assist other factions in exchange for access to the latest and greatest tech.

ATTRACTIONS

The Neon Strip

The Neon Strip is Saint-Mort's entertainment district, where the bright lights of digital billboards drown out the grime of the streets below. Towering skyscrapers house luxury clubs, bars, and adult entertainment venues, offering a stark contrast to the rough neighborhoods just a few blocks away. The Strip is a haven for the city’s elites and thrill-seekers alike. Here, augmented dancers perform in clubs where reality and virtual worlds blur. Sombra’s cartel often has a hand in the underbelly, and rumors of illicit trade and black-market tech deals are common.

• Notable Features:
  • HoloClubs: Nightclubs with interactive VR elements, where patrons can lose themselves in simulations and alternate realities.
  • SkyLounge 808: A posh rooftop bar that overlooks the entire city, attracting high-profile clients. A favorite meeting place for The Red Tide Cartel's clients.
  • Syndicate Casino: A high-stakes gambling den with everything from cyber-poker to illegal tech-fights, run by a shadowy syndicate connected to the Red Tide.

2. The Black Market Bazaar

Hidden deep in the slums of Saint-Mort, the Black Market Bazaar is a sprawling network of alleyways and makeshift stalls where anything can be bought or sold. Whether it’s black-market weapons, stolen goods, experimental cyberware, or illicit drugs, the Bazaar is the go-to place for anyone with the right connections and the nerve to navigate it. Street Saints often patrol this area, ensuring the market remains under their control, but the occasional Red Tide Cartel skirmish is never far behind.

• Notable Features:
  • The Black Bazaar: A labyrinthine network of shops dealing in everything from forged identities to illegal implants. You can find anything here for the right price.
  • The Smuggler’s Tunnel: A network of underground passages that connects the Bazaar to the outside world. It’s the perfect route for moving contraband undetected.
  • The Flesh Clinic: A shady cybernetic doctor’s office where you can get “upgrades” no matter how dangerous or experimental.

3. The Ascendant Spire

• A massive tower rising from the city’s center, the Ascendant Spire is the headquarters of the Ascendancy. The building is both a symbol of the faction’s belief in transcending human limitations and a towering spectacle of modern technology. Some of the city’s wealthiest residents come here to undergo “spiritual” transformations, with some leaving the Spire permanently altered. Though most are excited about the possibilities of human augmentation, few understand the cult-like nature of the Ascendancy.
• Notable Features:
  • The Spire’s Core: A high-tech facility where Ascendancy members undergo their transformative surgeries. Rumors suggest that some of these operations aren't entirely voluntary.
  • The Hall of Light: A semi-public space where Archon Seraphine and the leading members of the Ascendancy deliver speeches and recruit followers. It’s an unsettling combination of high-tech worship and strange, mystic rituals.
  • The Tower’s Gardens: A pristine park on the upper levels of the Spire where only the most elite come to meet. Hidden beneath its beauty is a deep level of surveillance that tracks every visitor.

4. The Iron Arena

The Iron Arena is where the city’s toughest mercenaries, criminals, and tech-enhanced fighters come to prove themselves. A colossal, industrial stadium where augmented fighters battle to the death or for profit, the Iron Arena draws crowds from every corner of the city. It's a bloodsport, a lucrative business, and a symbol of power. The Chrome Cult sponsors many of the gladiators here, believing that only through battle and transformation can humanity ascend.

• Notable Features:
  • The Pit: The central arena where the most vicious and extreme fights happen. Winners are crowned champions, and their names are etched into the Arena’s Wall of Flesh.
  • Rogue Matches: Illegal underground battles that take place in hidden areas around the Arena, often featuring unlicensed fighters and experimental weapons.
  • Cyber Surgery Clinics: Not all matches are won with skill. Some competitors can receive "upgrades" before a match to level the playing field or give them an edge.

5. The Blood Fountain

The Blood Fountain is a notorious landmark located in the heart of the city's oldest district, Port de Sombre. A literal fountain made of red, metallic water-like liquid, it’s a monument to the brutal founding of Saint-Mort and the corrupt syndicates that formed it. Created as part of an urban renewal project, it’s now more of a grim tourist attraction, drawing in visitors looking to witness a piece of the city’s brutal history. At night, the fountain glows eerily with the reflection of neon lights.

• Notable Features:
  • The Blood Reapers: A mysterious group of masked individuals who can be seen cleaning and maintaining the fountain late at night. Some say they are part of a secret society that maintains the Saint-Mort’s dark past, keeping it alive as a warning.
  • Blood Market: A secretive underground market underneath the fountain that deals in everything from old-world artifacts to stolen blood vials, rumored to contain the DNA of city founders.

6. The Drowned District

Once a thriving residential area, the Drowned District was slowly flooded over time as the city’s water system collapsed and became a dumping ground for chemicals, pollutants, and even toxic waste. Now, it’s a derelict district filled with half-submerged buildings, creating a dangerous and unsettling atmosphere. The streets here are littered with forgotten tech, broken down vehicles, and remnants of old-world society. The Drowned District is home to a mix of criminals, scavengers, and the Street Saints, who often use the location for training and covert missions.

• Notable Features:
  • The Sunken Market: An underwater marketplace where scavengers and rogue engineers come to barter for rare tech and salvage. The market is precarious, built on floating platforms that occasionally sink.
  • Flooded Ruins: Parts of the district are so submerged that only the tallest skyscrapers stick above the water. Some believe the ruins hold old-world secrets, and illegal expeditions to explore the submerged buildings are common.
  • The Drift: A dangerous, heavily flooded part of the district, known for its toxic waters and aggressive street gangs who control the passageways. The Street Saints maintain a small outpost here.

7. The Cradle

Description: The Cradle is an enormous, heavily guarded corporate facility that sits just outside the city. It serves as the headquarters for several megacorps, including the largest tech firms in the region, and is rumored to be the breeding ground for advanced AI and cybernetic experiments. No one knows what goes on inside the Cradle; it’s locked behind high walls, but whispers of dark experiments and corporate espionage swirl around it.

• Notable Features:
  • The Silicon Gardens: A massive garden on the grounds, designed as an open space for "creative tech professionals," though it’s rumored to hide secret entrances into the Cradle.
  • The White Zone: A heavily restricted area that only top executives can access. Some claim it holds the future of AI development in Saint-Mort—others think it’s just another corporate conspiracy.
  • The Stealth Lab: An underground facility beneath the Cradle that deals with classified cybernetic and genetic engineering research. Some say it’s where the Ascendancy gets its most cutting-edge tech.

Catalina Santiago – The Information Broker of Saint Mort

Catalina is a highly respected figure in the criminal underworld of Saint Mort, but what makes her stand out is her ability to acquire and manipulate information. She's not just a dealer of secrets—she is a curator, researcher, and dealer, holding a monopoly over critical data and networks that the city's power players cannot afford to be without.

Her network of informants spans across the city's crime syndicates, government, corporations, and social circles. She has ears and eyes everywhere, and she's known for being able to uncover things about anyone—from dirty secrets to long-forgotten deals. The power she wields isn't in brute force but in the wealth of knowledge, she controls.

Unified Law

The "No Capes" Rule

In the dangerous, power-driven world of Saint Mort, there’s one unwritten law that all factions—from the most influential crime families to the street-level gangs—unite under: No Capes.

The rule is simple but absolute: if you show up wearing a cape in Saint Mort, you won’t leave in one piece.

Saint Mort doesn’t tolerate theatrics. There’s no room for superhero-like flourishes or flamboyant displays of power. The city is built on pragmatism, where power is earned in the shadows, not through exaggerated gestures. The "No Capes" Rule is both a cultural marker and a warning: anyone who wears a cape is seen as unprofessional, amateurish, and above all, out of touch with the unforgiving reality of Saint Mort.

If a cape-wearer dares to enter, all factions, regardless of their rivalry, will work together to erase the presence of the cape from the city. The cape becomes a target, and in the brutal streets of Saint Mort, no one is safe from collective action. The city’s underworld has its own rules, and the “No Capes” rule is enforced not just by one family, but by everyone—because everyone knows that anyone who wears a cape is an immediate liability.

Always on our necks

Nice, very nice.

I haven't read all of it, but what I have read I enjoyed.

I hope this place sparks some new life around here!

The rain lashed Saint-Mort with the relentless rhythm of a slow-moving funeral march, each drop a mournful drumbeat against the city's decaying infrastructure. Rusted fire escapes, skeletal reminders of forgotten dreams, wept rust-colored tears. Broken neon signs, advertising long-gone businesses and fleeting pleasures, sputtered and buzzed with a half-hearted, flickering life, like dying embers in a cold hearth. Saint-Mort always looked better cloaked in darkness. The shadows were forgiving, swallowing the ever-present grime and decay. The acrid rot, a constant companion in the daylight, seemed to dissipate, masked by the earthy scent of rain on asphalt. But Eli Mercer wasn’t here for the aesthetics, for the deceptive beauty the night offered this broken city. He was here for a much uglier purpose. He was on the hunt.

He stood framed in the doorway of a decidedly dingy, one-bedroom apartment, the air thick and heavy with the acrid stench of burnt coffee and stale cigarettes. A potent cocktail of desperation and overwork. The faint, bitter aroma clung to the back of his throat. The walls, a sickly shade of nicotine-stained yellow, were lined with old newspaper clippings, yellowed with age and pinned haphazardly to a crowded corkboard alongside half-written notes and scribbled reminders. Maps, crisscrossed with lines and circles, hinted at investigations past. It was the kind of place where a man, fueled by caffeine and righteous indignation, convinced himself he was doing good work, fighting a losing battle against the encroaching darkness.

The reporter, a man named Daniel Reeves, sat hunched at his desk, illuminated by the harsh glare of his computer screen. His fingers danced across the keyboard, typing out the last lines of a story he wasn’t going to print, a story that had already cost him too much. He was a study in exhaustion: rumpled shirt, dark circles under bloodshot eyes, hair perpetually disheveled. Name: Daniel Reeves. Age: Pushing forty, the wear and tear of the city etched into the lines around his eyes and the weary slump of his shoulders. Too stubborn to know when to stop, a fatal flaw in a city like Saint-Mort. He wrote for The Saint-Mort Inquirer, one of the last independent news outlets still willing to challenge the city's entrenched power brokers, a flickering candle in a city drowning in shadows. And this time, he'd dug too deep, unearthed secrets better left buried.

The headline blazed on his screen, a digital beacon in the dimly lit room: "The Neo-Fatherhood: A New Moral Order or a Reign of Fear?" The words were bold, accusatory, a gauntlet thrown down to a powerful and unforgiving entity. His reason for the hunt.

The article pulled no punches, a meticulously researched exposé that laid bare the rot festering beneath the city's veneer of respectability. Corruption, extortion, disappearances—all intricately tied to Father Gideon’s rapidly expanding movement. He had sources, precarious and fearful though they were. Names, whispered in hushed tones over crackling phone lines. Dates and locations, painstakingly verified. Maybe even enough to start a real fire under the right people, to finally expose the rot that was consuming Saint-Mort from the inside out.

Eli let the door click shut behind him, the sound echoing in the small space like a death knell. He could feel Reeves's tension ratchet tighter.

“Late night for you, Reeves.” His voice was low, even, carefully modulated to convey a sense of quiet menace. It carried the weight of a conversation that was already over, the inevitability of a preordained conclusion.

