Location: Fenwick District — The Golden Jackal — Back Alley — Night
The back alley was a corridor of shadows and filth.
Dumpsters lined the walls, their contents spilling onto the cracked asphalt. The air smelled of rot and rust and something else—something metallic, like blood left too long in the open. A single bulb flickered above the back door, casting the scene in uneven pulses of yellow light.
Emilio walked ahead.
His steps were stiff, mechanical, the steps of a man who knew that a blade was pressed against his spine. His hands were raised. His shoulders were hunched. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
"Keep moving," a voice said.
It was low, calm, unhurried.
Emilio swallowed hard. His throat moved. His eyes darted from side to side, searching for an escape that didn't exist.
"I'm—I'm moving."
"Good."
"Where—where are we going?"
"You'll see."
---
The truck was parked at the end of the alley.
It was old—a 2001 meat transport vehicle, its white paint peeling, its sides streaked with rust. The logo on the side read FENWICK MEAT CO. in faded red letters. The back doors were closed, their handles covered in grime.
Lucian stood beside the truck.
His mask was still on—the butterfly mask, silver filigree, blue enamel. His arms were crossed. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp. He watched as the woman—Tyla—pushed Emilio forward.
"Today is your lucky day," Lucian said.
His voice was flat.
"You're going to help us."
Emilio's eyes went wide.
"Help—help you?"
"Yes."
"With what?"
"You'll see."
---
The back of the truck was a charnel house.
Hanging from hooks along the ceiling were the bodies of pigs—their throats cut, their eyes glassy, their flesh pale and cold. The smell was overwhelming—copper and salt and something else, something that made the stomach turn.
At the far end of the truck, a group of figures sat on crates.
Roman Volkov was there, his scarred face pale, his eyes hollow. His arms were crossed. His posture was rigid. His jaw was tight.
Alma sat beside him, her hands clasped in her lap, her expression unreadable.
Arturo leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Mateo paced near the back, his movements restless, his breathing shallow.
Mei-Lin sat apart from the others, her legs crossed, her posture composed, her eyes cold.
"I can't believe it," Roman said.
His voice was bitter.
"Twelve years. Twelve years dancing to the tune of some narcissistic bouncer. Then I got enough cut to find better avenues for myself. That went all well—until some Mexican bastard took it from me."
Alma's voice was calm.
"You shouldn't make a big deal out of it."
"Excuse me?"
"Kuvitich was on paper your place of management. But we both know it was just a stepping stone. A thorny place. Sooner or later, you would have been just another fallen victim to its history of managers suddenly ending up gone."
Roman's jaw tightened.
"That's not—"
"That's the truth."
---
Mateo's voice was sharp.
"If you ask me, this D9 might be extraordinary."
"Extraordinary?"
"Yes. Only some kind of spy agency has that kind of tech. The kind that lets you change your face."
Roman's eyes narrowed.
"What about those creatures?"
"Creatures?"
"The ones in our bodies. The creepy, crawling things."
"I don't know what they are."
"I do."
Mateo leaned forward.
"He's one of those walking dead worshippers. A shaman. The bastard is a Mexican—wouldn't be surprised if he's cousin to a cartel drug trafficking ring boss. Maybe they do those voodoo rituals for their odd beings. To gain more wealth or something."
Alma's voice was cold.
"That's really racist."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"I'm just saying—"
"Dolls are what shamans use. Not weird skin-crawling creatures."
Roman turned to Andreas.
"Right?"
Andreas didn't respond.
He was squatting near the corner, his arms wrapped around his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. His expression was hollow. His body was trembling.
"Andreas?"
No response.
"Hey, Andreas."
Still nothing.
Roman shook his head.
"Has his brain been fried? Even before that D9 fellow showed up, he's been acting all out of it. What's wrong with the guy?"
---
Mateo's voice was quiet.
"Don't be too hard on him."
"Why not?"
"He's going through something."
"Like what?"
"Something I don't want to talk about."
Roman's eyes moved to Mateo's companion.
She was sitting against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes hollow. Her expression was the expression of someone who had been hurt and was still healing.
"What's wrong with her?" Roman asked.
"She's suffering from something."
"Something like what?"
"Something we call a broken heart."
"A broken heart?"
"Yes."
"Are you kidding me? We're currently in some type of fetish mission for that deranged guy. And I was assigned to work with people we never saw eye to eye with. Two are like broken children. And I really don't know if I'll make it out alive. Especially since I'm with my enemies."
He stared at Mei-Lin.
"Especially you. I never did like you. Though your caring hospitality of your Long Walk services is something I did appreciate."
Mei-Lin's expression didn't change.
"Trust me, Roman. The feeling is very mutual."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I have no choice."
"None of us do."
---
Mateo's voice was thoughtful.
"By the way—now that you're on that point—what did happen to him? Why was he suddenly all mute when all of that was happening? I heard he was some kind of warlock."
"Come on," Alma said. "Do you seriously believe in that crap? Warlock? Seriously?"
Roman's expression shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
"What she says is true," he said.
"True?"
"Yes."
"But it's not that he was some magician or something. They call it Shinkai."
"Shinkai?"
"Yes. The power that some people are granted. It comes from forces that originate from unworldly spirits. Their beings embody that... alignment."
"Alignment?"
"Yes."
"Where did you hear that?"
"From the village I came from. In the eastern continent of Sovik."
"So?"
"There are those who worship the moon. Like a god. They're called the Artemis."
"And?"
"The man who controls us—the one who calls himself Viktor Volkov—he's one of them."
---
Mateo shook his head.
"Maybe all of it is just rumors. I doubt any of it can be true."
"No," Roman said.
"No?"
"No matter what—those of the north are savages. They don't follow the law. They're always composed. No matter what situation they see—they don't think it's of their capability to handle. This D9 fellow might be someone that makes such a frostlander keep himself in check. If that's true—then we really shouldn't mess with him."
---
Lucian stood outside the truck.
Tyla stood beside him, her blade still pressed against Emilio's back. Her expression was calm. Her eyes were cold.
"Now," Lucian said.
"Would you aid us in what we desire?"
Emilio's eyes went wide.
His throat moved.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
"I—"
"I—"
"I—"
"I'll do it."
"Anything."
"Just—"
"Just don't kill me."
Lucian's lips curved.
"Good."
---