The first thing Lucien noticed was the rhythm.
"Keep moving," a voice snapped somewhere to his left.
He stepped aside without looking, letting a line of soldiers pass. They didn't slow. Didn't look at him. Each step landed the same, clean and exact, like they had all agreed on it beforehand. Lucien watched them for a moment longer than necessary, then shifted his gaze to the ships behind them, metal plating catching the light in sharp angles.
"You're in the way," another voice said.
Lucien glanced over. A guard this time, identical uniform, identical stance. Even the tone felt… rehearsed.
"I'm moving," Lucien said.
The guard didn't respond. Just stared, waiting.
Lucien took a step forward, out of the path, eyes drifting back to the formation as it adjusted without a word.
"Germa doesn't like loitering," the guard added after a second. "State your purpose."
Lucien looked at him properly now, then past him, to the rows of soldiers moving in sync.
"I heard you had good tech," he said.
"That's all?" the guard asked.
Lucien didn't answer immediately. His gaze followed a squad turning the corner, not a single step out of place.
"…For now."
The guard held his stare for a moment, then motioned him forward.
"Then don't waste time."
Lucien walked.
He wasn't looking at the ships anymore.
By the time he found a place to stay, the streets hadn't changed. Same pace. Same measured steps. Even the people not in uniform moved like they were trying not to fall out of line.
The room was small. Not much different from the boat, just quieter.
Lucien set his sword against the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, letting the silence settle. For a place people talked about like it was ahead of the world, it felt… narrow. Like everything already had a shape, and nothing was meant to move outside it.
He leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded.
"Vinsmoke," he muttered.
The name carried weight here. You could feel it without anyone saying it out loud. The Family that was controlled by a MAD Scientist Judge.
He stayed still for a while longer, then opened his eyes.
Perfect systems didn't exist. Not like this. Not without something being pushed out of sight.
Lucien stood, adjusted the strap of his sword, and stepped back into the corridor.
Outside, the streets hadn't changed. They never seemed to. Lines moved where they were meant to, turned where they were meant to, disappeared where they were meant to. Lucien walked against it, not enough to draw attention, just enough to feel the resistance.
It didn't take long to find it.
It never did.
Every place had one. A corner where things slipped. A street that didn't quite follow the rest. Lucien had learned to look for it years ago, somewhere between his first bounty and the ones that stopped being mistakes. Different towns, different people, same pattern. Noise where there shouldn't be any. Silence where there should.
This one tried harder to hide.
The shift came quietly. A turn that wasn't marked. A street that narrowed just enough. The rhythm broke, not completely, but enough to notice. Steps fell out of sync. Voices dropped lower. Someone laughed, then cut themselves off halfway through.
Lucien slowed.
Not his first.
But cleaner than most.
A man brushed past him, muttering under his breath. Another stood too still near a corner, watching without looking like he was watching. Crates sat stacked along the walls, unmarked, out of place in a city where everything else had a purpose.
Lucien stopped near one of the crates, fingers brushing the rough edge before pulling away. No markings. No registry stamp. Nothing that tied it to the surface.
Figures.
He moved on.
The street didn't open up so much as loosen. People stood closer to the walls, conversations kept low, transactions happening without ever quite being seen. No uniforms. No patterns. Just enough disorder to breathe.
Better.
A board hung crooked near the entrance of a narrow alley, half-shadowed, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. Paper layered over paper, older notices peeling beneath newer ones. Names. Prices. No Marine insignia.
Lucien stepped closer.
Not official.
Which meant no rules.
For a moment, he just looked at it.
Then, uninvited, Cael's voice surfaced, clear as if he were standing behind him.
"Marines give you clean work," Cael had said, leaning back against the doorway, arms folded. "Names, faces, crimes. You bring them in, you get paid. Simple."
Lucien had been half-listening, adjusting the strap on his sword.
"And the other kind?" he'd asked.
Cael's eyes had shifted slightly. Not warning. Not approval.
Just acknowledgment.
"The other kind doesn't care if you're right," he said. "Only if you're useful."
Lucien hadn't responded.
Cael had watched him for a second longer.
"If you take work like that, you don't get to pretend you didn't know what it was."
The memory faded as quickly as it came.
Lucien's gaze moved across the board again, slower this time.
Different names. Different prices.
No explanations.
He reached up and pulled one loose.
The paper came away easier than it should have, edges worn from too many hands checking, not taking. No insignia. No guarantee. Just a name and a number.
Lucien glanced at it once, then again.
Not the first time he'd seen work like this. Smaller towns had their own versions. Quieter boards, quieter jobs. Men who ran when chased, who broke the moment things turned against them. It paid, but it didn't last. There was nothing to figure out.
He let the paper hang loosely between his fingers.
Lucien folded the paper once and turned to leave.
"You took that one."
The voice came from the side, close enough that he hadn't missed it, just ignored it.
He didn't stop.
"First time here?" the man said.
Lucien paused.
Not because of the question.
Because of the timing.
He turned slightly. The man stood near the edge of the alley, half in shadow, posture uneven, eyes sharper than the rest of him.
Lucien's gaze flicked over him once, then settled.
"You watch everyone?" he asked.
The man gave a small shrug.
"Only the ones who pick wrong."
Lucien's fingers shifted against the folded paper.
"Wrong how?"
The man stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to lower his voice.
"That name," he said, nodding toward the paper, "doesn't belong here."
A beat.
"Germa keeps its own business inside."
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