Reeves stiffened perceptibly, his fingers hovering over the keys as if frozen mid-stroke. He swiveled in his chair, his face a mask of forced composure. His eyes flickered nervously towards a drawer on the right side of his desk and Eli's eyes followed them. What was in the drawer? A gun or recorder, didn’t matter. Both represented defiance, and both would be dealt with. Eli stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each footfall heavy against the creaking floorboards, a metronome counting down to a point of no return. The room felt even smaller now, the air growing thick with unspoken threats.

“Go on,” Eli said, his voice still soft, almost conversational. “Think real hard ‘bout your next move. 'Cause it's probably your last."

Reeves swallowed hard, the movement visible in the stark light of the screen. He raised his hands just enough to show he understood, a gesture of surrender that was both pathetic and infuriating. “If you’re here,” he said, his voice hoarse, betraying his fear, "then I already know what comes next."

Eli smirked, just a flicker of amusement playing on his lips at hearing his own words thrown back at him. “It's why I always liked you Reeves. You always understood the assignment. Even if you didn't always listen to instructions.” This wasn't the first time Reeves had written something negative about The Neo-Fatherhood. But this? This was different.

He reached inside his coat, the movement smooth and practiced, and pulled out a crumpled envelope, its contents betraying its bulk. He tossed it onto the desk, the thud echoing in the silence. Thick cash. More than enough to disappear, to start a new life far away from Saint-Mort and its suffocating secrets. Enough to buy back his life, for now.

Reeves’ jaw tightened, the flicker of defiance still burning in his eyes. “And if I say no?”

Eli exhaled slowly, a long, drawn-out sigh that spoke of unnecessary patience and simmering frustration. He reached for the keyboard, his fingers hovering over the keys like a predator stalking its prey. With a single, deliberate tap, he pressed the delete key and watched as the words, the painstakingly crafted sentences, the culmination of Reeves's hard work, disappeared, vanishing into the digital ether. Reeves flinched, his eyes widening in horror, but he didn’t stop him, didn’t try to intervene. The fight had already gone out of him.

“You don’t wanna know the answer to that,” Eli murmured, his voice barely a whisper, a chilling promise of what awaited him if he chose the path of resistance.

A long, suffocating silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the windowpanes. The city groaned outside—the distant wail of sirens, the low hum of a world that didn’t care about the life, or the death, of one insignificant reporter.

Finally, Reeves lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping in defeat. His hands curled into tight fists before loosening, reaching tentatively for the envelope like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.

“Smart choice,” Eli said, his voice devoid of any genuine emotion.

He turned, walking back toward the door with the same measured pace he had entered. He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. Didn’t look back. The rain seemed to intensify, mirroring the storm raging within the apartment.

“But if I have to come back,” he muttered, his voice flat, final, carrying the weight of a death sentence. “It won’t be to talk.”

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing Reeves's fate. The rain kept falling, washing over Saint-Mort, a relentless cleansing that never quite managed to scour away the stain.

@the_hound:

That was an awesome read. Looking forward to more!

@scoundrel:

Chapter 1: Saint-Mort

Her movements were deliberate, almost predatory, as she navigated the heaving bodies of drunken revelers. The laughter, the cheers, the chaotic chatter—it all blurred into white noise. The bass of the nightclub thudded through the floor, vibrating in her chest as Ziccarra Liafador cut through the dense, pulsating crowd with the precision of a blade. Saint-Mort’s underground scene was legendary, a world where excess bled into darkness, and secrets were worth more than cocaine or cash. Neon lights flashed in hypnotic, electric hues, casting fleeting shadows across her face, but none could mask the cold, calculating look in her dark eyes.

As she moved throughout the club, trading piercing glances with patrons still in their right mind, she kept her head on a swivel. The stories about this city didn't do it any justice. It'd been completely overrun by the lawless, a metaphorical prison where the inmates were the wardens. With her family ousted and marked by the Family Tree, there was only one person she could trust for information--Saint Mort's information broker Catalina Santiago.

Once the dust settled from the events in Valor, it became clear who she needed to see; the question became whether or not Catalina would be inclined to help. The two of them were long-time friends and, in many ways, rivals, but the two of them were among the only orphans in the Pit Program who weren't completely brainwashed.

The Summer Ronin stopped at what she could only describe as an altar as two bodyguards blocked her progress to the Santiago Heir.

"Gentlemen, relax. It's not wise to impede the Summer Ronin. An assassin so arrogant she just waltzed into Saint Mort"

Santiago warned before turning around to greet Ziccarra. Catalina boasted a natural, captivating beauty. Her sun-kissed skin was smooth and flawless, while her high cheekbones and full lips gave her an elegant yet sensual look. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were intense and mysterious, drawing people in with a single glance. With long, flowing dark hair and a graceful, confident presence, she carries herself effortlessly, exuding both strength and charm. It was clear to Ziccarra as she watched her descend the altar that Catalina's position here in Saint-Mort wasn't just from her looks. It was all carefully crafted masks that lulled her targets into a false sense of security. Beneath her elegant exterior lies a mind sharpened like a blade and a body honed for death. It was perfectly feasible to believe she plotted/and or fought to the top of this place.

"Catalina. I need your help." Ziccarra said, not wasting a moment.

"Oh. You need more than that. I'm sorry to hear about your Dad." She sai,d inviting Ziccarra to join her on the altar whilst instructing the bodyguards to close the curtain behind them.

How’s your mom? Catalina said, pouring herself a drink. She didn't even attempt to offer Ziccarra one; she knew it wouldn't be accepted.

"Thank you, and she's safe. They're all safe." Ziccarra huffed, watching as Cat leisurely sipped the drink. It must've been nice to be so powerful that the fear of being attacked while intoxicated didn't hinder Cat.

"Catalina. I came here to get you to help me. I need to know where I can find the Family Tree after they ousted my family. I know they're no longer at 'The Ranch'. I also wanted to let you know face to face; I am going to kill your father. I may even kill your mother, I'm probably going to kill some of your siblings too"

Catalina’s gaze shifted slowly from the dim light above to the person standing before her. Her lips curled into a small, almost invisible smile, but there was no warmth in it. The words were blunt and straightforward, but they carried a weight that was hard to ignore. Ziccarra Liafador, standing there with her cold, calculating air—always direct, always precise. The kind of person who spoke to get a job done.

Catalina’s fingers, long and delicate, gently swirled her drink, the ice clinking softly in the glass, her eyes never leaving Ziccarra. The silence between them stretched for a moment before she broke it with a tone so smooth it almost sounded bored.

"You think I care about any of that?" She leaned back in her seat, taking her time, her expression giving nothing away. "The Family Tree... my 'family'... it’s all a joke. A network of people who are just... there. My 'father'?" She scoffed, then looked Ziccarra dead in the eye. "I don't even know that man."

Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the glass. Her expression never wavered, even as the words hung heavily in the air.

"But," she added, her voice dropping just a notch, "you’re here for something more than just revenge, aren't you? You wouldn't come to Saint-Mort for just that. could've been an email." She huffed as she walked past Ziccarra with a lackadaisical gaze.

Catalina paused, then leaned forward slightly, her lips curving into a near-smirk.

"You’ve got a bounty on your head, and from the way you're speaking... I’m wondering if maybe you’ve come to kill me." Her tone was as icy as her stare, devoid of any real fear.

"Of course, I didn't come to kill you. I wouldn't have needed to walk thru the club to do it." Ziccarra responded matter of factly.

"I suppose you're right," Cat responded setting the drink on a nearby table before directing her attention to the crowd on the dance floor.

"Each family has retreated to their ancestral home. Had they not been ousted yours would've gone back to Spain. The only ones I know for sure are the Santiago and they are in Buenos Aires. But good luck getting there."

There was something Catalina wasn't saying, or maybe she tried and Ziccarra missed it, but she was listening now.

"What are you trying to tell me" Ziccarra asked as her ears perked up a commotion brewing just outside the curtain.

"Are you that dense girl? You have a $60 million bounty on your head. The moment you enter Saint-Mort every gun in the city is going to be looking for you. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire city wasn't on lockdown by now."

Ziccarra thought about the people she made eye contact with on the way up and cursed herself for having missed it. "Can you help me get ou..."

Before she could finish the sentence four members of the Red Tide Cartel burst into the room. Normally, Z would've taken care of them but there were too many innocents in the building. Instead, she dropped a quick flash bang and exited through a nearby window.

If Catalina was right, and she usually was. Escaping Saint Mort was going to be a chore.

I just needed a playground lol

Andy was on the trail of a child rapist, the kind who would leave both emotional and physical scars on the little boys he would meet. What is worse is that through the legal system in Saint-Mort, he got away with it. According to his record he was an elderly man in his sixties named Roger Pudesky, that would lure kids to his van with either the promise of candy or with the lure of a cute dog. Either way he was the scum Andy wanted to take off the streets. In most cases Roger would be easy to find, but now he was on the run and hiding out somewhere in Le Vieux Port (The Old Port). Now even though a criminal like Roger would normally be shunned by other criminals, according to his file he had one living son, name Chad, who now goes by the name Dice, who is a shot caller in a small gang known for trafficking under aged kids. Sad but poetic. So after several hours of foot work and research Andy tracked down Dice to an abandoned warehouse by the bay!

After safely parking his bike around the corner, and placing a few explosives around the place for later, Andy climbs to the roof of the warehouse, where by luck it has a huge sky light for him to look down through! Inside, below him was a small group of about twelve men, with two guarding the front door, another two playing a game of pool in the middle of the room, and the rest casually placed around. All of them armed with a variety of small firearms! To Andy’s delight, Roger was in there, sitting cowardly on a worn out sofa, avoiding eye contact with the other real criminals. The good news was there were no innocent bystanders around, making Andy’s job that much easier.

With his Beretta AR70/90 in hand, locked and loaded, he made a bold move to jump down through the sky light and lands safely square in the middle of the pool table, as shatters of glass rain down all around him. The two nearest thugs playing pool, are immediately cut to shreds as glass falls upon their exposed arms and face, while deflected off Andy’s special suit. But as soon as the first member yelled “What the Fu…” the rest were reaching for their pistols. Immediately Andy kicks one of the pool balls off the table, and sends it flying across the room where it hits Roger Pudesky right between the eyes, knocking him unconscious, and just as soon as his body falls from his seat, the rest of the men open fired. Wasting no time, Andy preforms a perfect back flip, landing him behind the pool table, with all but three of the gang members on the other side. Then with a burst of a few rounds, Andy shoots the three in their chest, splattering blood and bullets on the wall behind them.

By now several rounds of bullets are flying by over Andy’s head as the remaining gang members are shooting like amateurs, wasting bullets in the hope that something hits. It was then Dice finally spoke up, and although completely unprepared for the fight he was in, he tried to remain composed. “Chuckles, Riddler, you two guard the door so he can’t leave, the rest..Waste that Punk!” Immediately the two by the door lock it by placing a wooden plank across it, while the rest continue to make their way forward while still shooting blindly. By now the pool table was no more than a collection of shattered wood as bullet after bullet shot into it, forcing Andy to make a move. Where as most would expect him to jump up and over it, Andy chose to lie flat on his stomach and roll his way clear. Much like a toddler, he rolled to his left side until reaching past the table with him flat on the ground and the gang members caught off guard.

Once again Andy shoots several short and controlled bursts from his Beretta taking down three more of them. Leaving four more left, including Dice, who buy now was hiding behind the same sofa Roger was once sitting on. Still telling his remaining men what to do, the fact was he was too scared to do it himself! By now every thug in the room, including those that were guarding the door, gave up all rational thought and chose to charge blindly at The Ammunition, while shooting off every remaining round they had left, leaving Dice as the only one to take cover. In response Andy quickly rose to a standing position where he shot all but one of them in the head, leaving one last gang member running towards him. With each bullet from the thug’s gun sadly passing by Andy’s frame due to poor marksmanship, Andy waited patiently, until he was dumb enough to reach striking range, where he simply took him out with a flawlessly preformed round house kick.

All that was left was Dice, who was now crouching behind a couch, still pulling the trigger to a gun out of bullets. But like a coward, he throws it at The Ammunition as a last resort. “Who the Hell are you?” he shouts as he slowly moves forward to face The Ammunition one on one. “Don’t you know who I freaking am!?!?” But without any concern or care, Andy speaks back with a voice muffled through his mask, “I am the last thing you will see before you burn in Hell!” With that said Andy leaps across the room and grabs Dice by the throat with his free hand. Then as he looks down at Rodger still lying on the floor unconscious, he mocks back at Dice, “But you are lucky today punk! Because I didn’t come here for you,” he points down to the pedophile “I came here for him!” Then without a second thought, he aims his Beretta down towards Roger and pulls the trigger, firing off one round right between his eyes, killing the pedophile long before the shell hits the ground!

Immediately Dice begins to squeal like a little girl, while a small trail of urine leaks down the inside of his pants. “Holy Shirt! Holy Shirt!” he keeps saying as he looks around at the dead bodies lying around, as well as the river of blood surrounding them. Then in one cowardly act of courage, he begs, “Listen man I got money, take all you want but just let me go!!” But to his surprise Andy replied, “Fair enough, after all you were not who I came here for!” After taking a small bribe of a few hundred dollars, Andy turns his back on Dice as the coward sobs on his knees alone. Then after removing the lock on the main door, Andy exits with only a brief warning, “Remember how easily I got here, and remember how easily I can come back any time I want!” and with that said he was gone into the night. But as soon as Andy makes it back to his bike parked a few blocks away, he presses the button on a remote device in his hand and instantly a huge explosion goes off behind him. It was the same warehouse where he left Dice alone, and the same place he strategically planted explosives before entering!! And with that Justice was served tonight!

I guess I will get another post up shortly

@the_hound: @ziccarra_liafador:

@theammunition: No offense, but there's a $60 million bounty in the city right now. My guy is going to be going after that.

@ziccarra_liafador:

The chapel was a sanctuary of shadows, a place where whispered confessions and fervent prayers clung to the damp stone walls. Rain lashed against the roof, a relentless drumming that mirrored the storm brewing within Elias. He stood rigid, absorbing the gravity of the moment, as Father Gideon, a man whose faith seemed forged in ice rather than fire, held his gaze. Beside him, Sister Lillian, her expression a carefully constructed mask of pious indifference, held a photograph as if it were a vial of poison. Candlelight danced across their faces, highlighting Gideon's hawk-like features and Lillian's unnervingly serene smile.

"Sixty million," Gideon’s voice cut through the silence, each word a precisely aimed dart. He held Elias's gaze, unwavering; a silent test of resolve. "The bounty on Ziccarra Liafador. Every major family in Saint-Mort is clamoring for her—Santiago, Purrazzo, Jackson, Femi. They all want her. Dead or alive." Lillian, with a delicate gesture, offered the photograph to Elias.

He took the picture, the faint scent of old paper and something akin to desperation clinging to it. He studied the young woman's face: a cascade of dark hair, eyes that held a spark of defiance, a jawline that spoke of stubbornness. What had she done to warrant such a price? Why were the other families going after someone from the Liafador family? Was it a power shift? Did she do something to upset everyone?

"Why her?" Elias asked, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the stillness. He needed to understand the stakes, the undercurrents that drove this sudden frenzy. Not to justify the hunt, just so he knew exactly what he was dealing with.

Sister Lillian, her tone devoid of warmth, provided the clinical explanation. "She's in Saint-Mort. Made the unfortunate decision of crossing paths with Catalina Santiago at a club. The Red Tide Cartel is already on her tail. It’s become a free-for-all. Red Tide, Ascendancy, the Street Saints, the Chrome Cult—they're all hunting."

His brow arched, the families were after her and she went to see Catalina Santiago? On her own turf? She really was crazy.

Gideon stepped closer, the candlelight casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe with him. His voice, usually a controlled murmur, now carried the weight of unshakeable authority. "We are not concerned with the 'why', Elias. Only the 'how'. Dead or alive—sixty million buys you every resource you need for the war ahead. Think of what we can accomplish with that kind of funding."

Elias met Gideon's piercing gaze, his own expression unreadable. "Then I'll bring her in," he stated, his voice low and firm, promising nothing less than success. He was a weapon, honed and ready, and Gideon, as always, was pointing him toward a target.

Lillian’s lips curved into a faint, almost predatory smirk. "Try not to let the Cartel ruin your fun, Elias. They can be rather… enthusiastic."

Without another word, Elias turned and melted into the storm-lashed night. The neon-drenched arteries of Saint-Mort pulsed before him, a chaotic symphony of vice and desperation. He could already feel the city's undercurrents drawing him in, the silent promises of danger and reward.

Neon light bled across the cracked pavement outside the club’s rear entrance, painting the grimy brick in lurid hues. Music thundered within, a deafening cacophony that vibrated through the very ground. Two Red Tide enforcers stood guard, their faces hard and watchful, but they were slow, predictable. Too slow.

Elias moved with practiced efficiency. One guard crumpled to the ground with a suppressed groan, the result of a precisely placed strike to the temple. The other barely had time to register his partner's fall before a front kick slammed into his chest, sending him flying backward. His body collided with the brick wall with a sickening thud, the impact expelling the air from his lungs. Elias followed through with a brutal body slam, the enforcer’s head hitting the ground with a sickening crack. He hadn't killed them – not yet. But he wasn’t inclined to play nice tonight. This hunt was fair game; one of the rare occasions when the rigid rules of Saint-Mort seemed to loosen, allowing for a certain… flexibility.

Already, emergency lights flashed in the distance, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the rain-slicked street. The police would be here soon, but their presence was largely symbolic. A performance for the cameras. Inside, he could see officers talking to witnesses, meticulously going through the motions, more concerned with paperwork and appearances than enacting any real change.. He scanned the club through a shattered window, shards of glass glittering like fallen stars on the pavement. Stepping carefully in, he could see it looked like Ziccarra was already gone. He inhaled deeply, the air thick with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale cigarettes. But beneath that, a sharp, acrid smell wafted – paint fumes, with a metallic tang. He recognized it instantly: a flashbang grenade. She came prepared.

His gaze followed the trajectory of the shattered glass, tracing the path of Ziccarra’s desperate escape. A faint trail of minuscule shards, still clinging to her clothes and dislodged by her frantic movements, marked her passage. The trail was fresh—a lingering scent of the flashbang clung to the air, intermingled with the faint perfume and hurried footsteps pressed into the wet earth.

Elias moved with lethal purpose, his path carving a precise line through the carnage. He found the exit she'd taken – a narrow alley. Boot prints, still glistening with rainwater, led eastward, disappearing into the labyrinthine network of the city.

A wolfish grin spread across his lips. He could practically taste the hunt. The city was his, and she was his prey.

"Got you," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the city's relentless roar.

The hunt had begun.

@theammunition: Hunting a cape isn’t exactly in the cards for Z right now, as she has a bounty on her head.

@ziccarra_liafador:

Ziccarra moved through the darkened streets of Quarter des Morts, the ache from the gunshot wound in her side making each step more painful than the last. The rush from escaping the Red Tide Cartel at the club was fading, replaced by the gnawing sensation of exhaustion and blood loss. She needed a place to hide, somewhere the Cartel wouldn’t think to look. That was the issue, these gangs knew these streets she didn't. This buiding would do.

The entrance was tucked between two abandoned shops, a forgotten alley that barely registered to the untrained eye. "Perfect."

Her gloved hand brushed against the cold, rusted door handle as she gently pushed it open. The smell of mildew and decay hit her immediately, but she forced herself to ignore it. Inside, the building was a maze of crumbling walls and shattered glass, a far cry from the sterile, well-lit spaces she usually frequented for covert operations. It would have to do.

She paused for a moment, taking in the surroundings—a long, narrow hallway with peeling wallpaper and weak flickers of light overhead. The air was thick with the scent of dust and stale air. She couldn’t afford to linger. On her back was a backpack laced with effects she'd need to fortify these place further.

With a grunt of pain, Ziccarra slid off her outer layer of espionage gear—the sleek black suit that allowed her to blend in during covert operations. The suit’s advanced fabrics were designed for stealth, to hide her from prying eyes, but she needed to make herself comfortable. And if she was honest, her body needed a break.

She crouched down against the far wall, her breath shallow as she undid the fastenings on her belt and peeled the suit off her limbs, revealing a dark, tight-fitting armor underneath. The armor was lighter, designed for agility, but it had more coverage in places that mattered.

She pulled a medkit from one of her many hidden compartments and assessed the wound on her side. It wasn’t too deep, but it was enough to make her movements sluggish. She clenched her teeth as she disinfected the gash and wrapped it tightly in bandages. The sting of the antiseptic made her wince, but it was the only way to prevent an infection.

Her head swam with the loss of blood, but she couldn't afford to pass out—not yet. Not until she was sure she was safe. She stuffed the used med supplies back into her kit, then pulled out a sleek, tactical blade, attaching it to her thigh with swift, practiced movements. Just in case.

Her eyes scanned the room, noting the broken furniture and layers of grime that clung to every surface. The place wasn’t much, but it was enough. She couldn’t afford luxury right now—she needed a plan, and that meant rest.

Ziccarra moved to the far corner and cleaed a small space, sinking to the ground with a quiet exhale. She leaned back against the cold wall, closing her eyes for a moment. The next few hours would be critical. She needed to rest, gather her thoughts, and assess her options.

"Sixty million dollars," she muttered, glancing down at the wound on her leg as she wrapped it up. "They must want me dead to put up a bounty that high." The Family Tree had set rates—usually in the 5 to 15 million range. But with a price tag like this, they weren’t just after her—they were offering anyone willing to take the risk a fortune. A dangerous offer, but still... it wasn’t enough. Saint Mort was going to be a challenge. She didn’t have much on this place—hell, aside from her research on Catalina Santiago, she hadn’t even known Saint Mort existed. But now that she was here, it was clear this place was more than just a blip on the map. Catalina and Ziccarra were friends, but Ziccarra’s fight had only just begun, and it was clear Catalina's ties here ran deeper than she'd realized.

"Not going to be able to stealth my way around this one. Father forgive me for the sins I've committed knowingly and unknowingly. Please forgive me for the sins I accrue in the place." She murmured as she derobed further.

Right now she needed to figure out a way to offset the bounty on her head. That wouldn't be an easy task; especially in a place like this.

With her wound cauterized and her espionage gear traded for her assassin gear, Ziccarra gingerly rose to her feet to begin fortifying her position.

Ziccarra surveyed the room, her eyes scanning every crack in the walls, every broken window, every entry point. The building was falling apart, but it had potential. If she could make it defensible. She didn't have the luxury of time. The cartel was sure to be looking for her, and it wouldn't be long before someone got curious about this forsaken place.

First things first: barricading the entrance. She stood up slowly, wincing as her injury protested the movement, but she ignored it. She’d been through worse.

Her boots made no sound as she moved to the door, checking the lock mechanism. Useless. It wouldn’t hold against a half-decent push. With a curse, she turned to the nearby room. The remnants of old furniture, rotting wood, and broken metal were scattered throughout. Perfect.

Ziccarra grabbed an old, splintered table, dragging it toward the door with a grunt. She propped it against the frame, making sure it was wedged tightly. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would slow anyone down. She stacked a few more large items in front of it: a cabinet, some rusty pipes, and the remains of what might have once been a dresser. She wanted a good, solid blockade enough to give her a few moments to react if the worst happened.

Next, she turned her attention to the windows. She approached the shattered panes of glass, her fingers already pulling out makeshift tools from her pack. There wasn’t time for finesse. A few long metal rods, a thick cord she always carried for emergencies, and the old pieces of scrap wood she found scattered across the floor—she set to work quickly.

She wove the cord through the rods, tying them tightly across the window frame. The wood she hammered into place with a piece of scrap metal, reinforcing the barricade as best she could. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would hold.

Ziccarra moved from window to window, repeating the process. She was methodical, her hands steady despite the pain in her side. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she ignored it. She had to keep going. Each window she fortified brought her closer to a semblance of security. She even propped up a few of the larger shards of glass to act as a crude alarm if anyone tried to get in, the shards would fall and make noise.

Once the windows were secured, she moved on to the back door. Same strategy—barricade it with whatever she could find. Old pipes, rusted barrels, chunks of concrete everything in the building had a use if she was clever enough. The door was flimsy, but the pile of debris she’d built would buy her precious seconds.

Finally, she took a step back to assess her work. The place looked like a war zone, but it was a war zone she could survive in. Her breath came in slow, measured bursts. She was careful to rig each entryway with trip wires and improvised flashbangs.

In each corner of the room she fixed an industrial spot lights she could trigger remotely in order to disorient an enemy attacker.

'With your skills you can get a job with the FBI or CIA'

Ariel's words seemed to hold more weight now that she had the time to fully inspect her work. She felt the pit of her stomach rumble, and realized she hadn't eaten anything.

'F!!!k' She thought realizing now she'd have to leave her dwelling to get something to eat. This was going to be interesting, and in her heart she knew it would be bloody. She spotted a turkish hut just down the road, maybe 2 city blocks. With a 60 million dollar bounty, 2 city blocks might as well been two miles.

She paced back to her backpack and removed the Katana sticking out, before placing it on her back. -The Shogun's Blade-

Those who came looking for death would surely find it.

@the_hound

@theammunition: For sure.

@ziccarra_liafador:

Following the path, it wasn't long until his eyes focused on the traces of blood running along the ground. Elias crouched down to the ground, running his finger along the blood. It wasn't fully coagulated yet, but the rain would have assisted in that. But there was a path, even in the darkness it was easy to spot if you had a flashlight, which... he did as he pulled out his phone and pressed the flashlight button.

“She’s hurt,” he muttered, voice low, nearly drowned by the distant wail of sirens echoing through Saint Mort’s labyrinthine streets.

The bounty had every vulture in this rotten city flapping their wings, but Elias moved differently. Where the gangs hunted loud and wild—leaving destruction in their wake—he stalked the streets like a ghost. Efficient. Patient. Relentless. He could hear members of The Ascendancy sniffing around, literally. Those with illegally genetically enhanced senses sniffing around and then taking off in the opposite direction of where Elias was headed. The rain was washing away any sense of smell the transhuman would be able to get. Walking a bit longer he could hear The Street Saints moving along the rooftops right above him. They tried to recruit him into their group. And in all honesty, if Father Gideon hadn't gotten him first, he would have joined The Street Saints. He had a respect for Sargent Juno, and she did with him as well. He began to imagine what kind of guerilla tactics they came up with for hunting Ziccarra down but they looked like they were headed in the direction of La Ville Haute.

$60 million made people desperate. It made them sloppy. He wasn’t either. There was a reason he was called The Hound, and he was about to prove it tonight.

His eyes flicked up to the alleyway ahead. Two sets of tracks in the grime—one dragging slightly, the right side. He followed them deeper into the shadows, his boots barely whispering against the cracked pavement. As he scanned the area, he saw something that most would overlook or purposely ignore. A homeless man sitting under a series of stacked cardboard boxes. The shadow cast down made him almost impossible to see, shivering in the cold rain. He walked up to it, no emotion seen on his face. "Hey." he began, scratching the scruff on his face. "The woman who ran through here bleeding, which way did she go?"

The homeless man made a grunt as he leaned forward, his filthy hand being exposed to the rain as his palm was up at Elias. He didn't question it or get upset. Elias reached in his back pocket and pulled out a small wallet, pulling out a couple of hundred dollar bills. "If I have to come back, it won't be to talk." His voice was firm as the two hundred dollar bills were snatched from his hand.

"She's bleeding, looks like she was headed to Quarter de Morts." His voice was dry and whispery. He was cold, hungry, thirsty and tired, and these couple of hundred dollars could get him a cheap motel room and food for the night.

That was all Elias needed.

A few minutes later Elias was driving down the street, now dressed in his heavy combat armor. Afterall, if Ziccarra Liafador had a $60 million on her head, she would be dangerous. He was driving slowly through the area as lower gang members began to quickly make their ways off the streets when they saw The Hound coming and he was sniffing around for his prey. He kept creeping through the streets. He understood why she came here. She had a high bounty on her, so the others must have assumed she was going to be in the more sophisticated areas. This place was the exact opposite of that. Endless supply of abandoned buildings, perfect for hiding in. Even the smell of this part of the city would keep some of the gangs away. The smell of rotting wood, mold, rodents, and even the smell of the drug addicts soaking in their own feces that could be seen laying out next to buildings around here was strong enough to sting the eyes if you weren’t used to it.

He parked his vehicle along the sidewalk, slamming the door shut as the few of those who were outside quickly began walking in the opposite direction of him. He began walking, the less people there were around, the better it would be. He began examining different buildings, looking to see if anything looked out of place (more than normal) and to smell or hear anything going on inside. But the thunder echoing in the sky was making that a little difficult to do. But his eyes paused as he stopped in front of a building, a forgotten husk wedged between gutted storefronts. The door hung uneven on its hinges, it looked like a barricade of some sort was behind this door. It was sloppy. But it was smart enough to stall the usual hitters.

Elias crouched low, looking under the slightly lifted door due to the barricade to see that there were shards of glass along the ground. They were deliberately placed. A crude alarm. She was good. He could respect that. But it's not good enough. Getting up he circled the building, tracing its edges until he found a warped drainage pipe snaking up the back wall. Grabbing it he gave a sturdy shake. It seemed... strong enough. It creaked under his weight as he scaled it, one gloved hand over the other, until he perched atop the roof, silent as a shadow. From here, he spotted it, vents rusted and wide enough to slip through.

At the sound of thunder, Elias slid inside, boots landing with a soft heavy thud onto the cracked flooring below. Anyone trained would have been able to hear it but those who weren’t, it would have easily been drowned out by the thunder to their ears.. The smell hit him—antiseptic, blood, and mildew. She’d stopped here long enough to patch herself up. His eyes drifted to a makeshift barricade, then the faintest impression of a body having rested against the wall.

“She’s close,” he whispered as he slipped his helmet on

Sliding his custom Glock 19 from its holster, it was like second nature to him. Where he aimed he moved his body too. The gun was always in front of him as he slightly crouched as he walked. His eyes looking around for any glass on the ground, his ears listening for any sort of rustle movement. It was then he swore he heard some footsteps in the next room. Stepping to the side he looked in, the darkness was absolute. The kind that swallowed the edges of the world and made everything feel smaller. Tighter.

Elias exhaled slowly, Glock 19 raised in a high-ready position, suppressor glinting faintly in what little ambient light seeped through the cracks in the dilapidated building. His grip was firm, elbows tucked, body aligned—years of muscle memory guiding his every step.

He moved slowly. Deliberate. Heel-to-toe, weight shifting forward in perfect control. This was the dance of a professional, a predator slipping through the void. This wasn’t his first time doing this, not even the first time doing this alone. But he knew he was walking into a trap. He felt it. His off-hand barely ghosted the air, searching for walls, obstacles—anything to orient himself in the pitch-black room.

Silent. Smooth. Unseen.

And then—

FLASH

A searing white light exploded into existence, flooding every inch of the room in a violent, blinding burst.

Elias recoiled, instinct tightening his grip on the Glock as his pupils contracted in sheer agony. His vision turned to static—white-hot and disorienting. His body reacted before his mind did—snapping sideways into cover, rolling his shoulder against a half-broken partition. Blink. Breathe. Reset. His heart pounded, but his training took over in less than a second. He forced himself to exhale through his nose, slowing his pulse, gripping the texture of reality despite the light’s vicious assault. His mind worked fast: It wasn’t motion-triggered. Pressure plate? Laser trip? Maybe a manual trigger. Didn’t matter. The room was compromised. The advantage was gone.

Still half-blind, Elias switched gears. If they expect you to freeze, move. If they expect you to move, stop. He crouched low, angling his body, keeping his weapon forward. His eyes were still trying to adjust to the insanely bright light. If there was any sense of moment in the room with him as his back was pressed against the wall, he would shoot at it without hesitation. This was a hostile environment and everyone here was a threat. He would unleash two bullets to anyone who made movement towards his direction without hesitation.

Elias would blink hard, his eyesight began to adjust. Light or not, this was still his hunt.

@ziccarra_liafador: @the_hound:

Thank You.

@the_hound:

Ziccarra made her way back toward her improvised HQ, her hoodie pulled low over her head to keep a low profile. She passed a group of people gathered on the corner. Their eyes flicked over her, but after a brief moment, their attention shifted elsewhere, uninterested. She moved on, heading under the overpass, where the homeless man from earlier still sat.

“Spare some change?” he called out, his voice raspy. At first, Ziccarra considered ignoring him, but she had some change on her. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two fives and dropped them into the man’s outstretched hand.

“Ah, thank you. Thank you very much. Oh! That reminds me, a man came by here looking for you earlier.”

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced toward the abandoned warehouse, her mind already piecing things together. Without a word, she nodded toward the homeless man in thanks and continued on her way.

That didn’t take long, she thought, annoyance creeping in. She wasn’t sure who had come looking for her, but it couldn’t have been good news.

As the warehouse loomed closer, Ziccarra crossed the street, her gaze drawn to the light spilling through the gaps in the boarded-up windows.

If Saint-Mort’s reputation held any truth, she wouldn’t need a single thing inside the warehouse. But her focus wasn’t just on what she needed. The Family Tree spared no expense when it came to procuring the finest materials for weapon forging. The quality of what she left behind wasn’t something she was willing to walk away from.

But she had no idea how many people were inside. That uncertainty put her at a disadvantage. Rule number 2: Don’t be stupid. A disadvantage is a disadvantage. Father’s words echoed in her mind, reminding her to play it smart. She wasn’t about to take chances.

There was only one way to tip the scales—introduce an unknown variable, something that would disrupt the balance and shift the advantage in her favor. A few moments of silence passed before an idea began to form in her mind, sharp and clear. With her hands tucked back into her hoodie, Ziccarra turned around and retraced her steps under the overpass, passing the homeless man again, his mutterings barely audible now.

She kept her eyes locked ahead, scanning the shadows until she spotted the shady group huddled together, just as she'd seen them earlier. Their laughter was low and rough, the kind of noise you hear just before trouble starts.

Ziccarra’s pace quickened. She reached them in a heartbeat, her movements precise and swift. Without warning, she launched herself into the group, striking each one with well-placed blows sharp, controlled hits that didn’t leave them unconscious but were powerful enough to rattle them. Just enough force to make their blood boil, to ignite that quick surge of anger. A well-executed disruption.

Before any of them could even register what had just happened, she was already retreating, her form slipping back into the shadows. As their angry shouts echoed behind her, Ziccarra didn’t look back. Her mind was focused as she headed back toward the warehouse.

The moment Ziccarra stepped into the warehouse, she moved like a shadow, slipping into one of the blind spots just out of view of the harsh spotlight. Her fingers instinctively went to the small remote she’d stashed earlier, hidden in her pocket. She waited, still as a predator, watching the five goons enter the warehouse.

Her eyes never left them. The tension was palpable, but she remained patient. As soon as she was sure all five were inside, Ziccarra pressed a button on the remote. A sudden, bone-rattling screech of guitar and drums blasted through the speakers she’d scattered throughout the warehouse. "Fear of Napalm" by Terrorizer ripped through the air, the chaotic sound hitting the goons like a physical blow. Their confusion was immediate shouts and curses mixed with the deafening music, their senses scrambled in the chaos.

Ziccarra didn’t wait for them to recover. She surged forward, her movements swift and precise, blending into the madness of the moment. She struck out, just enough to keep them disoriented, drawing them into a frenzy of confusion. Every punch, every dodge, was designed to heighten the chaos, pushing them to lash out wildly in all directions.

The goons were too rattled to think straight, their coordination slipping as the music blared louder, their focus splintering. In the midst of the chaos, Ziccarra knew one thing: whoever had come looking for her would be forced to reveal themselves now.

Whether they were lying low or trying to sneak through the confusion, they wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

She stayed just out of their reach, a shadow in the storm, waiting for that one crucial moment when someone—the one—would slip up. The game had changed, and now the advantage was hers.

@ziccarra_liafador: Hmmm interesting

...is Sha still active id love a rematch.

Come on let's do this...or are you still scared of the dark?

The scent of amber smoke curled in the air like a slow seduction. A cracked phonograph spun a mournful Creole jazz tune, barely loud enough to mask footsteps. Ziccarra stood at the far end of the lounge, one hand resting over the rim of a glass she wasn’t drinking from. The flickering chandelier above cast crooked halos of light over velvet and rot.

The door creaked open, and Catalina Santiago entered like she owned the ruins, her silhouette slicing through haze and memory. She was intoxicating by design bronzed skin inked with blackwork tattoos that wound down both arms in symbols of saints and sin, her crimson dress slit high to expose legs that looked carved from seduction itself. Stilettos clicked like warnings. Her augmented eyes glittered faintly, scanning shadows as she approached.

Ziccarra didn’t bother turning. “You still dress like the city’s watching, even when it’s rotting on its knees.”

Catalina smiled, slow and lazy. “And you still dress like you crawled out of a gun locker.”

Ziccarra finally looked at her, eyes sharp but faintly amused. “You live in a place as ugly as Saint-Mort, and somehow you always look like you stepped off a runway soaked in blood and perfume.”

Catalina tilted her head. “You could too, if you tried. Or let someone dress you who isn’t named ‘practicality.’”

Ziccarra smirked faintly. “I’d trip over myself in anything tighter than body armor.”

Catalina gave a little hum of agreement. “Probably. But I’d pay to see it.”

They paused, that old rhythm between them settling into place like a well-worn blade sliding back into its sheath. Then the air shifted Catalina’s expression sobering.

“You’re the only person I trust with this,” she said. “One of my handlers Remi. Caught in the Cradle. Sixteen. Smart. Too smart. He was pulling schematics. Got grabbed before he could wipe.”

“He's Alive?”

“For now.”

Ziccarra’s voice didn’t change, but her eyes cooled. “Then let’s cut him out.” Catalina blinked, caught off guard. “Just like that?”

“You’re still standing here, Cat. That means you think I’m worth trusting, despite the Tree. That’s all I need.”

Ziccarra turned to go, but Catalina caught her by the wrist. Her fingers were warm against old scars.

“I brought something.” She slid a black data shard onto the table. “Access key. Nouvelle Heights. Clean suite. No surveillance. Yours. Don’t argue.”

Ziccarra glanced at it, then at her. “You bribing me?” Catalina leaned in, voice silk-wrapped steel. “You sleep in a shed, consider it a favor.” Ziccarra pocketed the shard without ceremony.

“Keep your suite,” she muttered. “I’m just raiding the minibar when this is done.”

Catalina laughed. “That’s fair. Just don’t bleed on the sheets.” As Ziccarra reached the door, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “You know, most people who see you coming think you’re just another rich corpse wrapped in style.”

“And what do you see?” Catalina asked, lips curling.

Ziccarra gave a dry smile. “Someone who still knows how to ask for help.” Then she was gone, her silhouette vanishing into the heat-humid dark. Catalina didn’t follow. She stood in the ruined light, one hand still hovering where Ziccarra had stood.

------------

Ziccarra didn’t sleep. The suite was clean too clean. A luxury cage wrapped in chrome and silence. Touchscreen panels glowed faintly from the walls, displaying weather, surveillance blind spots, and encrypted messages. Catalina had furnished it with intention: no bugs, no eyes, no questions.

But comfort made Ziccarra uneasy. So she sat barefoot at the edge of the bed, maps and schematics projected in low red light across the floor. The blueprints for the Cradle’s subterranean levels rotated slowly, casting shadows up her face.

Rémi had been taken during a breach in Zone C, near one of the facility’s less monitored waste tunnels, an oversight most called a coincidence. Ziccarra called it a door.

She zoomed in, cycling through employee patrols, maintenance routes, and biometrics. There were drones, yes but old models. Predictable. The Cradle had money, but not paranoia. Their weaknesses weren’t structural. They were human.

She marked three rotating access points: one sewer-bound, one through a forgotten elevator shaft buried in the original foundation, and one hidden behind a false wall in the Silicon Gardens.

The third was risky. Which meant it was probably the best. She leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Three points of entry. No margin for error.”

She stood and dressed, layered black with matte plating over key vitals. Nothing reflective. Her blade rested on the bed like a sleeping animal. When she slid it onto her back, the room seemed to darken. For a moment, she thought she heard the whisper of the Shogun.

“Blood waits in steel.”

The Cradle was a monument to restraint, white walls, no signage, no noise. Most visitors passed through its lobby, never realizing the structure extended over a mile underground. Ziccarra never touched the entrance.

Instead, she crouched above it, three buildings over, hidden behind an exhaust vent on the rooftop of an abandoned diagnostics lab. Her lenses flickered silently as she zoomed in on the executive balconies, tracking the steady arrival of Cradle personnel in morning rotation.

She watched for patterns who nodded, who paused, who looked over their shoulder. One technician always lingered five seconds longer at the north security door. Nervous. Maybe underpaid. Maybe compromised. She flagged him.

Another woman with synthetic heels and no company pin entered without scanning her badge.

“Internal override,” Ziccarra muttered, watching the way the other employees subtly stepped around her. “Department head. Mid-level. She gets access to zones others don’t.”

She mapped every movement, every stagger in routine. In an hour, she’d memorized their heartbeat.

At the base of the Cradle, near the water-treatment substation, she found what she was looking for the old drainage pipe. Rusted, but not sealed. Someone had used it recently. Mud trails, disturbed grate screws.

“Extraction tunnel,” she whispered. “Or escape route.”

She tapped once on her comm link. A low pulse flickered green. Catalina was listening, but neither spoke.

Instead, Ziccarra pulled her hood low, eyes glinting from beneath shadow.

“Tomorrow,” she said aloud, mostly to herself. “We ghost in. We rip the floor out from under them. And we leave no echo." Then she disappeared into the dusk, a whisper of vengeance riding the Saint-Mort breeze.

-------

The city above slept fitfully, drowned in neon. But beneath it, in the concrete veins of the Cradle’s foundation, Ziccarra moved like shadow through bone.

The old drainage pipe had been chiseled open with silent care rust flaked off like dead skin beneath her gloves. She slithered through the opening on her stomach, the black water rising to her chin before it dropped again into dry crawlspace. Behind her, the grate was reattached, identical to how she found it. No trace left behind.

Inside, the tunnels reeked of machine coolant and mold. Her heads-up display flickered quietly in her left lens pulse tracking, motion sensors, and infrared mapping. She moved through the underbelly of the facility with practiced ease, bypassing heat sensors and pressure alarms with tools cut from old Family Tree tech.

She reached the wall. The false panel in the maintenance corridor had been reinforced since her last visit someone had grown paranoid. But not paranoid enough. She drove a micro-serrated vibroblade between two concrete slabs and cracked the lock with three careful pulses of current. The panel hissed open, revealing the access crawl beneath Sublevel Four. She then descended into the heart of the beast.

Interior: Sublevel Four – Security Access Zone

The hall was silent. White lights pulsed faintly above. Ziccarra stepped into the corridor like vapor low stance, weapon sheathed. She was not here to fight. Not yet. Two guards approached from the far end, heads bowed toward a datapad.

She then darted toward them

One step hand to throat, twist, silence. The second guard turned just in time to see the blade but by then, it was already passing through him.

Both bodies were caught and lowered without a sound. She rolled them into a nearby utility chamber and palmed the access card from the taller one. Their faces were expressionless, their deaths clinical.

She whispered to herself: “No alarms. No screams. No flame.”

Interior: Holding Cell Block – Sublevel Five

Rémi was held behind reinforced glass, strapped to a neural chair. Electrodes lined his temple. He looked like a child abandoned in a lab experiment, eyes red-rimmed but defiant. Three technicians worked behind a curved control panel. One of them laughed.

Ziccarra reached them before they heard the door.

She didn’t kill the first she knocked him out cold with the blunt end of her hilt. The second caught a blade to the ribs. The third turned and tried to run and hit the reinforced wall so hard his skull cracked from the impact.

Ziccarra turned to Rémi, already disengaging the locks. He blinked at her through the glass. “Who are you?”

“I’m your extraction,” she said flatly, as the chair restraints hissed open. He didn’t move at first. Then: “Catalina sent you?”

Ziccarra nodded. “You walk. I kill. Stay quiet. No questions.” Rémi climbed shakily to his feet.

Ziccarra tossed him a hooded cloak. “Put it on. You're a shadow now.”

Interior: Upper Ventilation Shaft – Emergency Route D

The exit wasn't elegant. They scaled a vertical shaft laced with loose wiring and misted with coolant vapor. Drones hovered above like silent angels of death. Ziccarra timed each patrol between pulses her hands guiding Rémi silently up the steel ladder. At the top: a maintenance grate wired to an external feed.

She knelt beside it, popped the casing with a needle-jammer, and rerouted the signal to loop back ten seconds just enough. They dropped out of the shaft into a waste bin behind a parked supply transport. No one saw them. No one ever would.

Exterior: Transfer Bay –

Ziccarra and Rémi moved through the supply yard disguised as night workers, faces shadowed beneath wide hats, movements precise. They exited the Cradle checkpoint under the flicker of broken security cams. The forged passes Catalina had embedded into the transit system held just long enough.

When they reached the alley two blocks out, Ziccarra finally exhaled. She turned to Rémi. “You’re not safe yet. Catalina has a safehouse waiting. You'll go dark for a year. Maybe more.”

Rémi nodded, quietly. “Thank you.”

Ziccarra paused. “Don’t.”

He looked at her, confused. She sheathed her blade. “You don't thank tools. You just use them.”

The Next Night

Élan Gris shimmered with quiet decadence, crystal chandeliers dripping soft gold over white-linen tables, the air humming with whispered deals and discreet sins. Tonight, Ziccarra Liafador sat beneath that glow like a midnight blade dressed in silk.

Her gown, hand-selected by Catalina Santiago, of course, was black as spilled ink and sinfully tailored. The fabric clung to her frame like it had been poured on, a liquid silk blend that caught the light with the sheen of oil. The neckline dipped in an angular, asymmetrical cut, exposing one shoulder and teasing the line of her collarbone with every breath.

The back was nearly nonexistent, save for a single jet-beaded chain that draped down her spine like spilled obsidian. High slits sliced up both sides, revealing her long, scar-marked legs with every shift of posture. She wore it with obvious reluctance, but she wore it well elegance sharpened into something weaponized. The dress moved like smoke with her steps, and despite her complaints, Ziccarra knew the truth: it fit too well to hate without lying to herself.

Across the table, Catalina leaned in over her wine glass with a smirk that said she’d won something important.

“I have to say,” she purred, swirling the deep red liquid, “you clean up better than I thought possible.”

“I feel like a mannequin someone dressed for an open-casket viewing,” Ziccarra muttered, her fork stabbing into her salad like it had personally offended her.

Catalina laughed softly. “You look like vengeance in couture. Own it.”

Ziccarra exhaled sharply through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “How did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because,” Catalina said, “you needed one night without a blade in your hand. Besides, it was either this or I send you lingerie again.”

Ziccarra blinked. “Again?”

“You never opened the last box, did you?” Before Ziccarra could answer, Catalina leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“So. Let’s talk about your love life.” Ziccarra didn’t answer.

“I’ll take that silence as catastrophic failure,” Catalina grinned. “You’re thirty-two and your longest relationship is with a cursed sword.”

“At least it listens,” Ziccarra deadpanned.

Catalina snorted into her glass. “You’ve got the dating profile of a war criminal. Do you even like anyone?”

“I like you.” Ziccarra shrugged with the wine glass in her hand.

“I meant romantically.”

Ziccarra raised an eyebrow. “Romance requires time, distraction… emotional compromise.”

“Which is code for ‘no,’” Catalina said, laughing again. “You’ve never dated anyone?”

“Never,” Ziccarra said simply.

Catalina froze. “Wait. Never never?”

“Correct.” Ziccarra said stuffing her salad into her face, hoping it would shut Catalina up--it did not.

“But I always see you around girls. I mean—you're like… you know.”

“People assume,” Ziccarra replied. Her voice stayed neutral, but there was a hint of amusement behind her eyes.

“So you’ve never—”

“I’ve had urges,” Ziccarra said, her tone suddenly clinical. “But discipline has always prevailed.”

Catalina blinked, then burst into laughter. “That’s not discipline, that’s martyrdom. Wait not even...” Catalina made a motion with her hands.

“No damn it. I was built for survival, not indulgence.”

Catalina let out a slow whistle. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Poetic. But sad.”

Ziccarra raised her glass. “Cheers to tragic mythmaking.”

“We’re fixing that,” Catalina said, clinking her glass against Ziccarra’s.

Before Ziccarra could protest, her gaze shifted caught by a flicker of movement. Across the restaurant, seated alone near the bar, a man in a steel-gray suit was watching her. Not leering. Not afraid. Just… watching. Olive skin, dark eyes, sharp jawline. There was a stillness about him, the kind that came with confidence not bravado, but control. He looked at her like he saw something unexpected. Something interesting.

Ziccarra looked back. Just long enough to make it known she had noticed. Then she returned to her drink.

Catalina’s mouth dropped open. “Was that a man looking at you?”

Ziccarra didn’t respond.

“You looked back,” Catalina gasped. “Z—what is happening?”

“He’s handsome,” Ziccarra said, sipping her wine without looking up.

Catalina stared. “I—I thought you didn’t—!”

“I’ve never dated anyone. Not women. Not men.”

“But if you did…?” Ziccarra finally looked up at her with that same cool, unreadable gaze. “Maybe I like options.”

Catalina leaned back, absolutely floored. “You’ve been a blank slate this whole time. I had you labeled as the mysterious lesbian war ghost with emotional intimacy issues.” “Accurate,” Ziccarra said. “Except for the first part.”

Catalina laughed so loud it made a man at the next table flinch. “I swear, one day I’m going to write a book about you.”

“You’ll die before the second chapter,” Ziccarra said without missing a beat.

“And you’ll miss me by the third.”

Catalina sipped her wine, eyes flicking between Ziccarra and the man across the room with something like wicked delight. Her lips curved slowly, a grin forming like lightning behind clouds.

“Well?” she said, tilting her head toward him. “Go say something.”

Ziccarra blinked, the movement almost imperceptible. “To him?”

Catalina leaned in, her elbow on the table, chin resting on her knuckles. “Yes, Z. To the very attractive man who just watched you like you were the reason he came here.”

“I don’t talk to strangers.” Z said making a joke.

“You kill strangers,” Catalina corrected. “This is easier. Statistically less messy.”

Ziccarra gave her a dry look. “What would I even say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Catalina teased, eyes glinting. “Maybe start with ‘hello,’ then try not to sound like you're issuing an ultimatum. If you could also just be bold and ask him to scr-"

"HEY!" Ziccarra protested before glancing toward the bar again. The man was no longer staring but his posture hadn’t shifted. He was still aware of her, still tuned to her presence.

“I’m not built for this,” she muttered, as if confessing a weakness she rarely admitted even to herself.

Catalina leaned forward. “You’re built for whatever you decide to be.”

There was a long pause. Ziccarra’s fingers rested lightly on the stem of her wine glass. Her eyes narrowed not at Catalina, but at the idea. The weight of it. Desire had never scared her. But choice? Choice was unpredictable. And she was a woman who liked her terrain mapped and controlled.

“I dare you,” Catalina said suddenly, voice low and smooth. “Right now. Get up. Walk over there. Say one true thing.”

Ziccarra’s gaze flicked back to her. “What’s the wager?” Catalina smirked. “If you do it, I’ll never send you another dress. If you don’t I’m buying you ten.”

Ziccarra sighed slowly, eyes closing for half a second. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling.”

Finally, Ziccarra pushed back from the table, stood, and adjusted the strap of the dress like she was reloading a weapon. The gown shimmered against her frame, slits parting just enough to silence a nearby conversation. Her posture didn’t change still alert, still composed but her expression had shifted.

No longer the soldier. Not quite the seductress. Just a woman walking across a room because, for once, she wanted to. Catalina watched her go, biting her bottom lip to hide her grin.

She raised her glass to no one in particular and murmured to herself, “And just like that… Saint-Mort becomes a little more interesting.”

Ten minutes passed.

Catalina had stopped pretending not to stare after the third. She watched Ziccarra with the kind of pride usually reserved for rogue protégés and runaway explosions. The conversation across the room was quiet measured on Ziccarra’s side, amused and charming on his. Alexis, she assumed. That was going to be the name. He looked like an Alexis.

Ziccarra’s body language was unreadable. No flirtatious twirls of the hair, no coy glances. Just precise stillness, punctuated by low conversation and a single, rare thing: a smirk. Not the one Z gave right before ending a life, but something smaller. Something earned.

Then she stood.

She said something to him that Catalina couldn’t hear watched his lips part, watched him nod once, and then, impossibly, stand too.

Ziccarra returned to the table with a glide of silk and threat, that blade-smooth elegance Catalina had once described as 'coffin couture.' Her expression was unreadable, her movements relaxed. Almost smug.

Catalina leaned forward, eager, eyes wide. “So?” Ziccarra didn’t bother sitting down. She lifted her clutch off the chair and straightened her posture.

“His name is Alexis,” she said calmly. “We’re leaving.”

Catalina blinked. “Leaving leaving?”

Ziccarra offered no clarification. She adjusted the chain at her shoulder, as if preparing for a quiet war.

Catalina’s eyes lit up. “You talked to him for ten minutes and now you’re—”

“I’m staying in the suite,” Ziccarra cut in, her voice level, composed. “Starting tonight.”

Catalina froze. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“You’re staying?” Catalina blinked, laughing in disbelief. “You’re actually Z, are you blushing?”

Ziccarra ignored her entirely and turned toward the exit. Catalina stood in a daze, grabbing her coat and chasing a half-step behind. “Wait, you can’t just—what did you say to him? What did he say to you?”

Ziccarra’s reply was soft and simple. “I said one true thing. Oh, and if I remember correctly. You said you'd pay to see me in a dress. Dinner's on you.

The doors opened with a low hush of compressed air. Alexis was already waiting outside beneath the warm glow of the awning, a step removed from the din of the city. Ziccarra gave him a nod imperceptible to most, but Catalina knew it well.

Command.

Choice.

Catalina stopped at the threshold and watched them walk away into the night, her heels echoing behind them in disbelief. For once, she had no words. Just a crooked smile and the distant, dizzy feeling of a new chapter beginning unexpected, unplanned, and inevitable.

The Suite

The room still hummed with the weight of desire, heavy and slow like smoke after a fire. Ziccarra lay across the bed, her breath steady, her muscles loose for once. The silk sheets clung to her skin like a lover’s second touch. For a rare moment, her body didn’t feel like a weapon. It just felt… human.

Alexis leaned down beside her, lips grazing her shoulder. “Shower,” he murmured, the word warm against her skin.

“You first,” she said quietly.

He stood, bare from the waist up, and crossed the room with easy confidence. She watched the way he moved smooth, economical, like a man who knew how to hold himself in any terrain. She had admired that.

Until now. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. No water followed.

Ziccarra frowned. Something shifted in the air not a sound, not a smell, just a shift. A silence that didn’t belong.

Her body tensed. She rose without making a sound and padded toward his jacket slung casually over the back of a chair. Her fingers slid into the inner lining and closed around something too rigid to be innocent.

She pulled out the holo-slip. Her own face stared back at her. High-resolution. Official watermark. Family Tree clearance. Tagged: Liafador. Liquidation. Authorized.

Ziccarra didn’t blink. She simply turned toward the bathroom. In her mind, she didn’t think of herself.

She thought of Catalina. If he made it out alive, he’d sell everything. Access points. Safehouse codes. Who helped her. Where she slept. Catalina’s name was already too close to hers. One witness. One whisper. That was all it would take to make her a target.

From the bathroom, metal slid softly into place. A collapsible weapon locking.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” Alexis said as he stepped through the doorway, dressed only in shadows and betrayal. His voice was calm. Almost regretful.

“It isn’t about what you wanted, ” Ziccarra said, already crossing the room.

He swung first sloppy, too fast. She caught his wrist and drove her palm into his elbow with a brutal pop. He shouted, staggered, tried to recover but she followed through. No hesitation. No pause.

He went for the blade on his thigh. She disarmed him in a blink, kneed him in the solar plexus, and drove him backward into the wall. She didn’t speak again. Didn’t warn him. She pinned him with one arm across his throat, reached for the shard of broken glass from the nightstand with the other and drove it into his chest, straight between the ribs.

He gasped. Eyes wide. Shocked. Not by the pain, but by the finality. She twisted.

“Not for me,” she whispered, voice like ice. “For her.”

He crumpled before he could speak again. Blood bloomed beneath him, dark and blooming on the pale marble tile. Ziccarra stepped back, chest rising slowly. She stared at the body for a moment, not in triumph. Not even rage. Just resolve with a bit of humiliation. She wrapped herself in the robe, hands slick with red, and turned toward the window as sirens murmured somewhere in the distance.

The suite door burst open. Catalina stood in the threshold, breathing hard, her heels loud on the polished floor. One of her earrings was gone. Her coat was half-buttoned.

“I had runners watching him,” she blurted. “I didn’t trust it—he wasn’t in my archives, his ID was too clean. They just got confirmation from a black-label node. Alexis isn’t Alexis. He’s a bounty asset. Family Tree–aligned. Z—he was here for you.”

Ziccarra didn’t turn. “I know.”

Catalina’s breath hitched when her eyes landed on the body. The pool of blood. The broken lamp. The quiet.

“You killed him.”

Ziccarra nodded once. Catalina moved slowly through the room, her voice softening. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I didn’t want him to say your name before I ended him.” The only sound now was the soft drip of blood from the glass in Ziccarra’s hand. She placed it gently on the edge of the table, like setting down a memory she didn’t want to keep.

Catalina stepped closer. “Are you okay?” Ziccarra finally looked at her, eyes colder than they’d been at dinner, but steadier than stone. “No.”

They didn’t speak again as Catalina moved toward her, placing a hand on her arm, grounding her. The warmth was unwelcome but it stayed.

Together, they stood over the dead man. Together, they understood what it meant. The price of opening the door to something more than survival. They left the suite moments later, wordless. And Ziccarra’s heart, silent but burning, reminded her exactly why she had never let anyone in.

Oh wow! Let me read

The refinery sat half-submerged in poison water, an oxidized husk swallowed by the Drowned District’s sinking rot. Once a processing plant for petrochemicals, now it was a cathedral of rust and mildew, haunted by echoes and half-collapsed walkways. Rain slicked the broken concrete and dripped through ruptured skylights, each drop echoing like a ticking clock in the silence.

Ziccarra moved barefoot through it all, wrapped in sweat and shadow. Her blade whispered through the air, slashing invisible ghosts. Every strike was deliberate, her breath steady despite the cold. She fought phantoms, her movements mechanical, flawless, controlled, exhausting.

Training was the only ritual she trusted. The only silence that obeyed. Father used to say that training was the bedrock for balance. It grounded her, allowed her to release aggression, but most importantly, kept her in tune with the lethality she was known for.

Behind her, heels splashed into stagnant puddles.

“You pick the worst places to have a breakdown,” Catalina said, her voice traveling down the rust-eaten catwalk overhead. She stepped through a hole in the railing, descending a warped metal ladder, heels clicking with disregard. Her coat was charcoal wool, wet at the hem, and her deep red blouse clung to her like bloodied silk.

Ziccarra didn’t stop, she continued swinging her blade and practicing her hip pivots. “I’m not breaking,” she said, blade slicing through empty air. “I’m remembering how to survive.”

Catalina’s heels landed with a squelch, she made a face of disgust before replying “Well. You’re doing it in a place that smells like boiled corpses and dead batteries.”

Ziccarra finally stopped, shoulders rising and falling with heat. She turned, blade angled low. “You didn’t come here to flirt.”

“No,” Catalina said, reaching into her coat. “I came to tell you they doubled the bounty.”

Ziccarra didn’t flinch she expected it. Catalina stepped forward, handing her a holo-shard. Ziccarra’s own face blinked into existence in red and black. A four-million credit mark. Alive or dead.

Ziccarra raised an eyebrow. “Four million. Alive or dead?”

“They’re scared now,” Catalina said. “The Family Tree’s not just trying to erase you anymore, they’re trying to make a statement.”

Ziccarra turned her face away, wiping sweat and rain from her brow with the edge of her palm. Her voice was flat. “Then the body count will rise accordingly.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.” Cat retort.

“It’s the truth.”

Catalina studied her, something uneasy settling behind her eyes. “They think you’re slipping. They think Alexis cracked something in you.”

Ziccarra sat on the edge of a ruined support beam, the steel groaning beneath her weight. Her blade rested beside her like a sleeping beast. “He did.”

Catalina blinked. “You admit that?”

“I didn’t kill him fast enough,” Ziccarra said. “That’s a crack.”

The rain intensified, drumming against the collapsed ceiling. Catalina crossed her arms, trying to hide the worry in her posture.

“They’re starting to circle you, Z. Old operatives. Ones with grudges and scars.”

“I’ll welcome them,” Ziccarra said softly, eyes distant. “I have scars too.”

Catalina’s mouth tightened. “This isn't glory. It's a death spiral.”

Ziccarra rose, slow and smooth. Her hair clung to her cheeks, dark as oil. “You didn’t come here just to deliver the bounty update. What do you need?”

Catalina hesitated. Then: “There’s a Crimson Tide cell operating out of the lower filtration stacks. Not Cartel-aligned, splintered. No loyalty. Just muscle and inventory. They’ve been jacking shipments, pushing Scorn, scaring off locals.”

Ziccarra tilted her head. “You want them gone.”

“I want them erased,” Catalina said. “They’re loud. They’re stupid. And they’re three streets from a transit tunnel that leads under my Black Bazaar. If they find it...”

“They won’t,” Ziccarra said.

“I don’t need survivors. I need a message.”

Ziccarra stepped closer, standing inches from her. “You’ll have both.”

For a moment, the noise of the rain softened as the space between them settled into something unspoken. Not warmth. Not exactly. Just trust, brutal and mutual.

“Careful, Z,” Catalina murmured. “They’re not Family, but they’re desperate. Desperate men with nothing to lose make messy corpses.”

Ziccarra retrieved her blade, slinging it onto her back.

“So do I.”

She turned and walked into the rain, boots in one hand, blade on her spine, leaving only echoes behind. Catalina stood in the drowned stillness, staring after her with a whisper of something close to fear.

Later

The stacks groaned like dying lungs, exhaling steam through rusted valves. Acidic water trickled down moss-slicked walls. This part of the Drowned District wasn’t desirable, not by any particular outfit in Saint-Mort. It belonged to rot and ruin. And for the last month, it had belonged to the Crimson Tide.

Their hideout sat buried beneath an old pump station, lit by cracked floodlamps and red neon strips nailed to support beams. Inside, six men lounged with rifles and chemical burns, wired and laughing over a table stacked with stolen pharmaceuticals and disassembled cyberware. A seventh sat in the back, shirtless, carved with tribal ink, Mando, their leader. He drank from a rust-ringed bottle and bragged about the night’s haul.

They didn’t hear her enter. They never did.

Ziccarra emerged from the dark like silence, Her silhouette rippled between pipes and steam until she stepped into full view beneath the red lights bare arms, bare blade, eyes that didn’t blink. The first man stood, confused.

“Who the f—”

His head rolled a moment later, bouncing off the table before anyone screamed. She moved like silence wrapped in death, her blade humming against the air. Two men turned to fire. She was already behind them, spine-shotting one and gutting the other with a turn that looked like choreography.

“Shut it down!” Mando roared, reaching for a shotgun.

She threw a blade not hers, but one she had palmed from the first kill. It stuck through his forearm, pinning him to the wall. He screamed. The others panicked. One tried to run. She caught him with a tripwire trap she had pre-laid outside. His scream turned to gurgle.

It took 90 seconds. When the last man fell, she stood in the carnage, her boots slick with blood, her breath slow and measured. Mando was still conscious, pinned, and whimpering.

She stepped up to him. “This tunnel is closed.”

He spat. “You’re just a ghost. The Family’s coming for you.”

Ziccarra leaned in, voice a whisper.

“No. They're sending grunts like you to the slaughter while they protect their own agents. I'll show you grace, they won't have that luxury."

She drove her blade through his chest. Before removing a smaller dagger and repeatedly berating his chest with it until it resembled beef.

She wiped her blade on a fallen flag bearing the Crimson Tide’s serpent insignia. "It's done. You won't have anymore problems out of them" When she finished the call her eyes narrowed, it felt like she was being watched.

@cesc_bo_vera

@cesc_bo_vera

@ziccarra_liafador:

And being watched she was, but not by the Gypsy King himself, not yet. Not directly. Through the malcontents and degenerates, beggars and thieves. Through the dregs, discarded, and diseased the red masked assassin surveyed the criminal metropolis that was Saint Mort.

His patchwork network of undesirable spies were a rich tapestry of drug thirsty fiends. Addicts and unsheltered victims of their own deplorable behavior. Unknown, unloved, cheap and easily disposable. The perfect untapped resource.

Like an urban chameleon Bo-Vera had completely transformed his attire. Gone were the two button three piece suits. The ornate pocket watch with Romanian lettering. Shoes so refined and polished a poor man could have used them as a mirror. Replaced they were, by a pair of ill fitting camouflaged cargo pants with a pair of purposefully faded Timbs, laces untied. No silk shirts or ties, those were gone as well. Replaced by an olive colored Hillfiger jacket with no sleeves. And a blue and brown faux fur winter Ushanka hat pulled down to the brow line of his red nano-tech face mask.

An odd and unusual combination anywhere else in the World and yet, comfortably nestled in a yellow sportsmen Kayak amidst the floating neon lit black market swap meet known as the Sunken Market, it was a rather fashionable look.

From here he could easily monitor the waves of incoming texts from his informants. Safely concealed and inconspicuous, as his hood-rats scurried about the area like roaches when the lights cut on. Their instructions had been simple. Find, track, and report all coming and goings. But not of Ziccarra. No no. Rather of Catalina.

Bo-Vera's theory was not a clever one, but rather a practical one. Ziccarra had been receiving help. She hadn't fled, like the other surviving Liafadors. She hadn't gone to ground like the other hunted loyalists. She had stayed in Saint Mont ten toes down middle finger in the air. For christs sakes in the middle of it all the bitch was still undertaking and fulfilling missions! Though Bo-Vera believed it was more than a display of theatrical vengeful defiance. She was buying time. Perhaps so her mother could regroup, rebuild, and when ready, reclaim the throne that had been oh so unceremoniously taken from them.

Sometime after Catalina and Ziccarra had taken leave of one another, but before the completion of the Liafador Legacy's mission, Bo-Vera orchestrated a casual coincidental "run-in" with Cat somewhere along the toxic saturated sidewalks of the Drowned District.

"Not a good look Kot." The electronics of his masks voice modulator adding a menacing echo. Yet there was no mistaking his weird Gypsy accent.

"Conspiring wit dee enamie." His hands remained nonchalantly in the pockets of his sleeveless jacket.

"Ye know...dee families think they so damn smaht, boot not a one of'em thought ta tail yah." sarcastically tapping the side of his head.

"I'm sorry. But I'mma need ya to come wit me now luv." He apologized while offering his hand. Apology or not however, the implication was clear.

"

@cesc_bo_vera: I think I like him lol. Also taking Cat was a death sentence.

The city smelled different when something went wrong. Ziccarra could feel it an offbeat in the rhythm of Saint-Mort, like the city exhaled fear. She moved fast through the underlayers of Le Vieux Port, past fish-stink gutters and corroded steelwork, until she found the alley behind St. Julian’s fish market. She made a habit of making make-shift camps sporadically across the city, just in case. As she was scouting out her next location that's when she saw Reno.

A weather-worn man in layers of patched denim and wool, with knotted hands and one milky eye, but a mind like barbed wire. Catalina had saved his life once, burned half a bribe to get him detox meds during a Red Tide riot. He never forgot.

When he saw Ziccarra approach, he stood. No cane. Just pride. "M’been sittin’ on dat, yeh.” Reno said, voice low, like they were already being watched. "Ain’t know if you was gon’ show, non."

“Something's wrong?" Ziccarra replied, her gaze scanning his face first and then the area around them. “Tell me.”

Ziccarra stepped closer. “What did you see?”

"One had one red mask coverin’ half he face, chapo done hide da rest. He talk like he born straight outta flame, ya heard? I ain’t catch all what he say, but da way he move cher, dat man move like every step mean somethin’. I felt it, for true."

Ziccarra’s blood iced. “Was she hurt?”

Reno shook his head. "Nah, dey ain’t hurt her. She ain’t kick up nothin’. But dat one wit da red mask he grab her arm, jus’ one hand. An’ she got real quiet. Ain’t fear... just still, like she know’d somethin’."

Ziccarra clenched her jaw. “Where’d they go?”

"Ain’t gon’ lie I don’t know, cher." Reno said, apologetic. “Black van, no plate, non. I trailed ’em two blocks, den poof gone. Like ghost, whole street went quiet.”

Ziccarra closed her eyes, just for a moment. Then opened them colder, “You did good.”

“Shoulda done mo’. That on me.” Reno whispered.

Z crouched down and pressed a credit chip into his palm. “No. You did right. And if they come back through here, you go dark. You don’t even blink.”

As she turned to leave, Reno called out, voice just above the rain.

“Ain’t no kindness left in these streets, cher.” It was a warning. Shortly after the injunction Ziccarra fled to Saint-Mort to give herself the best chance to fight off the Family's Assassins, but after the Alexis fiasco, someone in the chain was procuring the services of assassins outside the network--they were desperate. His warning was subtle enough to let her know the network she'd established on the streets was compromised.

Ziccarra crouched beneath the broken awning of a derelict auto shop, her forearm plate flickering as the GPS interface stabilized. Catalina’s watch had always been modified, elegant tech masked in glamor, but it was Ziccarra who’d installed the fallback beacon. Just in case.

The signal was faint now, buried under interference and static, but not gone. Her eyes narrowed as the red dot pulsed once then again before vanishing.

“She’s moving underground,” Ziccarra muttered. She twisted the dial, refining the scan radius. A new blip. Lower, deeper, like it had dropped through the street itself. Her breath sharpened. The Drowned District’s lower strata blackout zones. Places where comms died and maps lied.

Ziccarra stood, rolling her shoulder until her spine cracked. The wind shifted. The trail was faint, and the time window closing fast. But Catalina was alive--for now. She grabbed her things and made a made dash for the underground.

Elsewhere

Catalina Santiago had always admired restraint. This place whatever it was had plenty of it. The floor was slate-tile smooth, the walls soundproofed and padded with acoustic foam that mimicked modern art. There was soft lighting, a leather chaise, filtered air, and a refrigerator stocked with imported water. No bugs she could find, but she knew the camera was in the mirror. Apparently the Cities "leadership" established this shelter in a worse case scenario.

She sat in the room’s center, legs crossed at the ankle, white dress dirtied only at the hem. Her arms rested easily on the chair, but her fingers drummed in slow rhythm--a code only she knew.

No one had spoken to her since she’d arrived. So she did what she always did when surrounded by silence. She filled it.

“I assume the acoustics are intentional,” she said, voice calm, eyes lazily studying the ceiling. “This room was designed to make the subject feel both seen and unseen. Trapped, but never physically restrained. Psychological captivity it’s chic. Expensive, too.”

She turned her gaze toward the mirror. “You should know if you kill her, they’ll kill you. Not because they loved her. Not because they’ll mourn. But because they want the spectacle. They want her to crawl. They want to destroy her personally ritualistically. They would never allow the last of the Liafadors to be killed by a non-family assassin”

She rose from the chair with unhurried grace, crossing the room barefoot. Her heels tapped softly against the tiles.

“But you knew that already, didn’t you? That’s why I’m here. Insurance. Bait. Maybe just a message to her, wrapped in silk.”

She approached the mirror and leaned in, close enough to fog the glass. Her breath left a slow bloom across the surface.

“You’re not ready for what’s coming,” she whispered. “She’s not running. She’s not hiding. And when she finds me…”

A smile formed not cruel, not theatrical, but deeply certain.

“She won’t kill you because of what you did to me,” Catalina said, her voice laced with quiet finality.

She let the words hang in the air for a beat too long, then caught herself. That wasn’t the right move. Not with someone like him. Threats might work on street thugs and mid-tier syndicate enforcers, but not men who already lived on borrowed time. She exhaled slowly, schooling her tone into something silkier, more pragmatic.

“She’ll kill you for thinking you could." She paused again this one more deliberate.

“But I could stop that.” Cat switched her leg configuration from left over right to right over left a key tale to her typical negotiation plays.

“You don’t have to honor the contract. You’re not a fool; you know the Tree never comes for us directly. We’re not ghosts we’re the architects. That’s why they keep distance. That’s why they’ve never touched me or the Liafadors not openly. You break that balance, and you become a liability to them.”

She rested a hand lightly on the back of the chair, never once raising her voice.

“Work with us instead. Walk out of this as more than just a name scribbled onto the next kill order. I’m offering you leverage, not war. A place in something that survives after this city stops breathing.”

Her gaze never wavered.

“Help us finish this, and you’ll understand why the bastards never came after us directly.”

@cesc_bo_vera

@ziccarra_liafador:

The silver tongued arbitrator confidently displayed her verbal talents with flawless execution. Proclamations were made. Threats declared with subtle certainty. Treaties suggested. All while never exposing a momentary lapse in fortitude.

Conviction over cowardice. An admirable and rare trait in Saint Mont.

The calculated dialog immediately impressed the small ragtag congregation on the opposite side of the one way mirror. All of whom bought and paid for yet undeniably captivated by Catalina's unwavering calm and collective will. All except for the Gypsy King. Equally as collected.

He betrayed no emotions behind his crimson mask. Vibranium plated smog colored sheaths hid his cold yet sparkling blue eyes, as unwavering focus registered every intentional twitch, every involuntary tic, every physical nuance.

"You" Bo Vera motioned. Pointing at a giant golem of a man, a Hasidic Jew known as Ezekiel.

"Wit'me. The rest of ya....are free ta'go."

Without premeditated provocation the Bastard of Birmingham effortlessly executed his unsuspecting crew. Silenced rounds to the back of their heads as they turned to take their leave was a callous but uneventful means to an end.

Each following action was a calculated maneuver. From the untraceable call to the man who had hired him stating that Bo Vera had failed, and been killed in the process. To Ezekiel splashing bleach from one corner of the room to the other. The formulaic rehearsal went off without a hitch.

Removing his mask Bo Vera tossed it on the ground before taking out a copper zippo and lighting a fag.

"To life after death" he toasted. Tossing the lit flame onto the bleached corpses.

A few moments later, bare faced and giant in tow, Bo Vera opened the door to his prisoners room.

"Are ya gonna sit around here all day or da'ya wanna go discuss dis partnership of yours?" He gested. Smoke and the smell of burning bodies filling the air.

@cesc_bo_vera: Awesome, I will get a post up for you shortly. You shook off that "rust" pretty fast.

@ziccarra_liafador:

Appreciate it 👍

The door to the upper level slammed open with a metal groan. Smoke drifted down the stairwell, curling like fingers. Catalina emerged first, still dressed in the same crimson blouse from days ago, now dirtied by blood, bleach, and fire. Her movements were steady, if slow, like a chess master returning to the board mid-game.

Behind her came Bo Vera, no longer wearing a mask. His face was gaunt, his eyes sharp beneath the singed rim of his Ushanka. The scent of burning flesh still clung to him like oil.

At the far end of the hall, Ziccarra stood waiting.

Combat boots planted wide. Blade drawn. Her silhouette carved against the flickering emergency light like something etched into myth. When her gaze locked onto Catalina, something primal moved behind it. Ziccarra stalked the hall with the blade of the same name pointed toward Bo; today, she'd take her first soul. Or so she thought, but Catalina threw herself in front of him.

“You came,” she said, exhaling. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to track me down this far.”

Ziccarra’s voice was colder than the steel in her grip. "I told you not to go dark"

“I didn’t,” Catalina replied. “I let you find me the moment it was safe to do so.”

Z’s eyes drifted to Bo. “He’s the one who took you.”

“He’s the one who didn’t kill me,” Catalina corrected, brushing damp hair behind her ear. “And now, he’s on our side.”

A flash of something like disbelief crossed Ziccarra’s face. She didn’t lower her weapon. “Why would I believe that?”

Catalina took a single step forward. “Because he burned his crew. Because he faked his death."

Catalina continued. “They wanted him to kill you. They wanted to own your death, to put your body on a spike and take credit for erasing a ghost."

Ziccarra’s grip tightened. “You think this is a team now?”

Catalina nodded once. “I think this is a war. And it’s time we stopped playing defense.”

The air between them shifted. Ziccarra’s blade lowered, but only slightly.

“Offense,” she repeated, testing the word like the edge of a new weapon.

Catalina met her gaze head-on. “We strike first. Hard. And we don’t stop until the roots rot from the inside out."

For the first time in days, Ziccarra blinked. The fury didn’t leave her face, but something older, calmer, settled behind it. Purpose.

---

The Black Market Bazaar never slept. Even at this hour, the corridors pulsed with flickering neon and the din of whispered deals. Rainwater steamed off heat vents, blending with cigarette smoke and ozone. Beneath the noise and vice, beneath the skin of the city itself, Catalina led them.

She said nothing as they moved, her stride confident, unhurried. Ziccarra kept to her flank, eyes sweeping corners. Bo followed at a slight remove, watching shadows instead of walls, like a man who’d once lived in them.

They passed a shuttered noodle stall, a broken lift, and what looked like an abandoned arcade booth. Catalina stopped beside a rusted panel beneath a graffiti-tagged pipe. She knelt, keyed in a sequence beneath the frame, and a low hum answered.

The wall slid back with a groan, inside, the air changed. From sour rust and mold to cool lavender and marble wax.

The safehouse wasn’t large, but it was hers. The floor was obsidian tile, so polished it mirrored them. Rich velvet chairs sat beside a floating holo-fire. A bar of smoked glass and gold trim ran along the wall, stocked with bottles that cost more than most Saint-Mort apartments. One wall was covered in projected city schematics, flickering red and blue zones marking active factions and dead drops. A datapad glowed on the desk beside a half-eaten fig tart and an untouched flute of wine.

Ziccarra stepped in first, eyes narrowing. “This was under a trash chute?”

“Location is camouflage, you know that,” Catalina replied, peeling off her coat and letting it drop onto a velvet chaise. “Presentation is reassurance.”

Ziccarra remained standing, but her eyes roamed, cataloging everything, especially Bo. “It’s clean.”

“It’s hidden,” Catalina corrected. She turned to face them both, all business now. “You’ll be safe here, for at least a few nights. I’ve rotated the access code every twelve hours and rerouted all signal pings through shell IDs.”

Ziccarra walked toward the city schematic and stared. “We don’t have time for comfort.”

Catalina joined her. “Agreed. But we need one night to think like generals. Not ghosts.”

Catalina moved with familiar precision, blending movement and control. She poured drinks at the marble bar, her hair loose now, makeup smudged only slightly, though she carried herself as if she hadn’t just been abducted.

She handed Ziccarra a glass. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

Ziccarra’s eyes flicked to Bo Vera. He hadn't said much since they entered the apartment, and of course, Ziccarra didn't trust him. Not that she would've trusted him if he said anything.

Ziccarra accepted the drink but didn’t sip. “If he’s dead,” she said quietly, “the next step is to tie up the one who hired him.”

Catalina sat on the velvet chaise across from her, legs crossed, glass in hand. “Exactly. And they’ll move fast, Z.

Ziccarra nodded once. Her voice was lower now. “Then we start with who paid him.”

“I’ve already narrowed it down,” Catalina replied. “Three people in my Family had access to the escrow line that moved the funds. Two logistics officers. One asset manager. All old blood.”

Ziccarra finally took a slow sip. Her expression didn’t change. “You’ll deal with them?”

“I’ll deal with the Family,” Catalina answered. “I have safe levers to pull. Favours owed. Debts unpaid. But I need you to be ready in case it becomes a purge. But if he thinks Bo's dead, then security will be tight. Can you get to him?" She said turning her attention to Bo.

"Most importantly, will you two be able to work together?"

@cesc_bo_vera